"Have you talked to Stanley Cramp?"

"Not yet, but I think it's time. I'd like you to do it. See if you can charm something out of him. If that doesn't work, feel free to shoot him in the other foot."

"That would be tough," I told him, "since I haven't got a gun."

Diesel reached under his seat and pulled out a Glock.

"I'm not going to take that!" I said.

"Why not?"

"I hate guns."

"You can't hate guns. You're a bounty hunter."

"Yes, but I almost never shoot people. Bounty hunters only shoot people on television."

Diesel raised an eyebrow.

"Okay, so maybe I shot a couple guys, but it wasn't my fault."

"Just take the friggin' gun," Diesel said. "Stanley Cramp isn't a nice person."

"Where am I going to find this guy?"

"He lives in an apartment over the pawnshop, but at this time of day he'll be working. The pawnshop is a one-man operation, open seven days a week."

I got out of Diesel's 'vette and into my Escape. I drove into the center of the city and took the side street that led to the pawnshop. I parked two doors down on the opposite side of the street. I left my car, crossed the street, and glanced at Diesel parked one store down. I rang the bell next to the front door and got buzzed in. High security.

Stanley Cramp looked like life had pretty much been sucked out of him. He was about five foot nine and scrawny. Mid-fifties with thinning oily black hair that was badly in need of a cut. His clothes were a size too large. His teeth were tobacco-stained. He had bloodhound bags under his eyes and skin the color and texture of wet cement. He looked like he'd be better placed in a body bag than standing behind the counter in a pawnshop.

I approached the counter and sent Cramp a flirty smile, and Cramp turned to see if someone was standing behind him.

"I hope you don't mind," I said to him. "I was freezing out there, and your shop looked cozy and warm. And I saw you in here all by yourself."

"You aren't looking to… you know, make money, are you? Because I think you're real cute, but I don't have any money. I bet on the wrong horse yesterday, and I got cleaned out."

Oh great, he thought I was a hooker. Not exactly a flattering appraisal, but I could get some mileage out of it. "Do you bet on the wrong horse a lot?"

"Yeah, unfortunately. I used to always win, and then my luck turned, and now I keep getting deeper and deeper in the crapper."

"Jeez, that's too bad. Still, you're lucky you have this pawnshop. Is it yours?"

"Yeah, sort of. I owe some people money, but I'll take care of that as soon as my luck changes."

I wandered around, looking in the cases. "You used to have a real pretty necklace in the window, but I haven't seen it lately."

"The one with the red stone? It got stolen. Some lady came in and robbed me and shot me in the foot."

"Get out!"

"Honest to God. I still can't get a shoe on that foot."

"That's horrible. Did she get arrested?"

"Yeah, but the cops didn't recover the necklace."

"Wow."

"I got a bottle of real good hooch behind the counter," Cramp said. "You want some to help get you warmed up?"

"Sure."

Cramp pulled out a bottle of Jack Daniel's and set it on the display case. "Help yourself."

"Do you have a glass?"

"I have glasses upstairs. That's where I live."

"Maybe we could go upstairs."

"Yeah, that'd be real good, but like I told you, I don't have any money."

"Well, what the heck, it's cold, and I don't have anything better to do. Let's go upstairs anyway."

Cramp looked like he was going to keel over.

"But what about the shop?" I asked.

"I'll close it," Cramp said, hurrying to the front door, throwing the bolt, changing the sign around to say closed. "There's never much business on Sunday anyway" He took the bottle of Jack and motioned me to the rear of the pawnshop. "I have stairs that go up to my apartment," he said. 'We don't even have to go out."

The stairs were narrow and dark and creaky, leading to a small apartment that was also narrow and dark and creaky. The front room had a television on a card table, and opposite the television was a daybed covered with a floral quilt. A scarred end table had been placed to one side of the daybed.

Cramp got a couple glasses from the kitchen. He set the glasses on the end table and filled them with the Jack. "Down the hatch," he said, and he emptied his glass.

I sipped demurely at mine. "It's nice up here," I said.

Cramp looked around. "Used to be nicer before my luck changed. I had some real good pieces, but you know how it is when you're in retail. You have to turn a profit when you get a buyer."

"I bet you were sorry to get robbed of the necklace. It looked expensive."

"I wish I never saw that necklace. Look what it got me… a shot-up foot."

"I think it's an interesting story. It could probably even be a movie."

"You think?" Cramp poured himself more Jack. "Yeah, I guess it could make a movie."

Okay I had him. He wasn't a smart guy and he was a little drunk, and it was going to be easy to get him rolling on an ego trip.

"Who hocked the necklace?" I asked Cramp. "Was it someone glamorous?"

"Well, not movie-star glamorous, but she was okay. In her twenties. Big bazoos. Sort of rat's-nest hair, but when you got bazoos like that it don't matter, right? That's why I remember her. I'm not good with names, but I remember a good rack."

Charming.

"Anyway it was the same story I hear every day" Cramp said. "She got the necklace from her boyfriend. Her boyfriend turned out to be a jerk. She wants some money for the necklace."

Cramp tossed his Jack down his throat. Glug, glug, glug. This could explain his embalmed appearance.

"Keep going," I said. "I want to hear the rest of the story."

"Sure," he said. "I never thought much about it, but it's a pretty good story. And it gets even better. I hock the piece for Ms. Big Boobs, and a couple weeks down the road this guy comes in and wants the necklace. He's got the claim ticket. I ask him what happened to the girl with the hooters, and he says I should shut my pie hole and give him the necklace.

"Now here's where it gets good. This is the part that would be good for the movie. Almost all the jewelry in the shop is fake. I got a guy who fences the stuff when it comes in and makes me paste. It's a win-win deal for me, right? I get the money from the fence, and then I either sell the paste to a customer, or the idiot who hocked it in the first place buys it back. Most of the time people can't even tell it's fake. And if they suspect it's fake, they're too embarrassed to do anything about it. Pretty smart, hunh? I thought of it all by myself."

"Wow," I said. "Cool."

"Yeah. So anyway, this guy is standing in front of me with the claim ticket for the necklace, and all of a sudden I recognize him. It's Lou Delvina. He's the jerk boyfriend! I mean, Lou Delvina. Jesus. Do you know who Lou Delvina is?"

"I've heard of him," I said to Cramp.

Everyone in Trenton knew Lou Delvina. For twenty years, he was a shooter for the north Jersey mob, and then he got his own real estate and moved into the Trenton area. He wasn't big-time, but he made the most of what he had. I'd heard stories about Delvina, and none of the stories was good. Delvina was a very scary guy.

"If you know who Delvina is, you know the problem I've got," Cramp said. "I sort of stole a necklace from someone who would kill me if he found out. And chances are sort of good he'd find out, since I'm guessing he knows paste when he sees it."

"Jeez," I said. "You must have been messing your pants."

"Big time. But that was when it happened. My luck swung around. Delvina's standing there with his claim ticket, and he gets a phone call. And it's not a good call because his face gets all red and his eyes get beady and squinty. Little rat eyes. And he tells me he has to go, but he'll be back for the necklace, and I should take real good care of it."