The man behind the counter looks up, down, and up again. He doesn’t bother to hide his surprise at my early-morning appearance.
“Morning,” he says, a little too chipper. “Searching for anything special, sweetheart?”
I cock a brow at him and step up to the counter, towering over him by at least five inches. “I’m looking for a set of brushless drills. Custom etched on the handles with an ‘E.W.’ and a framing nailer, same initials. Anything come in last night?”
He leans forward, pulling a greasy clipboard out of the drawer. “Tools come and go, but the boss logs anything with engraving. Let me check.”
“Thanks.” I scan the shop while he flips through the sheets.
A ceramic frog on the register brings a smile to my face. Cracks around the mouth show where it’s been glued back together, and a coin slot on its back asks for tips. I used to have a frog like that, before my dad decided it was too juvenile for a girl who could already out-bench-press him.
The man flips to the last page and shakes hishead. “Nothing matches. If I come across anything, I’ll keep you in mind.”
“Thanks.” I pull a business card from my pocket. “If anyone comes by with them, I’d be thankful if you recover them. No questions asked.”
The bell over the door gives a single, lonely jingle as I head back out.
As I climb into my truck, I catch my reflection in the rearview mirror, the sunlight reflecting on my silver hair. Auren used to demand I dye it, saying it made me look old, but now I don’t bother. People in the construction industry treat me with more respect with silver hair, anyway.
I drive to the next shop, Harbor Street Exchange, and park in front of a mural of orca whales and other sea creatures.
The clock on the dash reads six o’ five. Which still leaves me twenty-five minutes to return to the docks and meet the rest of my crew to help load the water taxi and head to the job site.
Since I can still see the water from here, that’s plenty of time.
I wipe my boots on the mat set inside the door, though it won’t change anything. A patchwork of duct tape over the old linoleum gives the floor a perpetual sticky quality, and every square foot isjam-packed with items that once had value and the shop owner hopes will still hold worth forsomeone.
The air holds the ghosts of old books and tobacco, the kind not sold anymore, and I breathe it in before stepping past the register. The owner sits in his usual spot, sleeves rolled up and elbows propped on the counter, balancing a mug and a crossword puzzle on the dusty glass below.
He gives me a grunt of acknowledgment. “Morning, Em. How’s life treating you?”
“Could be better.” I scan the shelves to the left, where the power tools get lumped in with gardening junk and craft supplies. “You get any power tools walking through your door last night?”
He scratches the back of his head, eyes flicking down to the ledger under the crossword. “Few yard sale scraps, nothing you’d want. Anything specific you’re looking for?”
I lean on the counter. “Couple of drills and a framing nailer. Marked with my initials. Walked off my truck last night, down at the docks.”
Mr. Gregory winces and shakes his head. “If they turn up, I’ll buy them back and give you a call.”
I dip my head at him. “Thank you.”
He waves, already drifting back into his puzzle, but as I pull open the door, he calls out, “Take care, Em.”
I wave as I leave.
The next pawn shop is closer to the water, squeezed in between a paint supply store and the print shop where my first paycheck went to buy business cards that have been handed out to more pawn shop owners than business connections.
The bell over the door clangs loud enough to reach the back room, and the shop is cooler, less crowded than the first two. A glass case displays hunting knives, fishing poles hang from the walls, and a canoe is propped up in the corner.
Halfway to the register, I hear a man’s voice, edged with a frustration I know too well. He’s trying to negotiate with the owner, who has a reputation for being picky about what he takes.
I slow my steps so as not to crowd him.
“I’m telling you, it works,” the guy says, thumping a portable speaker on the counter. “You just have to jiggle the cord. It’s name brand.”
Unimpressed, the owner lifts it, turns it over, and shrugs. “Ten bucks.”
“It’s worth at least fifty,” the man argues, not sounding convincing.