He was a greasy old man who’d run a pawnshop on South Broadway for years. The place had the usual assortment of pawnshop items, but I’d never known Gresham to deal in artwork of any kind. That didn’t mean that Gresham wasn’t buying and selling artwork behind the scenes, because it wasn’t a secret among law enforcement – and private dicks like myself – that Gresham was a fence for stolen goods. He was careful about it all, so he’d never taken the rap for it, but his hands were dirty. I was sweating by the time I got to my car. I rolled down the window as I drove south out of downtown, but the dry air that swept into the car did little to cool me off. Traffic was light on Broadway, and I soon arrived at a small red-brick building on the west side of the street. The front of the store was all windows, and through the glass I could see all sorts of things displayed: musical instruments, tools, books, shoes, and boots, among other things. The sign above the door read “Money To Loan”
