Free Upon A Pale Horse by Russell Blake

he ambled through the entryway. A chime sounded in the back as he made his way to the glass display case that held watches and rings and also served as the counter. An ancient gray-haired Chinese man who resembled nothing so much as a praying mantis with a Fu Manchu mustache emerged from the rear of the shop, thick coils of cigarette smoke following him out, the city’s business non-smoking ban clearly not rigidly adhered to in this neighborhood. He studied Jeffrey as if evaluating the condition of a boom box and nodded.
    “What can I help you with?” he asked in surprisingly good English. Jeffrey wasn’t sure what he’d been expecting, but a part of him was prepared to negotiate whatever transaction took place with sign language or in pidgin.
    “I’m here to pick up an item,” Jeffrey said, offering the man the ticket.
    “Number two seventy. It’s in the lockup. I’ll get it. Wait here,” the man said, then spun with surprising agility and ducked behind the beaded curtain that led into the shop’s bowels.
    Jeffrey’s gaze skimmed the collection of odds and ends in the cases, a palpable air of desperation tainting the atmosphere – at least that part had lived up to his expectations. The items were evidence of a last resort, the financial end of the road for their owners, willing to hock them for pennies on the dollar. Jeffrey knew these places existed, but thankfully he’d never had to set foot in one until today – a day of firsts, as it turned out.
    The proprietor returned carrying a guitar with a yellow tag hanging from the headstock and set it carefully on the counter before removing the paper rectangle and squinting at the numbers.
    “This was one I was hoping would go into default. 1969 Fender Stratocaster. I don’t need to tell you what it’s worth.”
    Jeffrey looked the cream-colored electric guitar over, the finish faded and nicked, and nodded. He had a rough idea – both he and Keith played guitar, and this was a collector’s item, no question.
    “Does it have a case?” Jeffrey asked, picking the instrument up and strumming a few chords.
    “No. What you see is what it came in like. That’ll be three hundred sixty dollars.”
    “Three hundred? That’s all?” Jeffrey gawped, surprised at the nominal figure.
    “That’s all the owner wanted. Three hundred, plus interest and my fee.”
    “No wonder you were hoping to never see him again,” Jeffrey said, and opened his wallet. He extracted the two hundred-dollar bills he kept folded behind his driver’s license in case of an emergency, and counted out the rest from the twenties he had. It left him with only sixty dollars, but he could stop at an ATM later or get money at the hotel’s machine.
    The owner rang up the deal and asked Jeffrey to sign the receipt. “Where’s the guy who brought it in?” he asked as Jeffrey scrawled a signature.
    “My brother. He had an accident.”
    “Ah.” The single syllable contained a universe of possible meanings, like a hologram, where the smallest element encapsulated all other information within it. Jeffrey set the pen down and hoisted the guitar by the neck, careful not to bang it against anything.
    “That’s it?”
    “Unless you wanna sell a Strat,” the man shot back, his eyes half hoping that Jeffrey would take him up on it.
    “Not today. Thanks…” Jeffrey said, then ducked out the door, mindful of the passers-by as he moved to the waiting taxi.
    The driver didn’t comment when Jeffrey arrived with a Jimi Hendrix guitar in tow. He looked at Jeffrey uninterestedly in the rearview mirror and then edged into traffic, anxious to make it to their final destination so he could finish his long shift, which had started at six that morning.
    Jeffrey watched the sidewalk streak past him as the taxi wove in and out of the stream of cars, heading north towards Keith’s condo, and wondered why his brother would have pawned one of his instruments – especially one that valuable, an easy twelve-