Rarities Unlimited 02 - Running Scared

saw that Socks wasn’t laughing, and cleared his throat. “Cesar, hey, my boy, you didn’t tell me you were going to want anything back. I turned it around already.”
    Tim started to say something but ended up making a strangled noise when Socks reached under his shirt, jerked out the silenced gun, and pointed it at Joey.
    “Hey, Cesar, whoa, buddy,” Joey said, backing up with his hands held out to show they were empty. The gun was bad enough. The thin shine of the gloves he had just noticed on Socks made Joey sweat. When a man wore that kind of protection, he meant business. “We’re nearly family. Family don’t pull guns on family.”
    “Who’d you sell my gold to?” Socks asked.
    Tim started to say it was his gold, too. A glance at his friend’s flat, dark eyes changed his mind. The last time Socks had looked like that was in prison, when he shanked an old man because he didn’t get out of the way quick enough. Socks might not be real bright when it came to school things, but he knew how the gutter worked. The boy was cold and fast as a snake.
    “That’s private business,” Joey said. “You understand that, right?”
    “How much?”
    “Hey, you know I can’t tell—”
    Socks shot him in the right knee. The bullet made less sound than a dropped glass. He watched while Joey flopped around on the cement floor, screaming and bleeding.
    “Who’d you turn them to?” Socks said. “Tell me or I’ll blow off your other kneecap.”
    Joey managed to say, “Shapiro.”
    “He still have ’em?”
    “Don’t—know,” Joey gasped.
    “How much you sell them for?”
    “Fifty—five.”
    “Thousand?” Socks asked. “Fifty-five yards? You’re telling me you got—”
    “Yes!” Joey cut in desperately. “Jesus, Cesar. Call an ambulance! It hurts!”
    Socks kicked the pawnbroker in the throat, which stopped the conversation.
    Tim grimaced as his stomach flipped. He really didn’t like this part of being Socks’s buddy. Tim was a born con artist, a smiler and a soother, not a leg-breaker or hit man. Socks was a born enforcer. He didn’t mind hurting people.
    “Fifty-five thousand!” He kicked Joey in the balls. “That’s for hosing me, asshole.” He kicked him again. “Still think you’re smarter than me?”
    Joey didn’t answer. He couldn’t. There was too much vomit, too much pain, darkness like a mountain falling down on him.
    Socks turned his back on the moaning, retching pawnbroker and began ripping through desk drawers and filing cabinets.
    “Uh, Socks, maybe we should—” Tim began.
    “Shut up and smash open that jewelry case.”
    “What about an alarm?”
    “Not back here. The last thing Joey wants is nosy cops hard-assing him over the merchandise.”
    Tim selected a cleaning rod from the gun-repair bench and started whacking at the thick glass of the case. Cracks shot like lightning through the panes, but the special high-impact material hung together no matter how much he beat on it.
    Socks slammed shut the last of the desk drawers. “Fuck! Where’d he keep it?”
    “What?”
    “Cash, asshole, what do you think I’m looking for?”
    Tim slammed the rod down end first. The shattered glass bent but didn’t break. “He have a safe?”
    “Yeah. I can’t open it. Already tried once a year ago.”
    Socks returned to Joey and went through his pants pockets, then his underwear. Sure enough, there was a wad of cash in a security pouch that hung down over his pitiful dick.
    Impatiently Socks yanked at the knot that fastened the pouch’s ties around Joey’s waist. The knot tightened. A quick swipe with a pocketknife took care of the problem. It also cut a thin line of red across Joey’s groin, but he didn’t complain. He was too busy trying to suck in air past the pain and vomit to notice a little scratch.
    Cursing in a monotone, Socks counted the money. A few thousand. An hour ago he would have danced in place with glee over that amount. Now all he could think of was Cherelle’s scream bouncing around in his mind.
    Those four chunks of gold you sold for eight hundred bucks are worth at least a million.
    Angry at the whole world for screwing him yet again, Socks kicked Joey as hard as he could.
    The pawnbroker barely groaned.
    Tim slammed away at the high-tech glass and tried to look anywhere but at the floor where Joey was curled up like a boiled shrimp.
    Still cursing, Socks went to the workbench where Joey spent most of his waking hours. He yanked out the first