"Well, there's something else I'd need you to take a look." Javier aimlessly waves his hand in the air as in 'Yeah, why the hell not'.

"Hurry up then, I want to get some more sleep before eating."

"Cigs ain't enough?" Uncle's eyes survey the counter and the ashtray closely before he tilts his head under the counter.

"You can smoke through breakfast, lunch, fellatio but never dinner." I let out a snort as I pull Qin's dagger out from the slug for fiddlestick while Uncle's going through the drawers.

"Your secret for longevity?" A single, dry laughter echos the empty pawn shop.

"Acojonante, callejero.....aconjonate. " A hand reached from under the counter and slams a new pack of bidi on it. Loosen the hemp rope, unpack, bite one down, lit it. All done in three seconds.

"So......" Hands-on the counter, body leaning forward. "What else can I do for you?" Parting his chipped lips, a chunk of smoke escaped between his teeth.

Thoughts ran through my mind as I grip the ebony color handle. I don't care much about the Qins, but not to the point that I would waltz in the hotel and have them put it on auction, the best bet still is for Uncle to see if he can find a potential buyer who knows discretion or better yet, buy it himself.

My eyes peek at the closed solitary door and the curtains covering the bay windows unconsciously as I put the sheathed blade on the counter and lean forward as well.

***

"Are you changing lanes? Wanna be a nighthawk? Hm, Forget about it. The field's oversaturated with scums worse than you and me." Words leaked out of his mouth continuously and slowly like an old man taking a piss as he pulls the DIY spotlight up to position it on the sheath.

I shrug and watch him get to work. "Perhaps." Been stumbling upon shit from a museum exhibits anyway.

"Maldito chiflado. Didn't I teach you not to turn dead man's bones long fucking time ago?" The mumbling carries on as he adjusts the switch two turns to shed a somber white light on it, the gold-plated lock and pommel glint quietly.

"You did. Though I thought you were just trying to snatch the dead chick's high heels yourself." Javier stopped what he was doing completely and abruptly,

He takes the smoke out of his mouth and raises his face at the ceiling, sound of a generator breaking down came out of his throat before spitting a fat brown sputum at the ashtray, knocking out two cig ends and flooding the rest.

"Let's get this straight, Callejero. I've never, robbed from the dead before. It is the most degenerate, accursed way to make a living, hijo de puta are worse than grubs. A maggot, a fucking worm eat carcasses to live, while a bone turner snatch them of the last they have to make a penny..." With a slow, articulated tone he vomits those words along the stink of his smoke at my face. "They see the deceased as an object..... De puta madre! Well, I fucking don't, and the doers ought to rot in the lowest of hell."

A spite towards what most think is right and a pity for the opposite...

"Noted and repentant." I lower my head into a nod. "I didn't know you were so insistent on them. Sorry." A very small ripple of shame waves somewhere in my chest and I ain't going to act like a son of a bitch when in the wrong.

Uncle look at me closely, with those plated grey rolling inside his eye sockets, like a lottery machine.

Breathes between us lengthen, till two more seconds later he's content with whatever traces of remorse in my eyes or nothing at all. Drawing a curved line in the air repeatedly with his half-burnt Indian cig, telling both of us to forget about it.

Funny, after all those years. These exchanges are the few things unchanged.

Javier sits back down on the stool, a hand adjusting the light while the other sends the smoke back into his mouth, inhales, and puffs out the last breath of tobacco.

Wordlessly, he smears the cig butt on that yellow spit and drags the light closer to the grip of the blade, the decorated gold locket with a tiger and a Kirin roaring towards the other, than the reinforced end pommel.

His eyebrows furrowed closer as he inspects the little details on the antiques in front of him. His fingertips brush the texture of the wooden sheath and the second gold ring between the chape and the grip, the black and grey of his brows are almost intertwined. The dirt grey eyes swirl with doubt and excitement.

It took him ten minutes of probing and examining before he finally sits back and wipes off a small dripple of sweat on his temple. For a moment he sits still with lips subtly apart. His hands snake into his pocket for another smoke unconsciously. I watch silently by the other side of the counter, the pulsing emotions in his eyes are palatable that he hasn't been this interested in something for a long while.

Until old man Javier had chewed down another cig did he escape the trance. Blinking twice, he put the cig down and concludes whatever he was thinking so hard.

"You mind if I...?" He point his index finger at the locket idly like one of those fake, black-and-white documentaries with farmers pointing at ufo behind the clouds.

I shrug with a smirk to hide the fact I'm a bit affected by his change of demeanor too.

He ducks under the counter again, this time came out with a magnifying monocle. He clutches the piece between his nose bridge and left eye socket. Unsheathed the collateral with heed.

***

Reading on Amazon or a pirate site? This novel is from Royal Road. Support the author by reading it there.

Glints of shaded hue on the spine of the dagger deliberately change color by the edge and tanto tip into a silvery white or faint indigo. It's almost unrecognizable if not under the concentrated light.

Javier placed the sheath next to it and started another round of examination as he adjusts the monocle while the other shifts the light by a few degrees.

"Qué mierda..." Uncle whispers to himself and takes off the magnifier, he spent a moment to rub his left eyelids. Before returning his focus to me. Still frowning hard the wrinkles on his forehead change their routes.

"Ever heard of Damascus steel?" With a sarcastically cheery voice he asks, though none of his facial expressions backs it up.

"Save TV commercials for kitchen knives?" Javier shrugs in defeat at my answer.

"Yeah. That too. But it's more than a 19,99 on the tally. Good quality Damascus steel can make it worth your while." Uncle reaches for that cig he pull out earlier to puff a smoke at the bead drape behind.

"Recently I got a small collection from a frog. El pendejo wanted half a grand for the bucket of trash he gathered, I was going to throw him out. But then...." Uncle put the back in his mouth and take deliberately slow smoke like a goddamn storyteller at Central Park.

"I saw this fine ottoman paper knife with an ivory grip so fucking fake that the toy cars from fast food joints had been given more effort in the making. In spite it, the blade itself is genuine patterned welded. The mosaic ripples on that beauty don't lie. So I took his offer and threw him 5 notes..." Another puff, while the smoke leaks between his teeth, he curls his tongue on them dry lips.

"Two days later I put a new grip on the piece and placed it right there." Uncle nods his cigarette at the closed drapes behind bay windows. "Weeks later, I sold it for double the price to a skinny fella who called himself a collector." Scratching his chin, he laughs to himself. "Ha! Bet it was the first and last time he'll walk in a place like this."

"So..... is the point of the story being this dagger is also made of Damascus steel or do you just want to brag about your entrepreneurial lanes?" Uncle signs out another breath of smoke and knits the dying cig between his index and thumb. It was quick but I caught a glimpse of hesitation in his eyes before he flick the end to the ashtray.

"The point is to let half of that brain of yours comprehend what you're looking at...... but no, this isn't Damascus steel. Not entirely." A slight smile slips at the edge of mouth.

"Cause there are no patterns on it?" To that, he grins.

"Take a closer look." Raising a side of my brow, I take a closer look at the piece lying under the spotlight. The cold glints trace a white line along the edge, to the tip. But at the halfway point there's a fault, a tiny slip of inconsistency, where the white became gray.

Defected?

"Hey Javier! There's a...." I turn my sight back to no one behind the counter. The fuck is......

"A chip on the edge?" Before I could finish the thought, a derisive voice passed through the bead curtain.

"Yeah! What is that?" I shout towards the back but this time what came out is the sound of lids and trash cans being thrown to the ground, then the noise of empty milk jars in a bike basket.

A minute or so passed but the noise kept appearing through the back room behind the drapes as if a long and distant static.

I tried to find another similar flaw but to no end. That small corner on the edge where the pale hard steel turned grey, almost like the color of minerals is the only imperfection on the stunning piece.

Tabbing a two-note tone on the counter next to the grip of knife got boring pretty easily and the smell of bidi sunk my appetite for cigs for the duration while I'm inside. Another half a minute passed before I've concluded he's going to take a while.

My attention unavoidably got drawn to the back of the store, where bulletproof glass cabinets press on the cumbersome wooden desks with bronze locks and bicycle locks.

I take another peek at the bead drape to confirm he ain't coming back any time soon before stepping into the unknown.

***

The lamps guided me deeper and deeper where the LED lights can only stretch so far before fading into the dark with occasional glistening from the reflections of gold and waxed wood.

I walk past a table of sphinx paperweights on top of business cards from Glen Avenue and necklaces with beads and silver pieces strung together, hanging on its neck.

Browsing through these things slowly gives you a realization. It's hard to describe, like something close to sonder. The word applies to when you realize folks next to you have their own stories as well, their own world, and in their eyes, you're the insignificant one. I guess that's the closest I felt while walking through the hallway, where everything by your arm's reach has more dusted history than you.

Second used cig case with marks of a scratched autograph, an empty but fine decorated gold frame with mistletoe engraved sitting right next to a curved pocket knife with words 'He started it!' on the grip. By the edge of the half closed drawer lies a small bracelet, strung by hemp rope with three small chips of silver......

I pick up the fragile piece caustically, the rope looks chipped and thinned. Any doubt in my mind vanished as soon as I saw the Roman numbers on it. XVII, XII, VIIII. Thieving, associating with peddling business, and a love for whores.

A tenth street living like a real Lesnaya fuckboy huh?

I smiled to myself and put the bracelet back where it was, by doing so, my focus got drawn to the drawer.

Strange, they're usually locked or completely opened in display. While this one looks like Uncle forgot its existence.

With a slight glaze of interest but mostly still out of boredom, I pull the drawer open. What came in sight is a box full of rings.

Fake ruby frat pinkies, swirling jade that ends with a pearl on top, a plain (boring as hell) diamond engagement ring, golden thumb ring which looks like it was ripped off a knuckle duster.....

Types, colors, shapes, meanings of all contrasts pile on top of each other in the small gift box. I grab a handful and let them slip through my finger tips. The brimming sound of them colliding rises like a drop of rain on a sump.

A bronze one knocked off the pyramid in the center of the box, demolished the slope and turned an exceedingly weird-looking one up to the top.

It has the outlook of a cylinder that can only hold one round, with '.357 cal' engraved on its side complete with the grooves. Shining a metal glint quietly amidst sands of others.

A twitch of mouth turned to a smirk as a particular someone's face immediately came to mind.

Guessed a souvenir's due....... fingers crossed she will get over 20-ish missed calls quicker.

I rolled it between my fingers and found no sharp edge or rough notches. Satisfied with the found, I shut the drawer and stroll back to the land of tangibles....

***

Just in time. When I lean back on the counter like I never left with a bored expression and heavy eyelids uncle walks from the back.

Strings of deep blue beads clinging to his shoulder before letting go and swinging back to the opposite side. He's holding a white plastic container with chemical bottles, some copper wheels, a box of wet wipes, and a bottle of vinegar dangling in it.

"Now hand it over." He asked in a plain tone and smash the basket of chemicals on the counter in an unnecessary motion to hide his shaking arms.

"It?"

"The scrap of iron in your pocket." With the same plain tone, he said and extends his callous plagued palm.

Worth a shot.

I sign a long breath and wiggle it out of my left sleeve between wrist watch and jacket cuff.

Uncle snatches it in an instant. To hold it in front of his eyes and under the LED light for inspection. He rubs it against his shirt a few times possibly making it dirtier, put it under the light again before flinging it back to me with his thumb and index finger like he's loitering a used napkin.

"9,99" I put it in my left jacket pocket and pull out my wallet. All the coins I've left just to barely cover it.

Javier took his time counting rows and rows of cents before picking up a small board box by his feet and swipes the bountiful down the counter, into the box. The only change that occurred on his face was an unnoticeable twitch at the corner of his mouth.