Rarities Unlimited 02 - Running Scared

me know when the Faulkner woman comes back. I’ll nail shut all the boutique doors.”
    “You could just close down the apartment’s credit line.”
    “Not yet.” He was curious to see just how far Cherelle Faulkner would go.
    He was also curious about Risa’s reaction when she realized that her old friend was hosing her.

Chapter 22
    Las Vegas
    November 3
    Morning
    A s far as Socks was concerned, Miranda Seton’s house smelled like a bakery and sounded like a catfight. Cherelle was screaming at Tim and kicking the furniture around. The faded rose couch cushions and the chipped white wicker frame sat drunkenly askew. The table lamp with the rose-beaded fringe was lying on its side. A framed picture of Tim at his middle-school graduation was facedown in a corner, its glass shattered.
    That was when Socks had retreated to the kitchen. The metal frame on that photo had damn near brained him.
    The furniture had taken the first hit of Cherelle’s fury when she finally pried out of Tim the information that he’d hocked two of his gold objects for four hundred dollars.
    Total.
    “You have the brains of dog shit!” she yelled, kicking out at the couch again, making the light framework jump. “How could you be so stupid! I told you they were worth real money!”
    Tim held his hands in front of himself, palms out, and watched Cherelle warily. He had seen her pissed off before, but never like this. She could have sucked up bullets and spit molten lead.
    “Hey, precious, take it easy. There’s more gold, right? We’ll make plenty. And four hundred isn’t exactly chump change.”
    Cherelle was still screaming— ”Fucking moron!” —when Socks came back into the living room with a double handful of peanut butter cookies.
    “Put a cork in it,” he told Cherelle around a mouthful of cookie. “You’re upsetting Tim’s ma. She’s hiding in the kitchen with her hands over her ears, and the cookies are burning.”
    “Yo, roadkill,” Cherelle said, rounding on Socks. “How much did you get for your two pieces?”
    “The same.”
    “Lying sack of shit. Empty out your pockets.”
    “Hey,” Tim said, “no need to call Socks names.”
    “I’m not calling him names,” Cherelle said without looking away from Socks. “I’m describing him. Roadkill. Lying sack of shit. Cocksu—”
    “Shut up, bitch,” Socks yelled over her words. “Just shut the fuck up! We were broke, and now we ain’t broke. So shut up! ”
    Cherelle considered kicking him in the crotch he thought so much of. Instead, she took a few deep breaths and tried to think past her rage at so much money slipping from her grasp. Hurting Socks would be satisfying, but it wouldn’t change anything. Roadkill would never get any smarter.
    Tim wasn’t much when it came to brains, but he was better than roadkill. She turned back to her lover. “How much money do you have left of the four hundred?”
    He shifted uneasily. “Uh, I bought a little blow, some booze, this shirt—nice, isn’t it?”
    She ignored the change of subject and the impressively loud Hawaiian shirt he’d showed up wearing a few minutes ago. “How much?”
    “Two fifty. It’s a nice shirt. You got new clothes,” he added, gesturing to her pale green silk slacks and shirt. “Why shouldn’t I?”
    “I didn’t pay for these!” Her eyes closed while she struggled against the rage that came more and more easily lately. She really should cut back on the crack, but there wasn’t much else in life that felt good.
    She was surrounded by morons.
    With a raw sound she sucked in air. “Take the rest of your money and buy back the armband.”
    Tim looked at Socks, who shrugged and said, “Joey was doing me a favor. He’ll probably be glad to get some money back.” Especially after Socks leaned a little. He was beginning to think he’d been hosed by Joey. Not just a bit like always. A lot. “I have to do it for you, though. He don’t like strangers.”
    And Socks didn’t want Tim to find out what he really had been paid for the four pieces of gold.
    “Roadkill,” Cherelle whispered on a wild, shuddering outrush of air. “Fucking roadkill thinks pawnbrokers do favors. Christ Jesus deliver me from such morons. I’m going to tell you a little secret, roadkill. Those four chunks of gold you sold for eight hundred bucks are worth at least a million.”
    “Oh, yeah, sure they are.” Socks laughed and remembered a line from a talk show. “You’re a real funny girl. You