"I'll tell you something," the man said. "I'd rather be judged by twelve than carried by six."
He carried the gun the whole weekend. It never left his pocket. He was at home much of the time, watching a ball game on television, catching up with his bookkeeping, but he left the house several times each day and always had the gun on his person.
He never drew it, but sometimes he would put his hand in his pocket and let his fingers curl around the butt of it. He found its presence increasingly reassuring. If anything happened, he was ready.
And he didn't have to worry about an accidental discharge. The chamber under the hammer was unloaded. He had worked all that out. If he dropped the gun, it wouldn't go off. But if he cocked it and worked the trigger, it would fire.
When he took his hand from his pocket and held it to his face, he could smell the odour of the gun on his fingers. He liked that.
By Monday morning, he had grown used to the gun. It seemed perfectly natural to carry it to the office.
On the way home, not that night but the following night, the same aggressive panhandler accosted him. His routine had not changed. "Come on," he said. "Gimme a dollar."
Elliott's hand was in his pocket, his fingers touching the cold metal.
"Not tonight," he said.
Maybe something showed in his eyes.
"Hey, that's cool," the panhandler said. "You have a good day just the same." And stepped out of his path.
A week or so after that, he was riding the subway, coming home late after dinner with married friends in Forest Hills. He had a paperback with him, but he couldn't concentrate on it, and he realised that the two young men across the car from him were looking him over, sizing him up. They were wearing untied basketball sneakers and warm-up jackets and looked street smart, and dangerous. He was wearing the suit he'd worn to the office and had a briefcase beside him; he looked prosperous and vulnerable.
The car was almost empty. There was a derelict sleeping a few yards away, a woman with a small child all the way down at the other end. One of the pair nudged the other, then turned his eyes toward Elliott again.
Elliott took the gun out of his pocket. He held it on his lap and let them see it, then put it back in his pocket.
The two of them got off at the next station, leaving Elliott to ride home alone.
When he got home, he took the gun from his pocket and set it on the night stand. (He no longer bothered tucking it in the drawer.) He went into the bathroom and looked at himself in the mirror.
"Fucking thing saved my life," he said.
One night, he took a woman friend to dinner. Afterward, they went back to her place and wound up in bed. At one point, she got up to use the bathroom, and while she was up, she hung up her own clothing and went to put his pants on a hanger.
"These weigh a ton," she said. "What have you got in here?"
"See for yourself," he said. "But be careful."
"My God. Is it loaded?"
"They're not much good if they're not."
"My God."
He told her how he'd bought it in Florida, how it had now become second nature for him to carry it. "I'd feel naked without it," he said.
"Aren't you afraid you'll get into trouble?"
"I look at it this way," he told her. "I'd rather be judged by twelve than carried by six."
One night, two men cut across the avenue toward him while he was walking home from his Friday card game. Without hesitation, he drew the gun.
"Whoa!" the nearer of the two sang out. "Hey, it's cool, man. Thought you were somebody else is all."
They veered off, gave him a wide berth.
Thought I was somebody else, he thought. Thought I was a victim, is what you thought.
There were stores around the city that sold police equipment. Books to study for the sergeant's exam. Copies of the latest revised penal code. A T-shirt that read, N.Y.P.D. HOMICIDE SQUAD. OUR DAY BEGINS WHEN YOUR DAY ENDS.
He stopped in and didn't buy anything, then returned for a kit to clean his gun. He hadn't fired it yet, except in Florida, but it seemed as though he ought to clean it from time to time, anyway. He took the kit home and unloaded the gun and cleaned it, working an oiled patch of cloth through the short barrel. When he was finished, he put everything away and reloaded the gun.
He liked the way it smelled, freshly cleaned with gun oil.
A week later, he returned and bought a bulletproof vest. They had two types, one significantly more expensive than the other. Both were made of Kevlar, whatever that was.
"Your more expensive one provides you with a little more protection," the proprietor explained. "Neither one's gonna stop a shot from an assault rifle. The real high-powered rounds, concrete don't stop `em. This here, though, it provides protection against a knife thrust. Neither one's a sure thing to stop a knife, but this here's reinforced."
He bought the better vest.
One night, lonely and sad, he unloaded the gun and put the barrel to his temple. His finger was inside the trigger guard, curled around the trigger.
You weren't supposed to dry-fire the gun. It was bad for the firing pin to squeeze off a shot when there was no cartridge in the chamber.
Quit fooling around, he told himself.
He cocked the gun, then took it away from his temple. He uncocked it, put the barrel in his mouth. That was how the cops did it when they couldn't take it anymore. Eating your gun, they called it.
He didn't like the taste, the metal, the gun oil. Liked the smell but not the taste.
He loaded the gun and quit fooling around.
A little later, he went out. It was late, but he didn't feel like sitting around the apartment, and he knew he wouldn't be able to sleep. He wore the Kevlar vest-he wore it all the time lately-and, of course, he had the gun in his pocket.
He walked around, with no destination in mind. He stopped for a beer but drank only a few sips of it, then headed out to the street again. The moon came into view, and he wasn't surprised to note that it was full.
He had his hand in his pocket, touching the gun. When he breathed deeply, he could feel the vest drawn around his chest. He liked the sensation.
When he reached the park, he hesitated. Years ago, back when the city was safe, you knew not to walk in the park at night. It was dangerous even then. It could hardly be otherwise now, when every neighbourhood was a jungle.
So? If anything happened, if anybody tried anything, he was ready.
Larry Block
Only recently has Larry Block been sufficiently praised for all the wonderful things he's done for the mystery novel.
Some prefer the Matt Scudder novels (dark) to the Bernie Rhodenbarrs (light), but most people are sensible enough to enjoy and admire them each in their way. He is the pro's pro, sleek, savvy, relentless, and always capable of startling you.
A serious look at Block's career, which began in the late fifties, also becomes a serious look at the crime field in general during that same amount of time. He has written spies, capers, private detectives, noirs, and espionage-changing with the times, but never being merely faddy. He has brought something new and engaging to every sub-genre he's worked in.
He also said the truest thing ever uttered about mystery novels, that there are two kinds-those with cats and those without.
The End
Blow for Freedom Page 2