People around here don't seem to pawn clothes as often as they pawn guns, power tools, and Blu-rays of Click (2006), but you discover a small collection of decent clothes.
And an even smaller selection of really good clothes: nice men's suits that aren't too far out of fashion, from good brands. The Cucinelli is too big around the shoulders, but the Ring Jacket suit in medium gray fits so well you won't even need to get it tailored.
"You're a long way from anywhere nice enough to need that," Elena says. "That's why it's all only $450."
Unfortunately, you can't afford both it and a vehicle.
So is that a…what are they called, a Klingon knife?"
"A tajtIq? No," Elena says. Her pronunciation is flawless. "And you can't afford it. It's solid silver. For killing werewolves, I guess."
Her tone says she doesn't believe in werewolves. Christ, are there werewolves in Tucson? Maybe you should buy it…
"And I'm not selling it anyway because I think the guy who sold it might actually come back," she says. She unlocks the case and hands you the crooked silver blade. This has to be the one that Tremere was holding in the video.
Elena goes back to messing around on her phone.
Some pawnbrokers love to talk about acquisitions. They like implying that everything in their shop has a story and a mysterious heritage. But since Elena actually is involved in weird illegal shit, you know she's not going to talk unless you're careful.
So you take your time, asking first about different knives, then about occult paraphernalia. Elena takes you on a tour of her occult trinkets as you keep circling back to the silver knife.
"Do you remember who sold it?" you ask.
Her expression goes a little vague. You recognize that look: you can't be 100% sure, but you think someone messed with her memory. Now, the world is full of weird, dark shit, and who knows? Maybe witchcraft is real too. But you know plenty of vampires who can do that.
"What did they look like?" you ask. "Try to remember—did you see them in a mirror? Sometimes that helps."
Elena's eyes widen behind her railway shades and she gasps. "I—I did!"
"Someone you know?" you ask.
"No," she says, still piecing it together. "Chinese guy. Young. Like, my age. Blazer over a T-shirt like he was going to give a TED Talk. I…he sold it…shit, I can't remember much. I must've been tired."
There are a lot of Asian techbros in Tucson, but you feel an itch in the back of your mind, a growing confidence: it's Julian Sim. It has to be the Banu Haqim.
Elena shakes her head and says, "Not sure why I can't remember well." You can see her thinking, calculating. That might be bad. She might be trying to put the pieces together. You don't want to be a piece of whatever she's thinking about.