Seizure(30)

“Ben will drive,” I said.

“I will?”

“We’ll take Kit’s car. He’s at work.”

“Kit said we could take his 4Runner?” Shelton sounded skeptical.

“He never said we couldn’t. That gives me a get-out-of-jail-free card.”

“How do you figure?” Hi asked.

“If Kit gets mad, I’ll play dumb and apologize. He’ll let it go the first time.”

“I’m not stealing your dad’s car.” Ben was firm. “Call him.”

“Trust me, he’ll never know.” I checked my watch. “We have six hours to get there and back. We could make five round trips!”

Time for an ego tweaking. “You can drive, right?”

“Of course I can!” Last month, with everyone grounded, Ben had finally gotten a driver’s license. “That’s not the point.”

“There’s no other way,” Shelton said. “We can’t sail to North Charleston.”

Ben said nothing.

“Come on!” Sweat rings had formed around the pits of Hi’s sky-blue Hawaiian shirt. “We’re standing in the hottest spot on planet Earth. Let’s just go!”

“Fine. Everyone wears seatbelts. No radio. No distractions.” Ben shot Hi a stern look. “No running commentary.”

“Your loss,” Hi said. “To the pimp ride!”


Five minutes later, we were cruising the unmarked, one-lane blacktop that connects Morris to Folly Island. After passing through Folly Beach, we picked up State Highway 171 and cut north toward James Island.

I’d cranked the AC to maximum for Hi’s benefit, but I was only wearing a tank top, shorts, and sandals. The arctic blast immediately covered me in goose bumps.

Honoring Ben’s request, we rode in silence. It was strange for us, traveling alone by car. A first for the Virals. Outside, Lowcountry marshland slipped by on both sides. Here and there an egret or crane rose from the still water on long stick legs.

Turning right on the James Island Expressway, Ben crossed to the downtown peninsula and continued on Calhoun Street. A right on King took us north, away from the touristy, historic districts we usually frequented.

We drove past the Cooper River Bridge, a dividing line between blue blood and blue collar. A few miles farther and we crossed into North Charleston.

Myers is a tough district, filled with seedy houses, cheap high-rise apartments, liquor stores, and pawnshops. It’s one of the poorest locales in America—few residents finish high school, and even fewer attend college. Crime is common and frequently violent.

Those lucky enough to have jobs are mostly factory workers or day laborers. The homeless and unemployed gather on street corners, shooting up and drinking to escape the reality of their lives.

Myers was not a neighborhood to visit on a lark.

Hi reached over and hit the door locks.

“Next right,” Shelton said. Then, “There, on the left. Bates Pawn-and-Trade.”

“Are we one hundred percent sure about exiting the vehicle?” Hi’s voice was a bit high. “It might not be here when we get back.”

“I’ll park right in front.” Ben also sounded tense.

“We’ll be fine,” I said. “In and out.”

“That’s what she said,” Hi mumbled, hauling himself from the car.

Bates Pawn-and-Trade was the last unit in a dilapidated strip mall composed of a Laundromat, a nail salon, a pool hall, and a Baptist church.

A red banner proclaimed the shop’s name in bold letters. Barred windows displayed an array of dusty offerings. Nine-millimeter cameras. A drum set. A sad little collection of gold watches.

And guns. Lots of guns.

Ben shouldered the solid steel door. Nothing.

“Hit the buzzer,” Shelton suggested.

We waited a few moments, idly staring at a security camera set inside a metal cage. A buzzer sounded, the locks clicked, and we pushed through.

Inside, naked bulbs hung from the ceiling, barely lighting the cloudy glass cases lining the concrete walls. Even by pawnshop standards, this store was dreary.

A thick wooden counter ran the length of the rear wall. Behind it sat an immense black man counting a wad of bills. I put his weight at over three hundred pounds. Short and balding, he wore faded black pants, a UPS work polo, and red and white throwback Jordans.

An unlit cigar jutted from a corner of the man’s mouth. The stool supporting his enormous derriere appeared on the verge of giving up.

“Ya’ll need something?” The man didn’t glance in our direction.

“Just looking, thanks!” Reveal our target and he’d jack up the price.

“Umm hmm.” His eyes never rose. “The bongs are in the corner, FYI.”

Great. He thought we were stoners.

“Spread out,” I whispered. “Scratch your head if you spot the collection.”

We all moved in separate directions, which caught the man’s eye.

“Don’t even think about pulling a stunt.” A thumb jabbed his chest. “This here is my shop. Lonnie Bates. I don’t tolerate foolishness.”

“No sir,” Shelton squeaked. “No stunts.”

“Damn right.” Again the thumb. “Don’t forget I’ve got to buzz ya’ll back out.”