Shot Girl

by J. A. Konrath

  The next vendor sold flintlock pistols. No interest.

  The next, shotguns and hunting rifles. No interest.

  The next, revolvers. I reached for a nickel-plated revolver that was almost as big as a rifle, and the vendor barked @ me. “Hey!”

  I froze.

  He jerked a thumb over his shoulder, @ a sign stuck to a wire cubby. ASK BEFORE TOUCHING.

  “Can I pick this up?”

  He nodded.

  Like the AR-15, this had a zip tie around the trigger, going up over the hammer. I grabbed the gun, shocked by how much it weighed.

  #HoldingBricks.

  “That’s Dirty Harry’s gun,” the vendor said.

  “Who?”

  “Movie. Before your time.”

  The gun was too big, too unwieldy, too heavy. Shooting it would hurt like crazy. I set it down and moved along.

  One row over, I heard a few men in a heated discussion, and I got in closer bcuz it sounded interesting and familiar.

  “Iver Johnson Cadet 55-A,” said one guy with a big belly.

  “Caliber?” asked a guy in a red flannel shirt.

  “Twenty-two,” answered the man, wearing a baseball cap. “Sirhan Sirhan. RIP, RFK.”

  Big Belly said, “Okay, his brother.”

  Flannel Shirt answered, “Too easy. Carcano Model 91/38, courtesy of Lee Harvey Oswald.”

  Baseball Cap snorted. “Only the most famous assassination in history. Give us a harder one.”

  “Martin Luther King,” said Big Belly.

  “Remington 760 Gamemaster, wielded by James Earl Ray,” answered Baseball Cap. “I said a hard one.”

  “John Lennon.”

  “Charter Arms .38 Special, Mark David Chapman.”

  “Gandhi.”

  “Father or daughter?”

  “Father.”

  “Beretta .380 ACP.”

  “Okay, who did it?”

  All three remained silent.

  “Nathuram Vinayak Godse,” I said. I must not have said it loud enough, bcuz they looked @ me but didn’t acknowledge I was right.

  “Okay, easier one,” said Flannel Shirt. “Garfield.”

  “Who? The cartoon cat?”

  “James Garfield, you dumbass. The 20th President of these United States of America.”

  Big Belly and Baseball Cap didn’t answer.

  “British Bulldog,” I said, louder this time. “Forty-four caliber.”

  The three men looked @ me again.

  “Nice one, kid,” said Flannel Shirt. “Who killed him?”

  “Charles J. Guiteau.”

  The three men began to laugh. I didn’t understand why.

  “It was Guiteau,” I insisted. “July 2, 1881. Garfield took two months to die.”

  Flannel Shirt leaned closer to me. “Okay, smarty pants. Yitzhak Rabin.”

  “The Prime Minister of Israel, shot on November 4, 1995, by Yigal Amir.”

  “Weapon?”

  I went through the files in my head and found the right one. “A Beretta 84F.”

  Big Belly and Baseball Cap hooted. Flannel Shirt checked his phone. “Goddamn, that’s right. Kid is some kind of goddamn savant.”

  “Is that the blinking thing? Some kind of autism?”

  “I got one for you,” I said. “Selena.”

  “Whozzat?”

  “Selena Quintanilla-Pérez. The Tejano singer.”

  Big Belly snapped his fingers. “I saw a movie on her. With J-Lo.”

  “Taurus Model 85,” I said. “Thirty-eight caliber. You guys just do assassinations, or do you also do active shooters?”

  Flannel Shirt squinted @ me. “What do you mean?”

  “Like the Crewmill Shooting in Mason, Montana, 2001. Seventeen dead. Can you name the rifle and shooter?”

  No one answered, so I said, “Britt Sigmundson. Used a Dawber Arms .30-06. Every kill a headshot. The lady had mad skillz. Women can kill, too. Just as well as men.”

  Big Belly took a step away from me.

  “Or how about William Phillip Martingale?” I asked. When no one answered, I continued. “Burger Barn shootings in Chicago, over a decade ago. Got eleven at the Burger Barn, and ten more at Thomas Jefferson Middle School. Used two Dilton 76ETX 9mm semiautomatics. The kids were all point blank range. Everything he aimed at, he hit. Cray cray.”

  Flannel Shirt said, “This conversation is over.”

  Whatevs. Couldn’t hang with the big dawg so he dipped. “Are you a private seller, or do you have an FFL?”

  I knew I’d pass a background check bcuz I had no background @ all, but I really didn’t want a seller to take down any of my info or put me into the National Instant Criminal Background Check System. Shit like that could be brought up later.

  “I’m private,” he said.

  “Can I see that Gen 4 Glock 21 you have in the case?”

  “Not interested. Move along.”

  “I have cash.”

  “What part of move along don’t you understand, kid?”

  WTF was this d-bag’s prob? Wasn’t he here to sell guns? Big Belly and Baseball Cap stared off into the crowd like life wasn’t happening right in front of them.

  Griefers.

  #NoClue.

  #KillEmAll.

  I left the booth, moving along to the next one. Took me a few minutes, but I found another guy selling Glocks.

  “FFL or private?” I asked.

  “FFL. You even eighteen?”

  I searched for the next one. Found a lady with a whole display of semi-automatics. After confirming she was a private seller, I asked to see a Glock 19.

  “You here with your parents?”

  “I’m old enough.”

  “Can I see an ID?”

  I hesitated, then handed over my new Driver’s License. She studied it like she was preparing for an algebra test.

  “Guthrie, are you a convicted felon or is there any legal reason you can’t own a gun?”

  “Naw.”

  “Any history of mental illness? Depression? Anger issues? Schizophrenia? Do you take any medication?”

  Was she allowed to ask that? Bitch was looking @ me like she was my moms, all concerned and shit.

  “Do you take any medication?” I clapped back.

  She ignored my question. “Have you ever gone shooting?”

  “Plenty of times,” I lied.

  “Have you ever taken a gun safety class?”

  “Sure.”

  “Have you ever fired a Glock?”

  “Sure.” What’s with all the damn questions? Private sellers were supposed to be chill.

  “Where’s the safety switch on a Glock?”

  I pointed @ the weapon in the glass case. “On the other side. Near the top of the grip.” That’s where safety switches always were.

  The lady frowned. “Glocks don’t have a safety switch. They’ve got one in the trigger, and two internally. I don’t think you’ve ever fired a Glock. Or a gun. Or taken a safety class.”

  Whatevs. Plenty more vendors out there. I let her talk to the hand, and bailed, wading deeper into gunland.

  “Hey, dude, you looking for Glocks?”

  I turned around, saw a guy talking to me. I’m not good with ages, but he didn’t have no grey hair, no wrinkles. He wore a hoodie with a college logo on it, but it looked wrong on him. Like a costume.

  “You selling Glocks? Got an FFL?”

  “I’m private. You into polymer frames?”

  “Sure.”

  “Ever hear of MGC?”

  “Merican Gun Company,” I answered. “Established 2004. Manufactured in Montana. Frames are made of composite carbon fibers.”

  He smiled wide. “How’d you know that?”

  “I know a lot about guns.” Except that Glock safety thing.

  #MyBad.

  “Dude, you are on brand.”

  I got the same funny vibe from this cat as I did from my landlord.

  #StrangerDanger.

  “It’s O
K.” He winked. “I’m cool. I heard you talking at that woman’s table. What a bitch, huh?”

  “She’s here to sell guns, wouldn’t even show me one.”

  “I know, total bitch. Hey, you want to check out some Mericans? I got a few models. Brand new.”

  “Where’s your booth?”

  “No booth. Didn’t want to pop for it. I sell my firearms so cheap, I can’t afford overhead. Know what I mean?”

  I nodded, even though I didn’t know what he meant.

  “What kind of Mericans you selling?”

  “Got all four models. Nine mil. Forty-five. Forty. Three-eighty.”

  “Extended magazines?”

  “Dude, you really know your guns. How old are you?”

  “Eighteen.” I added, “I just got my South Carolina driver’s license.”

  “Good for you, dude. You in high school? Where do you go?”

  I wasn’t sure what that had to do with anything, so I wasn’t sure how to answer.

  “Hey, dude. I get it. Not my business. I hated school. Couldn’t wait to get the hell out of there. Wished I could blow it up, you know? Anyway, it’s good to meet you.”

  He stuck out his hand. I took it, squeezing hard, like one of my old therapists taught me. Strong handshake, eye-contact, don’t look away bcuz then people don’t trust you.

  But I did look away. Dude’s hand felt funny, and I stared @ it.

  He laughed and held up his hand. Bruh wore a bunch of gold rings. Like ten of them, on all four fingers. “Like my bling, dude?”

  I squinted @ them, seeing each one had letters and a logo on it. “MGC?”

  “Yeah. Merican gives them to their top sales people. Eighteen karat gold. Cool, huh?”

  “You work for Merican? I thought you were private.”

  His smile faded, just a little. “I’m like a special salesman. Usually I deal with gun shops and sporting goods stores. Big accounts, y’know? Where they order hundreds at a time. But I sometimes sell from my personal collection. It’s totally legit.”

  I didn’t care if it was legit or not, as long as I didn’t get in trouble. “It’s cool.”

  “So you want to take a look? Got them in the trunk.”

  “Yeah,” I said. “Show me what you got.”

  “I’ve got an idea; how about you don’t blame all gun owners for the actions of a few?”

  JEANINE PIRRO

  “Ending gun violence isn’t political. This is personal.”

  JOE KENNEDY III

  JACK

  So, Mrs. Shadid survived an active shooting.

  No wonder she protested my safety classes. In my experience, people whose lives were personally affected by firearms went two ways. They armed themselves, or they became anti-gun advocates.

  I understood, and sympathized, with both mindsets.

  The Rockport Islamic Center shooting took the lives of eighteen people, and it made headlines long after the bodies had been buried. The survivors filed a class action suit against the manufacturer of the semi-automatic rifle used in the massacre. It was the first of its kind, and kickstarted modern public awareness of gun issues.

  I reached out and put my hand on hers. “I’m so sorry.”

  Mrs. Shadid pulled away. “I don’t want to talk about that. Let’s stick to the debate. What about smart guns?”

  Mrs. Shadid was referring to the fingerprint ID technology where the firearm could only be used by the owner.

  “I’m all for smart guns. But I will tell you, my life has been saved by people who have used a gun that wasn’t their own. I think smart guns are a good way to reduce gun trafficking and sales and accidents, but I don’t think they’ll solve the bigger problem.”

  “You gun people always do that.”

  I glanced at the suspicious teen in the leather jacket. He still fiddled with whatever he had in his pocket.

  “Do what?”

  “You say a minor improvement won’t solve everything, so why even bother?”

  I gave her my attention again. “I can point to dozens of minor improvements over the years. The Gun Control Act regulated interstate commerce. The Undetectable Firearms Act criminalized firearms that don’t have a detectable amount of metal in them, so we don’t have guns that bypass metal detectors. The Gun-Free School Zones Act, self-explanatory. The Brady Act, requiring mandatory background checks. The Federal Assault Weapons Ban. All are improvements. The question remains; have these improvements made the USA safer?”

  “Of course you don’t think they have, because you’re against gun control.”

  I held up my palms. “Whoa, there. I’m all for gun control.”

  Mrs. Shadid squinted at me. “During your first class, you talked about the importance of the Second Amendment and how you fully support the right to bear arms.”

  “Sure. And the law supports it, too. That Amendment was incorporated in 2010, when the Supreme Court ruled to protect that right from the actions of state governments. It means state or local governments can’t ban guns. But the court also ruled that the right to bear arms is not unlimited and can be regulated. There are hundreds of federal and state laws that regulate firearm sales, types, modifications, and locations they can be carried.”

  “And you’re for regulation?”

  I nodded. “Anyone with any common sense doesn’t want guns anywhere near schools. Or on airplanes. To paraphrase Ronald Reagan, there is no reason to own a fully automatic AK47 for self-defense, or for sport.”

  The teenager had moved to a spot closer to the register, which he kept staring at. His hand still in his pocket. My threat level remained at yellow, but the yellow kept getting brighter.

  “I thought one of the points of the Second Amendment was so citizens could protect themselves from the tyranny of their own government. And to form a militia.”

  This lady had really done her research.

  “That was probably one of the original points.” I shrugged. “Or maybe it was the main point. But this is far beyond the government forcing you to house soldiers in their standing army to fight foreign invaders, or restricting your guns so it can implement a totalitarian regime. Those things have happened in history, but they are unlikely to happen anytime soon in the United States. If they did, the Second Amendment isn’t going to protect us. When the Constitution was written, black powder muskets took fifteen seconds to load and fire a single shot. These days, the government has tanks. They have drones. They have MOABs, and long-range hypersonic missiles, and LRAD sound cannons, and smallpox in a freezer. If our government really wanted to turn on its citizens, do you think anyone could hold off the full force of our military with a stockpile of handguns and rifles? Ten million people armed with revolvers can’t beat radiation poisoning from a dirty bomb, or weaponized anthrax, or an airstrike from an F-16.”

  I sipped my coffee. Mrs. Shadid added more artificial cream to hers. A small lizard scurried up the trunk of the palm tree, disappearing into the fronds. The teen pulled his hand out of his pocket in a quick motion, and I tensed up—

  —and saw he held a smart phone. He began to Facetime someone.

  My threat meter dropped back to green.

  “You brought up dirty bombs, so what about those? If you’re comfortable with citizens owning firearms, why stop at guns? Why not let everyone have a nuke?”

  I’d heard this argument many times. “First of all, that’s just a thought experiment. It’s not ever going to be a reality. Second, I’m all for laws that regulate weapons. I don’t feel that violates any rights. Citizens shouldn’t have dirty bombs. No one should.”

  “So why do the gun lobbies and organizations want to destroy all gun laws?”

  A good question, but one I’d also heard. “It might seem that way, but I don’t think they do. Does the majority of our populace really want armor piercing bullets that can punch through body armor? Or the ability to carry a fully automatic rifle with a fifty-round magazine on the train to work? Or for a convicted felon with a histo
ry of violence and mental illness to walk into a convenience store and five minutes later walk out with a 9mm? Of course not. But those gun groups have to take a hard stance and defend everything, because losing on any issue is a slippery slope.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “The Gun-Free School Zones Act is a good idea. But some were against it. Gun groups worry that if guns are banned from one place, other places will follow. We can all agree on no guns in schools, or near schools. But what’s next? No guns in any public places where children are present? No guns in your vehicle on public roads that go past schools? No guns in your house if you have kids? Is it plausible that we can go from gun-free school zones to gun-free neighborhoods?”

  “No. That’s a big jump.”

  “It’s not. Chicago did it. A handgun ban in the 1980s, eventually overturned in the courts. Just last year they had a ban on any firearm within 1000 feet of any public park. Also overturned in the courts. There’s a federal ban on assault weapons, and that one hasn’t been overturned. Each state has its own laws on open and concealed carry, and they’re all different, and they don’t transfer from state to state.”

  “I don’t think I’m following your point.”

  “My point is that gun rights are restricted all the time. Gun advocate groups feel like they have to fight for armor-piercing pistol ammunition because they fear that all ammunition will be banned. Slippery slope, and there’s a lot of precedent to support it. You fight for something you know you won’t ever get, so you can keep the thing you really want during the negotiation process.”

  Mrs. Shadid frowned. “But this is about more than just the type of weapons that are allowed. It’s also about who is allowed to buy weapons.”

  “The Brady Act requires background checks for mental illness and criminal records.”

  “Do you agree with that?”

  “Yes.”

  “So why would gun lobbies fight that?”

  “Same slippery slope argument. What happens if a guy with a cluster headache goes on a killing spree? Can the Brady Act be amended to ban anyone with a headache from buying a firearm? What about veterans with PTSD? Can we tell those who have served our country, using firearms to do so, that they aren’t allowed to have firearms as civilians because their service compromised their mental health?”