Fat Free And Fatal. G. A. McKevett

gets around that I do this…”

      “The guys who are trying to unload their stolen crap will take it elsewhere,” Dirk told him. “That’s a good thing, right?”

      Saul grimaced. “I suppose so.” He turned to Savannah and his eyes lit up ever so slightly. “I am happy to see you, though, Savannah, my dear. It is not every day a pretty woman comes into Saul’s store.”

      “Forget about the pretty girls for a minute, Saulie,” Savannah said, giving him the benefit of a brief smile before turning all-business, “and tell us about the ugly mug you’re expecting to come in here this afternoon.”

      “Ah, that one.” Saul shook his head. “He’s a bad fellow, I tell you. About a month ago, he comes in here and tries to sell me a gun that he has no papers for. And when I refuse to buy it, he gets so very angry, I swear I think he is going to shoot me with it.”

      “And you were probably right,” Savannah told him. “Always trust your instincts, Saul. In your business you can’t afford not to.”

      Dirk glanced down into one of the glass cases, then bent over, taking a better look at a bowie knife with a rosewood handle. “Tell me exactly what he said when he called you this morning.”

      Saul cast a quick look at Savannah. “I will not repeat exactly what he said in front of a lady, but he told me he had a woman’s Raymond Weil watch and a gentleman’s Tutima. Said he wanted to be rid of them this afternoon. Well, that Tutima rang a bell in my brain. Saul may be old, but he’s not so stupid as some think. I grabbed the…what you police call…the hot sheet and looked at it really quick while I still had him on the phone. And there it was, third item on the page: a Tutima with ‘Merry Christmas, Uncle Carl’ engraved on the back of it. So, I asked him if it was clean, mint condition, and he said, ‘All except for a short message on the back.’ Claims he’d had it engraved for his beloved uncle, but dear Uncle Carl—may he rest in peace—passed away before he could give it to him on Christmas.”

      “Heartbreaking story,” Savannah muttered.

      “Ain’t it though?” Dirk added. “Let’s get this bastard.”

      “And return Uncle Carl’s watch to him…whoever he may be,” she said.

      Saul’s eyes brightened at the prospect. “I have suffered too many losses from these no-goods who come in here and sell me stolen items. And then you police come along behind them, take the merchandise and leave me with nothing but empty hands. It will be a good feeling to catch one of them in the act and let him take the loss for a change—let him be the one who is disappointed and upset.”

      “A good feeling?” Savannah laughed. “Oh, Saul, you have no idea how good you’re going to feel if we nail this guy. Revenge is better than a hot fudge sundae…with two cherries on top!”

      Half an hour later, they were ready for the vendor of fine, recently pilfered goods to walk through the door. Savannah stood behind the counter, trying to look like a proper pawnshop clerk—which meant trying not to stare at the pretty sparklies in the jewelry cases that were constantly snagging her attention.

      And Dirk sat on a folding chair, just inside the door that led to the back room, within earshot, but out of view of anyone coming into the shop.

      As Saul chattered nervously away in Savannah’s ear, she wondered briefly if it might be a mistake, asking this frail, elderly man to cooperate with a sting like this. What if he had a heart attack right in the middle of the takedown? She was current on her CPR, but she couldn’t imagine bouncing up and down on that skinny little rib cage. Savannah would never be accused of being a lightweight; she was a “real” woman, gifted with a sturdy, hearty frame and plenty of feminine embellishments to flesh it out.

      She knew she had the capacity to mash old Saul flat as a flitter—as her Granny Reid would say. Savannah had never been sure exactly what a flitter was, but she was certain you could easily slip it under a tight door. And sure as shootin’, nobody wanted to be one.

      “So, tell me, pretty Savannah…when are you going to come in here and shop for an engagement ring?” Saul wanted to know as he rubbed some jewelers’ rouge on a cloth and began to buff a candlestick.

      “Uh…maybe when I find somebody I want to be engaged to.”

      Saul nodded his head toward the back door. “A nice girl like you with those beautiful blue eyes and all that shiny dark hair? You must have suitors lined up outside your doorway with flowers and candies. No?”

      “Mmm, not so’s you’d notice, Saulie.” She gave him a flirty grin that deepened her dimples. “There’s plenty of room on my porch if you want to show up with roses and a box of Godiva’s chocolates.”

      “Ah, I’m too old to do anything but look. But how about that one in there?” He nodded toward the back room where Dirk sat. “Any chance of him wanting to put a ring on your finger someday?”

      Savannah snorted. “More like, any chance of me holding still for it? Saulie, go wash your mouth out with soap, saying a thing like that. It’ll never happen. That one in there wants to marry me about as much as I want to marry him.”

      “And how much is that?” Saul said, his eyes twinkling with a light that hinted at a younger, more virile fellow still lurking inside his timeworn body.

      A cough rumbled on the other side of the door, followed by some throat clearing. “You two hens wanna stop cackling in there,” Dirk said, “and stay sharp? In case you haven’t looked at a clock lately, this afternoon is just about up. It’s a quarter to five. This guy better show soon. I’m getting hungry.”

      “Oh, stop your griping,” Savannah snapped. “I told you I’ve got a chicken stewing on the back burner at home. You’re getting a free chicken and dumplin’ dinner tonight. Biscuits, too. That should enough to—oh—heads up. We got company coming.” She turned to Saul. “Is that your buddy?”

      Saul craned his neck to look out the window. He jumped to attention. “That’s him! That’s the one who calls himself R.L. Can you imagine a person wanting to be called by a couple of letters like that, instead of a proper name? That alone shows what a hoodlum he must be. I would wager he’s already spent time in prison.”

      Instantly, Savannah thought of a dozen good ol’ boys from her home state of Georgia who went by assorted initials in lieu of full names. She knew a J.D., a J.P., a J.R., and a J.B., just for starters. All fine, upstanding, proud sons of the South—they hadn’t served more than thirty years of hard prison time between them. And most of that was for “thumpin’” on other, less upstanding, good ol’ boys who’d been asking for it.

      Nope. Saulie’s theory just didn’t hold water.

      But R.L. looked like he might be an exception. He did look like a hoodlum, from the metal-studded leather vest that he wore with no shirt underneath, to the spiked dog collar around his neck, from the five-inch-high black Mohawk, to the swastika tattoo proudly displayed on his bare chest. Savannah took particular notice of the enormous skull-and-crossbones ring on his right forefinger that would be nasty in a fistfight, should one ensue in the process of taking him into custody.

      No, R.L. didn’t look like your average accountant or Sunday school teacher. He looked like exactly the kind of guy Savannah enjoyed busting—somebody who continually did nasty, ornery things to nice people, but was cocksure that they would forever get away with it.

      She loved proving them wrong.

      As he sauntered through the front door, she rearranged her face from a self-satisfied smirk to the look of a moderately bored clerk who was looking forward to going home at five sharp. “May I help you?” she asked R.L. as her eyes casually scanned the rest of his person, looking for any telltale bulge that might signify a weapon—other than the oversized skull ring. But the ring was all she saw.

      He walked past her and over to where Saul stood. “Nope. Saul here is my man,” he said. “I called earlier.”

      “Ah…you’re