by Blake Crouch
Luther wondered what was going on there, but then he found himself staring at the woman’s tits. She noticed, and winked at him. “See you at the range, cowboy. Nine P.M.”
“Later, Luther,” Charles said, walking off with Alex, his hand in the back pocket of her skin-tight jeans.
Never in all his life had it occurred to Luther that there might be a woman like that walking the earth. He couldn’t comprehend it.
He stuck his hand in his pocket, adjusting himself, and realized he suddenly had to piss. Really, really bad.
On his way toward the exit, Luther approached a trio of pudgy rednecks in camouflage who were loitering at a table of crossbows, pretending to shoot imaginary deer.
Was that?…no…couldn’t be…they’d actually sewn name tags into their jackets.
One of them turned as Luther passed by.
“Look at that tall, pretty, black-haired girlie.”
Luther stopped and looked at the man.
Name tag read Munchel.
Luther stared him down. Why did people always fuck with him in crowds or behind the wheels of their cars? Never in dark alleys. Never when he could actually do something about it.
Munchel could only stand about five seconds of Luther’s black-eyed stare, because he turned away, gave a little laugh Luther saw straight through, and said to his two buddies, “Look at this faggot.”
This wasn’t the time, or the place, for a fight. Too many witnesses. Worse, half the people here were armed.
Still, he couldn’t let this asshole go scot-free. Luther took two quick steps toward Munchel, as if in a hurry to get by, and stuck out an elbow that lovingly connected with the idiot’s nose.
He muttered, “Scuze me,” as he stepped past, confident he’d broken it, the rusty smell of a nosebleed in the air.
Jack
Clay actually offered me his arm, which was a cute bit of chivalry that I hadn’t seen in quite a while. I took it, and had to smile when he started flexing his biceps to let me know how big his muscles were.
We made our way across the showroom floor, Clay stopping occasionally to ogle some unique piece of hardware. Just as we were exiting the tent, I ran into a familiar face.
He hadn’t aged a bit since I’d last seen him, still looking like a smaller, blond version of Schwarzenegger. Which is to say his shoulders were almost as wide as he was tall. He wore chinos, gym shoes, and a grey shirt that stretched tightly over his broad chest. When he spotted me, his eyes registered the faintest glint of amusement.
“Hello, Jack,” he said. “You’re looking well.”
Under his arm was a wooden box, which I had to assume contained a firearm or two.
“Hello, Tequila. This is Clay. Clay, this is Tequila.”
Clay offered his hand, grinning big. “Tequila and Jack Daniels? It’s enough to drive a man to drink.”
Tequila took the hand, and I watched, amused, as they played the macho game of who could grip the other guy harder. Though Clay had at least six inches on Tequila, he gave up first.
“You here on business?” I asked my old acquaintance. Some time ago, Tequila worked for some pretty unsavory characters.
“Are you?” he shot back.
“We’re headed for the range,” Clay said, wiggling his fingers, probably trying to get the circulation back. “You’re welcome to join us if you and Jack would like to catch up.”
Tequila stared blankly for a moment, then nodded. “Sure. Thanks.”
The three of us crossed the parking lot, heading over to the gun shop. I heard gunfire beyond the far wall, where the range must be. Clay led us up to the counter, where an unshaven, worried-looking fellow was mopping at his sweaty forehead with his flannel sleeve. Under that, he wore a humorous tee-shirt, which also appeared soaked with sweat.
“Porter, my good man,” Clay said. “We need a range.”
“Oh, hey, Clay. I was gonna close up in ten minutes.”
“Ten is all we need.” Clay tossed a bill on the counter. “Give us headgear and a fistful of silhouettes. The lady here needs a box of Sigs, three-five-seven. I need four-five-fours for my Casull. And whatever the man here needs.”
“Forty-five ACP,” Tequila said.
Porter nodded, taking the money and scurrying off.
“So, how do you two know each other?” Clay asked. He had an easy-going, country-boy vibe about him that made me feel at ease. I wondered if he was a good cop, and figured that anyone with that much confidence either had to be very good, or very deluded.
“We shot together before,” Tequila said.
“Competitively?”
“You could say that,” I answered.
“So, you’re a markswoman?” Clay lifted his eyebrows. “I’ve done a bit of competition shooting myself. Maybe we should have ourselves a little wager.”
“What have you got in mind?”
He grinned. “Hundred bucks?”
Tequila said, “I’m in.”
I knew Tequila was good. I could also assume Clay was good. But I was good, too, and had a closet full of trophies to prove it. Though I liked my chances, I didn’t happen to have a hundred dollars on me.
“That’s a bit steep for my public servant salary,” I said.
“Fair enough. How about if you lose, you kiss the winner?”
Tequila said, “I’m in.”
The two of them stared at me like they were lions and I was a zebra with a broken leg.
I didn’t mind it in the least. I just hoped I didn’t get pregnant from all the free-range testosterone floating around.
“You’re on,” I said. “But this is a new gun for me. I get to practice first.”
Porter came back with three boxes of ammo, three pairs of noise-dampening ear muffs, and the paper targets. We followed Clay through a door, and the shooting sound increased tenfold. I put on my headgear, muffling the noise, and we found our way over to the only open lane.
Clay attached a paper target to the pulley system and pressed a button to send it downrange. They were the standard police silhouettes, five points for the head and chest, four for the collarbones and wrists, three for the upper thighs, two for the arms and stomach.
“Twenty-five?” Clay yelled at me, barely audible.
I shook my head, said, “Fifty.”
Then I loaded a clip, popped it into the weapon, and jacked a round into the chamber. The P2000 had a slightly larger grip than my Colt, but it was comfortable. I slipped my index finger inside the trigger guard, stood in front of the booth counter, and aimed fifty yards downrange. I used a two-handed grip known as the Weaver stance, feet spread apart, knees slightly bent, my left hand supporting my right.
The HK was a traditional double action trigger pull, which meant it also functioned as a single action. I cocked the hammer, and let out a slow breath. Then I began to fire, emptying the gun, getting used to the action and recoil, adjusting when needed.
I heard Clay whistle, and I didn’t have to look at the target to know I’d fired all nine rounds straight through the target man’s heart.
“I guess I don’t need to practice,” I said, letting him have his turn.
Clay took down the target and handed it to me.
“Nice grouping,” Tequila said.
My shots had been so close together they’d made one big hole in the center mass. I shrugged and reloaded.
Clay and Alice fared well. He couldn’t fire as fast as I did, because the recoil from the Casull was so huge it made his shoulders shake. He put three in the head, three in the heart, then gave Tequila a turn.
Tequila was packing two nickel-plated .45s. I didn’t recognize the manufacturer, and Clay asked to see one.
“Custom?” he asked.
Tequila nodded, sending his target downrange. Clay handed him back the weapon, butt first, and Tequila held a gun in each hand, keeping them at his sides. In a quick blur, he raised the weapons like an old west gunslinger and emptied both into the silhouette.
Clay
and I sighted the target, and I saw that Tequila had completely outlined the silhouette’s head with bullet holes, cutting it across the neck. When he pressed the button to bring the paper back, the target’s head fell out, leaving a head-shaped hole.
“Fuck me,” Clay said.
There was a crackling sound, then a voice came on over the house speakers. “We’re closed. Please pack up and leave your lane.”
“I think I’d call this one a draw,” I said, taking off my head gear and giving my hair a shake.
Clay pouted. “No kiss?”
“You guys can kiss each other, if you like,” I said.
Tequila collected his brass and placed the empties in his pockets—something that gave the cop in me pause. As we filed out of the range, Clay asked, “You guys up for a drink? On me.”
I glanced at Tequila. He shrugged, then nodded.
“You’re on,” I said. “But only if I get the second round.”
Luther
Over at the Porta-Johns, it looked like the lines at fucking Disney World, but across the parking lot, there was a guns and ammo store. Could be a bathroom there. He’d murder someone to use it if need be.
Hell, he might murder someone either way.
Luther started across the parking lot. There must be a thousand people here at least. He’d had to park his white van almost a quarter mile away in the third overflow lot. He was hungry, too, stomach rumbling. Hadn’t eaten anything but half a bag of Lemonheads since the morning, and the smell of fresh jerky at a smaller tent outside the larger one was calling to him. Unfortunately, the line to jerky looked more daunting than the lines to the shitters.
Luther stepped out of the cold, falling sun and into Porter’s Guns and Ammo. He didn’t spend much time in gun shops, knives being much more his style, but he did love the smell of well-oiled firearms mixed with the faint bite of gun powder. Got off on it the same way he got off on the down-and-dirty smell of gasoline.
The place wasn’t as crowded as he’d feared. Only a handful of customers browsing the racks of rifles and shotguns, and up at the counter, the owner of the store—a slight man with a faint mustache and large, silver-frame glasses—was trying to sell a revolver to a biker chick wearing a Toby Keith shirt, the words, “We’ll put a boot in your ass…it’s the American way” screen-printed across the back.
Somewhere deep in the building, Luther could swear he heard the muffled pops of gunfire. Then his eyes fell upon a large poster behind the counter.
“PORTER’S FOUR COMMANDMENTS OF SAFETY AT THE RANGE”
1. Treat ALL GUNS as if they are ALWAYS LOADED.
Yawn. Luther quit reading after the first “commandment.” He strolled over toward a break in the counter that lead to a metal door.
“Does this access the range?” Luther asked.
Porter glanced over. “Yeah, but we’re closed.”
“I need to pee.”
“Well, we got about a thousand Porta-Johns out—”
“The lines are too long.”
“Didn’t you see the sign on the front door?”
Luther shook his head.
“Restrooms are only for paying customers.”
Luther reached into his pocket, pulled out his wallet, slapped a ten-dollar bill on the glass.
“Where’s the bathroom?”
Porter reached under the counter, and must have pressed a button because the door buzzed and made a clicking noise.
“Go on. Take your first right, second door on your left.”
Luther passed through to the other side of the counter and pulled open the metal door.
The gunfire instantly louder.
He moved down a narrow hallway whose walls were covered in posters, the vast majority featuring bikinied hotties holding giant automatic weapons.
The smell of gun powder getting more potent.
He took his first right as directed and dug his shoulder into the second door on his left.
Into the bathroom.
Single stall against the back wall.
Two urinals.
Shit.
One of them was occupied by some Hispanic guy in a designer leather jacket. Longish black hair greased stylishly back. Luther caught a trace of his cologne, which smelled exotic and very expensive.
Luther sidled up to the open urinal and unzipped his fly.
Oh sweet Lord.
Seemed like he peed for twenty minutes.
He glanced over at the man standing next to him, caught his eyes for just a moment, had been anticipating black or deep brown, but they were this clear and perfect blue, like one of those high mountain lakes turned turquoise by glacial silt.
He looked away, back down at the red urinal cake which smelled more like cherries the harder he pissed on it.
“Is there a problem, perra?”
Luther looked back at the man.
“What are you talking about?”
“I didn’t care for the way you just looked at me. You insulted me with your eyes.”
Luther smiled. “I just looked at you. Curiosity. No insult. Paranoid much?”
The man narrowed his eyes, muttered under his breath, “Yo cago en la leche de tu puta madre.”
Luther didn’t speak more than a few words of Spanish, but he felt pretty confident the man had just said something highly offensive.
“I don’t speak Spanish, amigo,” Luther said. “If you want to insult me, try some English.”
“So you’d like me to translate?”
“Please.”
“I said I shit in your whore mother’s milk.”
The Harpys Luther had purchased were still in their cases in the plastic bag at his feet. In addition to the fact that his dick was hanging out, something told him a sudden reach for the bag would not be the smart play. He had at least four inches on this Mexican psycho, but it was obvious that said Mexican psycho was in tremendous physical condition. This guy was clearly ready to go, and on top of that, there was an unnerving calmness coming over him. Like he was at home in such a situation as this.
It had been Luther’s experience that people who kept themselves calm in confrontations generally fucked other people up. Badly. He needed to diffuse the tension, and then track this man down unsuspecting. It wouldn’t be ideal, but he could certainly murder him in the back of his van. Try out that procedure he’d been dreaming about lately where he crippled the vocal cords so the victim couldn’t scream. Ball-gags worked fine, but it was kind of like fucking with a condom. Sensation muted. He’d love to see the mouth wide open, trying to scream through the mind-destroying pain.
So Luther did something he rarely ever did.
He smiled.
“I didn’t mean to insult you,” Luther said.
“Is that right? Maybe you don’t like a fucking spic taking a piss next to you like the rest of these hillbillies?”
Luther shook off, zipped up. “I’m sorry, I’m just…I’m a little angry at the moment. These army wannabes were hassling me over my hair, and I kind of lost it.”
The man’s face released just a bit of its hard edge.
“Were they wearing camouflage, with—”
“Name tags.”
Now the Mexican psycho smiled. Beautiful set of perfect white teeth. “I ran into those gentlemen myself just a little while ago. Gave a man named Swanson’s shoulder a hard bump.”
Luther said, “I took it a bit further.”
The man raised an eyebrow.
“I broke his nose,” Luther said.
Here came a big, broad smile. “No shit?”
Luther mimicked the elbow he’d thrown ten minutes ago.
“Blood?” the man asked.
“I think it was a gusher. Of course, I didn’t stick around to watch.”
“I hear you. Situation like that, keep your head down and get the fuck out.”
The man zipped up and studied Luther across the divider between their urinals.
“I’m sorry I snapped at you.”
The man stepped out from behind the urinal and walked to the sink. He turned on the hot water tap and pressed a few squirts of soap into his hands, took his time cleaning them.