Rarities Unlimited 02 - Running Scared

turned it to Shapiro and Tim shot him and I shot Tim and then I went to see the bitch to get the rest of the gold and she damn near yanked my dick off and ran, so I went to her room and she’s gone but another bitch comes in and says she knows where the gold is and so we go downstairs to the casino—”
    “Casino!”
    Socks just kept talking. “—so she goes to the women’s can to get the gold but the bitch double-crosses me and cuts out so I shot at her but she’s running like a fucking racehorse and I miss so I ran out and here I am.”
    Firenze didn’t bother to ask how many people had seen Socks. It didn’t matter. The whole thing had been recorded digitally and was now in the belly of a casino computer. “Where?”
    “Huh? Here, just like I said.”
    “You did this in the Roman Circus?” Firenze asked, shooting upright with a furious snarl.
    “Nah. I’m here. The bitch was at the Golden Fleece.”
    The pounding in Firenze’s head settled into a steady, vicious stabbing.
    “Remember what I told you about security cameras?” Firenze asked softly.
    “Uh . . . yeah. I wore a ski mask.” Most of the time. But he wasn’t going to talk about that part of it. Even his tight-assed uncle wouldn’t expect him to wear a ski mask on the main floor of the Golden Fleece, would he? Socks yanked the mask out of his pants pocket. “See?”
    Firenze gave the limp mask a look. “Anything else you want to tell me?”
    “Like what?” Socks said.
    “Like what you want me to do about any of this.”
    Socks brightened. “I figured you could unload the rest of the gold for closer to what it’s worth, see? Then—”
    “Wait.” Firenze held up his hand. “You said the bitch had the gold and she got away.”
    “With most of it, yeah.” Socks rolled one thick shoulder and caught the backpack as it dropped. “But Tim had some more in his backpack.”
    For the first time since Socks started talking, Firenze looked interested. “Bring it here.”
    Socks hurried up to the big, ultrasleek black desk, which looked like something out of a Star Trek rerun. No papers littered the shiny surface. A single ebony pen lay across thick, creamy paper that was decorated with the Roman Circus logo: two roaring lions flanking a bare-breasted chorus girl.
    “I ain’t had time to really look at this shit,” Socks said as he yanked impatiently at Velcro and buckles.
    “Where are your gloves?” Firenze snapped.
    “Huh?”
    “Listen and listen good. You don’t want your fingerprints all over stuff that goes straight back to the guy you killed.”
    “I made it look like Joey killed him.”
    Firenze’s headache just got worse at the thought of his numb-nuts nephew trying to concoct his own alibi. “Wear gloves.”
    “I tossed my last ones.”
    “Buy more. Until then don’t touch the goods. Got that?”
    “Yeah.”
    Glumly Socks poked a hand around in the backpack. One at a time he fished out six lumps wrapped in socks or underwear and laid them out on the polished desk. Firenze watched like a vulture trying to decide if his next meal had finally given up and died. When Socks started to shake out one of the pieces, his uncle gestured him back with a slicing motion of his hand.
    “I’ll do it. I don’t want you scratching up my desk.”
    With a delicacy that was surprising in a man as thick-bodied as Firenze was, he eased the first gold piece out onto a creamy sheet of paper. Despite his care, the figurine thumped audibly when it hit. His eyes opened, then narrowed. He unwrapped the other five pieces one after another.
    And then he just stared at them. Two figurines, a ring, some weird kind of pin, a choker-style necklace of braided chains, and what might have been a four-inch-wide armband that made his skin crawl to look at it. “What the hell are they?”
    “I told you. Gold.”
    “I can see that. What kind of gold?”
    “Dunno. Joey said Shapiro paid him fifty thousand for four pieces like that. And we have, what, six? That should be worth, uh, more.”
    Jesus, the boy can barely count. Firenze dragged his mind away from his nephew’s shortcomings to the problem at hand. Shapiro was a hustler who chiseled and whined over every penny he paid out of his pawnshop.
    “If he paid fifty,” Firenze said, “it’s gotta be worth five times that. Hell, maybe even ten.”
    “That’s what I thought. But Joey ain’t gonna do nothing dead and I don’t trust Shapiro and the bitch probably has a buttload more