By Stoney M. Setzer
“No way. You’re crazy,” Morse scoffed.
“It’s the truth!” O’Connor’s nasally voice insisted over the Bluetooth connection. “Don’t you think I checked? Are you that arrogant?”
Morse scowled at the grimy storefront. “And how did it end up in a pawn shop in a backwater town like this?”
“Same way anything else ends up in a pawn shop. Someone needed a quick buck.”
Morse shook his head as he entered, hoping the motion of the camera in his glasses would make O’Connor queasy. He brushed his signet ring with his thumb, remembering his backup option.
Only a wiry old man, presumably the shopkeeper, was inside. The shop’s stale, musty smell assaulted Morse’s nose. When was that old, discolored carpet last cleaned? A maze of glass counters lined the aisles, demarcating separate spaces for employees and customers—had there been any others.
Behind the nearest counter, the old man peered at him. “Can I help you?”
“Just looking around, thanks,” Morse replied. Acting too eager wouldn’t do.
O’Connor directed. “Walk toward the left-hand side of the store, towards the back.”
Morse complied, but his steps slowed as he passed the glass display case. “It’s all football memorabilia,” he hissed.
“Look at what it has in common.” O’Connor sounded like a frustrated teacher trying to feign patience. “It’s all one team. The rube running this shop sees no difference between the Atlanta Falcons and the Maltese Falcon.”
“I see it.” A foot-tall falcon statue encrusted with dull black enamel stood among Atlanta Falcons items, almost as if it belonged there—to an untrained eye, anyway. Whoever placed it here was either clueless…
…or deceptively clever.
The shopkeeper continued to watch him intently. “See something over there you like, young man?”
“Maybe.”
With no other customers, the shopkeeper shuffled over. “Don’t believe I’ve seen you here before. Name’s Barry.”
“Webber,” Morse lied. “Nice to meet you.”
“Football fan?”
“Falcon fan.” Eyeing the statue, Morse dodged the question. “I don’t see a price tag, though.”
The old man licked his lips. “Well, I’m kinda on the fence about selling that particular item.”
He knows something. Morse hoped his displeasure wasn’t showing. He may not know exactly what he has, but…
“Don’t overplay it,” O’Connor said. “We can always send Night Shift if necessary.”
Night Shift—glorified burglars. No need for things to get that messy. “It’s certainly unique,” he said.
Barry nodded, grunting his agreement.
“Did you have a price in mind?” If he’s ignorant enough, maybe I can pull this off with my allocated cash and not have to bring my ring into it…
“Hard to say.” Barry leaned across the counter and lowered his voice. “When an object costs somebody their life, it becomes much harder to price.”
He knows…
O’Connor cursed, then regained his composure. “Abort, but play it cool. Look at something else, but leave the falcon. I’m already talking to Night Shift.”
If Barry knows, he’s already prepared for the likes of Night Shift. I can do this. “What do you mean?”
Barry’s watery blue eyes hardened. “Supposedly that little statue is encrusted with jewels beneath that black veneer. Over the years, people have killed—and been killed—trying to take possession of it.”
Morse chuckled. “And if that story is true, how did it end up…?”
Barry’s laugh was cold. “This isn’t any ordinary pawn shop. We have a number of curious goods nestled on our shelves. For instance, this once belonged to Al Capone.” He produced a Colt .45 from behind the counter and aimed it directly at Morse’s heart. “But still works perfectly.”
O’Connor swore once more, then the earpiece gave a faint click. He had broken the connection, essentially abandoning Morse.
Barry smirked. “You can never tell what kinds of hidden treasures are lying around a pawn shop, Mr. Webber—or who you might run into.”
Morse thumbed his ring. “What’s that supposed to…”
“Please, Mr. Webber, or whatever your real name is. You’re a walking irony, a pawn in a pawn shop. Did you think I wouldn’t notice your earpiece, or the tiny camera in your glasses? You’re a scout sent in by some group wanting the falcon. You think you’re the first person sent here looking for my treasures?”
“I guess not.” Enough messing around.
Morse squeezed the signet ring, and a tiny taser wire shot out and into Barry’s shoulder. Within seconds, Barry’s incapacitated body slumped to the floor in an insensate heap.
Quickly Morse grabbed the Colt .45 and used it to smash the display case. He scooped the falcon statue into his arms. Tucking it and the pistol under his jacket, Morse walked quickly out the door, forcing himself not to run. He didn’t dare draw much attention.
About three blocks away, he called his handler on his burner phone. “Call off Night Shift. I’ve got the falcon.”
“Morse? Is that you? How?” O’Connor gasped. “I thought you were…”
“The best ever? Yeah, I just proved that. Heading to the extraction point. Don’t be late.”
***
Expecting broken glass somewhere, Barry carefully pulled himself to his feet.
It was no surprise that the falcon and the man were gone. Barry even expected him to take the Colt. Really, the only shock was the tiny taser, and Barry could have kicked himself for that.
No matter. That was nothing compared to the surprise that awaited that thief and his employer.
Still at floor level, he reached for the hidden thumbprint scanner on the underside of the countertop. A panel slid open to reveal the real Maltese Falcon, tucked safely away in a false bottom beneath the display case, along with more duplicates. In a similar space was Capone’s real Colt .45, among other treasures. In a pawn shop that doubled as a storage vault for such items, decoys were essential. Let the pawns think they were getting the real item.
After all, it wouldn’t do to get beaten by the next “Webber.”
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