Simon Locke: A Thriller in Progress - Chapter One

I’ve been working on a thriller. I plan to release it Chapter by Chapter here on The Mad Minute.

I don’t have a title yet, but I’m not particularly worried about it.

For now, I’m just calling it Simon Locke: A Thriller in Progress.

Here’s Chapter One:

The neon lights of the pawn shop sign hissed and cracked in the damp night air. Simon Locke didn’t expect the storm to last much longer. From the shelter of the bus stop across the street, he watched a figure approach the pawn shop, open the door and step inside.

It was a woman. No umbrella. None required. She was wearing a Condor ballcap, tactical pants and a crisp white t-shirt that contrasted sharply against her olive skin. A black GORUCK backpack hung over her left shoulder. She was maybe forty years old, or even older. She could have been fifty, just in good shape. Several minutes later, the rain stopped. Just as Simon had predicted.

He saw the pawn shop door open again and the woman stepped outside. She began walking with a long, aggressive stride down Lime Street.

Simon crossed the street to the pawn shop.

It had the typical urban strip mall footprint. Maybe twenty feet of street frontage, cinder block construction from the 1970s, peeling yellow paint. It was solid, but maintenance had stopped in the mid-80s, if not sooner.

Above the solid steel door three brass spheres hung overhead. A throwback to the Medici coat of arms, though Simon doubted the proprietor knew or cared about Italian banking history. The door was heavy but swung open with ease.

Stepping inside, Simon was greeted with the smell of burned coffee and stale cigars. The shop itself was long and narrow, going back maybe 80 feet.

To the left, Simon took in the floor-to-ceiling shelving, loaded with power tools, air compressors and other assorted electronics. To the right, rows of pistols in glass cases. Behind them on the wall were the long guns. ARs, hunting rifles, and 12-gauge shotguns, all locked to steel cables. Along the back wall were the sporting goods. A Newfound cedar-strip wooden canoe hung from the ceiling above it all.

In the middle sat the jewelry counter. The glass displays were filled on one side with rings and spiderwebs of silver and gold necklaces glowing under harsh white fluorescent. The other side was filled with watches. Chronographs, field watches, dive watches, most of them fake Rolexes.

The entire shop had history. None of it was probably good. Simon felt the weight of it. The residue of rent money needed by midnight, bail needing to be paid, hungry kids waiting in idling cars in the parking lot. It was a field of broken dreams where people traded their memories for maybe twenty cents on the dollar, if they were lucky.

A landline telephone sat on top of the jewelry counter. A rare thing, nowadays. Right next to the phone on a showcase pad was a black watch. 44mm case, sapphire crystal. Three inner dials, and no crown.

Simon recognized it immediately. A Ressence Type-3, easily worth fifty grand.

Behind the jewelry counter stood the proprietor. Five-foot-eight, two hundred pounds. Early sixties. Gray hair cut short. Wearing a Hawaiian shirt, an unlit cigar between his lips. A SIG Sauer P320 in a retention holster attached to his belt. A faded Miami Dolphins tattoo on his inside right forearm. His left hand held the torn upper half of a pawn ticket. Number 67.

Simon laughed to himself. Six, Seven! His niece and nephew would have gotten a kick out of it.

“About to close up, bud. Anything I can help you with?” the proprietor said.

Simon approached the jewelry counter and picked up the watch, feeling the heft in his hand.

“I’m more interested in the woman who pawned this.”

The proprietor placed the ticket back on the counter and both hands disappeared below it. Simon knew what was under the counter. A Remington 870 12-gauge shotgun.

“What’s it to you?” he replied.

Simon grinned. “I’m just curious.”

The proprietor said nothing.

“She didn’t look like typical pawn shop clientele,” Simon went on.

“Just what is typical pawn shop clientele?” the proprietor said menacingly.

“A desperate, down on her luck junkie. Or maybe a jilted girlfriend who pawns an expensive watch to get back at her boyfriend?” said Simon.

“Look buddy I don’t know who she is. I gave her five hundred bucks and a ticket. She seemed the sort who’d be back for it,” the proprietor groaned.

“Five hundred for this?” Simon asked, holding up the watch. “Stolen property?”

“Hey buddy, I don’t get in the middle of domestic disputes. I haven’t processed it yet. Give me the five hundred bucks back and it’s yours,” the proprietor said. “No harm, no foul, and all my best to you and your lady friend.”

“I get it. No paperwork. This one’s off the books,” said Simon.

He unzipped the cargo pocket and pulled out his wallet. He took out three crisp 100 dollar bills and laid them on the counter one by one.

“Three hundred,” Simon said. “Consider the rest a penance for this, and your many other misdeeds.”

The proprietor said nothing. Simon zipped his wallet back in his pocket, picked the pawn ticket up from the counter, turned and walked out.

Once outside, he turned over the watch. Winding a Ressence demands intimate knowledge and a bit of choreography. The reverse crystal sapphire backing is in fact the winding key. Pressing his fingertips firmly against the cold, Grade 5 titanium case, Simon rotated the entire rear section counterclockwise to wind the mainspring, and after a jarring clink and ten short turns clockwise, the liquid heart of the watch resumed its silent, flawless sweep.

It worked. But why someone would pawn a $50k watch for five hundred bucks gnawed at Simon as he headed back to the bus stop to make his way home.