He tightened his grip around the canvas pouch.
Then pushed open the door.
The hinge groaned.
The smell hit him first.
Beer.
Old smoke.
Sweat.
Leather.
Engine exhaust drifting through open vents.
Then came the sound.
Music.
Laughter.
Pool balls.
Men shouting at a baseball game on a television mounted above the bar.
Toby stood inside the doorway.
A few people noticed him immediately.
One man stopped lifting his beer.
Another turned halfway around in a booth.
Someone at the pool table said, “You kidding me?”
Toby considered running.
Then he remembered the red stripe across the foreclosure notice.
He walked toward the bar.
The bartender looked as if someone had brought a puppy into a slaughterhouse.
Salvatore “Sal” Mendoza was forty-seven, built like a refrigerator, with a thick black beard streaked with gray and a burn scar running along his left forearm.
He put down the glass he was drying.
“You lost, kid?”
Several men nearby chuckled.
Toby shook his head.
“No, sir.”
Sal looked toward the door.
“Chuck E. Cheese is about ten miles the other direction.”
More laughter.
Toby swallowed.
“I have something to sell.”
Sal stared.
“Something to what?”
“Sell.”
A huge man seated three stools away turned toward him.
Arthur “Bones” Harrison had earned his road name because, despite standing well over six feet tall, his face seemed built from hard angles.
A scar ran from beneath his left ear toward the corner of his jaw.
Both forearms were crowded with old tattoos.
His hands were big enough to almost circle a beer bottle completely.
“Sell?” Bones repeated.
Toby nodded.
“Antiques.”
The room laughed harder.
Bones slid off his stool.
He towered above Toby.
“What kind of criminal empire are you running, half-pint?”
Toby said nothing.
“Knocking over antique stores between recess and math class?”
“They aren’t stolen.”
“Sure.”
“They were my dad’s.”
Something in Toby’s voice removed a little humor from Bones’s expression.
“My mom’s sick,” Toby continued. “We need money.”
Bones glanced toward Sal.
Then back at the child.
His tone became less amused but no kinder.
“Listen, kid. This isn’t a pawn shop.”
“I tried those.”
“That so?”
“They won’t give me enough.”
“Enough for what?”
Toby looked down.
“The bank’s taking our house.”
Bones stopped smiling.
Only for a second.
Then the outlaw mask returned.
“This still isn’t a flea market.”
“Just look.”
Toby reached into his coat.
Several men shifted automatically.
Toby noticed.
He froze.
Sal held up one hand.
“Easy.”
Toby slowly removed the canvas pouch.
He placed it on the bar.
Then emptied it.
The compass struck the wood first.
The pocket watch followed.
The gold ring rolled in a tight circle.
Finally, the silver lighter landed with a dull metallic thud.
Bones looked down lazily.
He picked up the ring.
Examined it.
Put it down.
Then his fingers touched the lighter.
Everything in him stopped.
Toby watched the massive man’s face change.
Bones lifted the Zippo.