Saul Garelli owns a pawnshop.
Saul Garelli was short, balding and ropy like an acrobat, despite his worn face and weary eyes like an aging tortoise. He had a permanent scowl on his face, his mouth downturned and as sour as sluts. He sipped at a cup of coffee, cold, bitter and black. It was nasty cheap coffee, but Saul refused to pay for anything better. He could afford it. He just didn’t afford it.
He sat on the stool behind the counter most of the time, during the day, chained to this pawnshop like a convict on the side of the road. Saul Garelli’s bushy guido eyebrows raised when Avery flounced in as flamboyant as a stack of flamingos. Saul didn’t much like flamboyance. People should be cool, calm and collected, he thought.From Avery the Detective