Cold Burn of Magic(8)

All that and more could be found inside the Razzle Dazzle, as the tourists and other desperate folks pawned whatever they had for cash. These sad customers hoped for enough to buy just a few more casino chips or to pay their hotel bill for just one more night so they could strike it rich for sure the next day. Mo would pay or trade for anything he thought he could resell for more money later on, hence the odd mix of items. Still, I liked the cozy feel of the clutter. Mo had some real treasures hidden in here, and you never knew what you were going to find from one aisle, one case, one day, to the next.

But the good stuff—the genuine, quality jewelry and weapons—was in the back half of the store, housed in cases much sturdier than the simple glass they appeared to be made out of, with locks that you didn’t dare try to pick or bust open, unless you wanted a poison needle to shoot into your hand. Mo might happily send me out to steal stuff, but he didn’t like getting ripped off himself.

I walked down the main aisle all the way to the back of the shop, where a tall, muscular man with onyx skin and black hair shot through with silver threads sat on a stool behind a long counter filled with sparkling rings. The man’s elbows were down on the counter, and he was reading through an interior decorating magazine. He was always looking for new ways to make the merchandise more appealing to customers. He’d changed the paint on the walls three times so far this year. I wondered how long the current robin’s egg blue would last.

“Finally,” he growled, turning another page in his magazine. “I was wondering if you’d gotten lost, Lila.”

“Nice to see you, too, Mo.”

My snide tone got him to raise his black eyes to me. Mo Kaminsky might be a shady pawnbroker and fence, but he always dressed like one of the tourist rubes he was so happy to fleece. Today, he wore white linen pants and a blue Hawaiian shirt patterned with white hibiscus flowers. A white straw hat sat off to one side of the counter, and I knew that if I could see his feet, he’d be wearing white flip-flops. Mo took the idea of casual comfort to a whole new level. A small diamond signet ring flashed on his right hand, while a diamond-crusted watch glittered on his left wrist. Sadly, the gems were nicer than the ones in the cuff links I’d stolen last night.

Mo huffed, but he put his magazine aside and crooked his finger at me. His buffed, manicured nails gleamed almost as brightly as the diamonds he wore. “Okay, kid, show me the necklace and whatever else you swiped.”

“How do you know I took something else?”

He grinned. “Because you never miss an opportunity to put more cash into your pocket. Just like me.”

I unzipped my backpack, drew out the black velvet box, and set it on the counter, along with the cuff links and other items I’d stolen. Mo caressed the velvet before cracking open the top.

“Hello, ladies,” he crooned to the rubies. “Come to Papa.”

Mo picked up the necklace and examined each one of the rubies in turn, making sure they were the real deal and not well-done fakes. He had a minor Talent for sight, but he didn’t need it, not when it came to this. He’d been in the business a long time, and nothing got past him.

“Well done, Lila,” Mo said. “The necklace is in perfect condition. Did you have any problems snatching it?”

I shrugged. “Nothing I couldn’t handle.”

Mo nodded. He knew better than to ask questions about what happened on the jobs he sent me on, just as I knew better than to ask what would happen to the rubies now.

Mo put the necklace back into the box and snapped the lid shut. He examined the rest of the items I’d stolen, then moved over to the cash register, opened the drawer, and reached inside.

“And now for your payment—”

“One thousand,” I interrupted him.

He raised his eyebrows. “We agreed on five hundred.”

“That was before I ran into the three guys guarding the house, the ones who chased me across several rooftops and threatened to chop off my head. One thousand.”

“Five-fifty.”

“One thousand.”

“Six hundred.”

“Eight hundred.”

“Seven.”

“Seven-fifty.”

“Done.”

“Done.”

We shook on it, but Mo still gave me a sour look.

“Serena never upped her prices on me like this,” he grumbled.

For some reason I never quite understood, Mo and my mom had been friends. Like, good friends, for as long as I could remember. She was the only person who’d ever been able to make him laugh or smile or talk about something other than money. In a way, Mo had almost been like her manager, since most of the bodyguard gigs she’d taken on had come through him and his connections. Mom had asked Mo to look out for me, and after her death, I’d started doing errands for him, minding the shop, picking a few customer pockets, taking sensitive packages here and there. Eventually, I’d moved up to bigger, tougher, and better-paying jobs. Now, I was Mo’s go-to girl.

“Well, my mom was nicer than I am,” I quipped.

“No argument here.” Mo gave me another sour look, but then his face softened. “I haven’t seen you in a few days, kid. How are things?”

I shrugged. “Same old, same old. School, work, more school, more work.”

“And the library?”