A tiger, an alligator, and a redneck walked into my pawnshop.
I sighed when I realized my life had devolved into the opening line of a tired joke, but I was awfully glad to see the tiger. Maybe now we could finally get things straightened out.
And to be fair, the alligator didn’t exactly walk, so much as it rolled in on a cart. It had been the unfortunate victim of some really bad taxidermy, and stared out at the world from two mismatched eyes, its mouth open in a half-hearted attempt at ferocity or, more likely, indignation about the sparkly pink scarf wrapped around its neck. It had been wearing a blue plaid scarf the last time I’d seen it. Apparently even stuffed alligators had better wardrobes than I did.
The redneck, lean and wiry in a desert-camo t-shirt and baggy khaki pants, shuffled in sort of sideways, pushing the rolling cart and casting frequent wary glances back over his shoulder at the tiger.
Jack Shepherd was the tiger, and he had nothing at all to do with the redneck or the alligator. The pawnshop, however, was a different story. The pawnshop, according to the will my late boss—Jack’s uncle Jeremiah—had left in the top drawer of his ancient desk, now belonged to Jack.
At least, fifty percent of it did. The other half was mine. I was still trying not to feel guilty about that.