Yuletide Immortal (The Immortal Chronicles Book 4) Read Online Free PDF Page B

every pawner in the city, aren’t we?”
    “That would only improve the story!”
    I sighed.  “Don’t you have to be somewhere?”
    He didn’t, though.  Theoretically, this should have been the only busy time of the year for him, and yet he clearly considered helping me achieve some manner of temporary positivity more important than talking to kids all day. Sour as I was, I felt a certain obligation to tag along.  Plus, it was a little too early to start drinking.
    The second shop was considerably seedier.  You had to already know it was a pawnshop beforehand, because there was no signage identifying it as such, only a window display of sun-damaged clothing and trinkets that would have looked more impressive were it not for the layer of dust. 
    It wasn’t the sort of place I would have expected to find a valuable family heirloom.  Maybe off-market heroin, or a kidney.  But there it was.
    “I wonder, sir, if I could have a look at that blue flower vase up there,” Santa asked.
    The proprietor was an enormous man of northern Italian descent.  He appeared disinterested in courting our business.
    “This?” he said.  He didn’t touch it; he pointed.  “Very valuable.  You want?”
    “I was hoping to examine it first.  My comrade and I, we are looking for a particular vase, and that appears to be the exact one.  Subject to examination, of course.”
    I put my hand on Santa’s shoulder.  “You’re going to impoverish both of us if you go at it like that,” I whispered.
    “As I say, very valuable.  Very rare.”  The shop man’s broken English was not so broken he couldn’t smell a markup.
    “Money isn’t a concern, Stanley,” Santa said, thankfully not loudly enough for the guy behind the counter to hear.
    “Just… let me handle this.”  To the large Italian I said, “That vase is shit.  My friend is nearly blind and cannot see this for himself.”
    He was somewhat surprised insofar as I had said this in his native tongue.  But not too surprised.
    “It is a work of art!  The most valuable thing here.  I can barely stand to even part with it. You have eyes, make an offer.”
    “It’s a ceramic pile of dung, but my friend thinks otherwise.  If you don’t let him examine it for himself we will take our money elsewhere.”
    “Fine.”  He pulled the vase off the shelf and put it on the counter.  “It is one-of-a-kind, try not to breathe on it.”
    Santa, not fluent in Italian, immediately touched it, picking it up and rolling it around in his hands.  “This is what Davey described,” he said to me, his back to the proprietor.
    “Yeah, I think you’re right.”
    “How much does he want for it?”
    “I’ll let you know.”
    I took the vase and put it back on the counter. 
    “A wretched piece of junk,” I said.   “I’d sooner cut off my hand and shove flowers in the stump than use this miserable excuse for pottery, but my friend is deranged enough to think otherwise.  It’s not worth the spit from my mouth, but I’ll offer two pennies for it because I am feeling generous.”
    *   *   *
    An hour later I’d acquired the vase for what I considered an acceptable price, and made another friend in the pawnshop business.  He threatened to murder me with his bare hands three times, and invited me for dinner twice.
    “I told you, price wasn’t a real concern,” Santa insisted as we left.  “I don’t know why you had to go through with all of that.”
    “It’s difficult to explain.”
    “But such a hassle!”
    It was more fun than I’d had in weeks, actually.  I was tempted to go find another shop so I could haggle with someone else over a random object for a few more hours.  But that wasn’t going to happen.  Instead, we were headed across town to a skid row apartment near Chatham Square.  While the pawnshop was only a few blocks from the Broadway of Gimbel’s, the economic distance was appreciable.  The economic disparity between the pawnshop