Jack noticed a wall display of watches as the man buzzed him in. “Look around,” the man said. “Let me know if you need help.”

Jack smiled and said okay as the man ended his phone conversation in a language Jack didn’t recognize. Slavic. Polish, Eastern European. He scanned over the array of watches, and saw it right away. On the middle shelf, the ladies’ Movado with the black-face dial.

“That one,” said Jack. “Can I see it?”

“Certainly,” the man said, placing the tray on the counter between them. Jack turned the watch over and checked the serial number. It was eight digits off from the Movado previously pawned at Family Capital. Two identical watches eight numbers apart? At the end of a series of seven numbers? Same batch, he figured.

The watch had a $400 tag on it.

Jack decided to badge the man, assuring him he wasn’t after the watch.

“When did you acquire this?” Jack asked. “And from whom?”

“It was one of the Chicanos,” he said. “Three or four weeks ago.”

“He was alone?”

“Yes, he sold the watch.”

Jack gave him a puzzled look.

“There was a Japanese man, Chinese man, whatever, with him,” the man said. “But he waited outside.”

“Outside the door?” Jack asked. “Was it raining then?”

“It rains all the time here.” The man smirked. “I don’t remember about then. He walked up and down the street. I only glimpsed him for a few moments.”

“What makes you think they were together?” Jack asked.

“Not me. My nephew, Vlady, returning from his lunch break. He saw them way down the street. The Chicano man was giving the cash to the short Chinese man, he said.”

Short, Jack noted. “I need the name.”

The man produced a notebook, thumbed it until he got to the entry: MOVADO, LADY, WATCH. $125 JORGE VILLA. The next entry: 44 S. ANDOVER. The same crib as Carlos Lima.

“This Chicano,” Jack asked, “did he say where he’s from?”

“Los Angeles. He bought the watch for his girlfriend. But they broke up.” He shrugged like it was an old story. “He needed the money for rent.”

“Did he say what the girlfriend’s name was?” asked Jack.

The man paused, his eyes narrowing. “Rosita. Rosa something. It was the Amorosa series; he said it sounded like her name.”

“Thanks,” Jack said, knowing he needed to check one more shop on Spokane before heading toward South Andover. At the very least, he thought, it was a good lead to pass on to Seattle PD.

Closer to Highway 99, he came upon an old warehouse building that had a run-down storefront on the street. Above its dingy picture window was an American flag and a red, white, and blue sign that announced USA TRADERS GOLD, GUNS, GUITARS.

A small surveillance camera was perched above the doorway.

Looking beyond the trays of jewelry and the pair of lacquered Stratocasters featured in the window, Jack could see a display of weapons and more guitars in the background.

He pressed the button on the door, heard laughter from inside, and waited a long time before he was buzzed in. The man nearest the door had a high-and-tight military haircut; he watched Jack with narrow blue eyes, displaying a crooked smile. He wore a Guns N’ Roses wifebeater shirt and a black leather wristband. Farther in, another man stood behind a long counter perusing a Motorcycle magazine. He wore his dark grungy hair long, folded his hairy arms across his Harley-Davidson T-shirt. There was a gun in the holster on his hip.

“You have watches?” Jack asked.

The man nodded toward the far corner, and Jack passed a display counter of Magnum revolvers but there were no small-caliber pieces. A selection of semiautomatic pistols reminded Jack of the guns used at Lucky’s OTB shoot-out. On the wall was a shelf of assault rifles, and a display of swords and knives. The far wall featured a half dozen electric guitars, an Easy Rider movie poster, and a blow-up concert picture of Kurt Cobain. There was another counter of Las Vegas–type jewelry: gaudy gold-and-diamond-encrusted rings and bracelets, platinum medallions in the shape of dollar signs, lucky horseshoes, and dice.

Then he saw the display case of wristwatches.

“Can I see this one?” Jack asked.

The biker man took his time coming over, lazily sliding the watch tray onto the glass countertop. Jack saw the same Movado Amorosa model with a $375 tag on it. Checking the back of the watch, Jack saw that the serial number followed the one supplied by “Carlos Lima” exactly. Beyond coincidence, Jack knew.

“It’s real all right,” the man said. “No need to check.”

“Did you get this from an Asian person?” Jack asked.

“Say what?” the man responded through a frown. Jack badged him, and explained that he wasn’t after the watch, but the person who sold it.

“Why didn’t you identify yourself sooner?” the man complained.

“Wouldn’t have been necessary,” Jack said bluntly, “if you didn’t have this watch.”

The man shook his head disdainfully and said, “It wasn’t no Asian. It was a beaner. A Mexicano.”

“There was a little Jap with him,” the other man interjected. Jack glanced at him, saw the grin on his face. “Yeah,” the man continued, “they came in together. The little Jap, or Chink, whatever.” He was trying to get a rise out of Jack. “He went looking at the gun wall. I told him, ‘Don’t bother, you need to be eighteen for guns.’”

Jack played it cool. “He was short, so you thought he was a kid?”

“A Mongolian runt, right.” He grinned.

“What did he look like?” Jack grinned back.

“Who knows? They all look alike to me.” A sneer marred his face.

“He didn’t say anything?”

“Probably couldn’t speak English. He just walked away, waited outside.”

“But it was the wetback who sold it,” the counterman joined in.

Jack took a step back and said, “I need to see the documents.”

The men straightened up, indignant. “What documents?”

“The paperwork,” Jack said evenly. “The pawnee information.”

No one was grinning anymore.

“Wait a minute, man,” the biker said defiantly. “You ain’t even Seattle PD. I don’t have to show you nothing.”

He might know someone on the force, guessed Jack.

“Go ahead, call SPD,” he continued. “See if I care. I got rights. And shit, I got a business to run here. Go ahead, call ’em.”

“Sure, I could do that,” Jack said sharply. “It’d only take a few seconds.” He placed the watch back on the tray. “But after they show up as a courtesy to a cop, I’m going to spend the day going over your inventory. I’m going to tie up your books, interrupt your business, your lunch, your dinner, everything. And keep you open late, so I hope you haven’t made plans for the evening.”

The man’s face clenched into a look of hate. He took a deep breath through his nose, spread his feet like he was getting ready to fight.

“Or,” Jack offered, “you could just show me the name, the address, phone number, whatever. And my Asian ass will be out of here in two minutes.”

The smart-ass rock star wannabe went over to the gun displays and kept quiet.

After a long moment, the biker glared at the watch, mouthing the word fuck! before replacing it into the display counter. “Why can’t you people clean up your own shit,” he bitched, “instead of harassing us true Americans?” He was still spewing hate as he stepped away into a tiny office.

Jack stood in a neutral spot and waited until the biker reappeared with a sheet of entries, information from a Seattle non-driver ID, a copy of a green card. Jack jotted down the information, memorized the likeness of the Mexican seller. He imagined the shadow of short Eddie in the background.

Jack could feel the men staring daggers into his back as he left the USA shop. He remembered Alex and knew he should leave her a message. Sorry, lady. Let’s try for later tonight. Turning up his collar, he headed for 44 South Andover.