by Blake Crouch
Except it wasn’t manned by the cute guy from last year. It was manned by another cute guy, several years my junior.
And by “several years” I meant “at least ten, maybe fifteen.” But he had a strong chin, the rugged good looks of a cigarette model, and kind eyes. He also wore a uniform with a patch across the heart in the shape of a badge. It read, “DEPUTY OF THE SHERIFF’S OFFICE – LA PLATA COUNTY, COLORADO.”
He was in discussion with another cop, a portly Sheriff in green khakis with a tan shirt. Name badge read D. EISENHOWER. This man was bald, and had a round, doughy face.
“I’ve never been asked that before,” said the cute guy. “All rounds fired at a human being are going to cause some bleeding. I don’t know which ones would cause the least amount.”
“I’d go with a steel jacket, use fewer grains for a lower velocity,” I chimed in. “The round exits the body with minimal target damage, minimal expansion.”
They both looked my way.
The cute one had no name tag.
“The lady is right,” he said, giving me a fast wink. “We don’t carry anything like that, but if you load your own, I could set you up with some equipment.”
D. Eisenhower grunted, hitched up his pants, and walked off without another word.
“Odd fella. More than a passing resemblance to that Pillsbury mascot.”
“I’m looking for Chester,” I said.
“Chester’s not here today. I’m his little brother, Clayton. Call me Clay.”
He didn’t offer his hand, but his smile was inviting, and he leaned over the table just a bit to get closer.
“Hi, Clay. I’m looking for an HK P2000.”
“Replacement carry, Detective?”
“Lieutenant,” I corrected. “Yes. My team is giving me shit for my current carry.”
“And what would that be?”
“Detective Special.”
He nodded. “Colt. A classic. May I see it?”
I tugged the revolver out of my shoulder holster. Clay had correctly deduced I was a cop because we were the only ones allowed to carry concealed. Since I was in plainclothes, he had incorrectly assumed I was a detective. But then, I could forgive the assumption—I liked to think I looked too young to be a Lieutenant. I released the cylinder, spilled the bullets into my hand, and gave him the weapon.
His eyes narrowed with focus as he studied it.
“I see a lot of use, but this is in great shape. I like a woman who takes care of her weapon.”
“I admire the same thing in a man,” I said.
“Nice butt.”
“Thanks. I work out.”
His smile widened. “I meant the grip. Older guns, the wood sometimes cracks. You looking to sell this? I’d make you a good deal.”
“No, thanks. Do you have the P2000?”
“Sure do.”
He handed my gun back, and while I reloaded and holstered it, he ducked under his table and took out a metal gun box. When he flipped open the top, I was staring down at an HK with a spare clip, each nestled in foam.
Clay removed it, did a customary check of the slide to confirm it was empty, and handed it over. “Chambered for .357 Sig rounds.”
I noticed a thin sheen of oil on the piece. “Brand new?”
“A virgin,” he said.
“I like mine with a little experience.”
“We could work something out. My other brother, Remy, is taking over in a few minutes. If you’d like, we can go to the range at Porter’s next door. Try before you buy.” His eyes flicked down to my hands. Checking for a wedding ring, maybe?
“That would be great, Clay. Thanks.”
“I didn’t get your name, Lieutenant…?”
“Daniels. Jack Daniels. Call me Jack.”
His eyes lit up. “Your reputation precedes you, Jack. Even as far west as Colorado. I watched that TV show based on you. You’re much better looking than that chubby actress, if I may say so.”
“You may. And you just did.”
It felt good to flirt with a cute guy, especially since my current romantic interest had been treating me so icily I could see his breath when he spoke.
“Here comes my bro, Remy. Remington, this is Jack Daniels.”
Remy nodded at me. He looked even younger than Clay, though not nearly as cute.
“Chester, Clayton, and Remington?” I said.
“Dad said he wanted a ton of kids,” Remy said, shrugging.
“Remy, I’m going to take Jack and Alice to the range, see if she’s interested in buying our P2000.”
“Alice?” I asked.
Clay smiled, and from under the table removed the biggest revolver I’d ever seen. It was nickel-plated and had RAGING BULL engraved on the barrel.
“This is Alice. A Taurus .454 Casull.” He beamed like he was watching his son score a winning touchdown.
“You named your gun Alice?” I asked.
“Sure,” he said, putting his hand on the table and vaulting over it. “Haven’t you named your Colt?”
“No.”
“Well, let’s see how she fires,” Clay said, winking and cocking out his arm for me to take. “Maybe we’ll think of something.”
Mr. K
The man known in law enforcement circles as Mr. K walked past the attractive woman and the cop she was flirting with, and approached a booth occupied by Morrell’s Edges. Morrell was an older man, sturdy, his red cheeks separated by a black mustache, known to be one of the finest custom knife makers in the country, if not the world.
Mr. K had come to pick up a custom piece, something that he needed for his line of work. He made a living committing very bad deeds for very bad people for very good money. Often, those very bad things involved detail work.
Try cutting off someone’s eyelids with an over-the-counter pocket knife, for example. Or slicing off their fingernails with a serrated folder. Fulfilling special orders like that required a precision device, and Morrell was the man to see about such cutlery.
Already at the table stood a familiar, pudgy gentleman with distasteful armpit stains.
The pudgy man was arguing with Morrell.
“I’m telling you, it was a custom piece. I saw it maybe ten years ago. Guy said it came from you. Most beautiful knife I’d ever seen. Handle made of ivory. Long, heavy blade, also had some serration. Could shave the skin off a newborn child, if you know what I’m saying.”
“You’re welcome to look through my custom book, Mr. Donaldson.” Morrell indicated a cheap, bound photo album, full of his designs. “But ivory is illegal, and I don’t mess around with that.”
“I already looked through the book,” Donaldson said. “Wasn’t in there.”
“Then I’m afraid I can’t help you.”
Mr. K offered a pleasant, “Excuse me,” and then butted in front of the sweating fat man. “Mr. Morrell, you did a special order for me. Walnut handle, blade like an ice pick.”
“Indeed I did. I had one helluva time tempering the steel to make it strong enough to hold that edge, Mr…”
“I didn’t give you my name,” Mr. K said, offering a tight smile. “But I did pay you in advance, and I’d like my merchandise.”
Morrell nodded.
The fat man folded his arms. Scowling like a pouting child. He glanced over at Mr. K.
“Fancy seeing you here.”
“You as well,” replied Mr. K. “Staying out of trouble?”
“Hell, no. You?”
Mr. K shrugged. He remembered Donaldson from a short car ride they’d shared years ago. He had found the man to be unpleasant back then, and was in no mood to play where has all the time gone.
“Are these knives?” Mr. K and Donaldson turned to see a young girl, short and thin, with a stunningly-beautiful face. He would’ve placed her in her twenties, but her blond pigtails made her seem younger. So did her shoes, which were pink and appeared to be made out of foam.
“Yes, dear, this is a knife maker’s booth,” Mr. K said. “That’s an i
nteresting choice in footwear.”
“They’re called Crocs. They’re new. I got one of the first pairs.” She smiled sweetly at him. “Do you have a car? Because I’m looking to get over to Chicago, and I need a ride.”
“Sorry,” Mr. K said. Something about the girl struck him as odd, and he made it a habit never to give people rides. Not since picking up Donaldson, all those years ago.
“I’ve got a car,” Donaldson offered.
The girl dismissed him with a quick grimace. “I bet,” she said, and then walked away, lugging a guitar case with her.
Mr. K managed to hide his smile, and then Morrell reappeared with a chamois cloth. He set it on the table and carefully unwrapped it.
At first glance, the object appeared to be just a knife handle, sans blade. But a closer inspection revealed something that resembled an ice pick.
This was no ordinary ice pick, however. It was an ice pick that had been sharpened down to the width of a single sheet of paper.
“May I?” Mr. K asked.
“Please.”
He lifted it, feeling the weight, admiring the craftsmanship. On an angle, the blade glinted under the artificial tent lights. Straight on, the blade practically disappeared.
“It’s the sharpest thing I’ve ever made,” Morrell said, a hint of pride creeping into his voice. “You could cut the wings off a mosquito as it flew at you.”
“You do beautiful work,” breathed Mr. K.
“Be careful sharpening it. Only use a razor strop with the finest grit. If you take care of it, you should have years of use.”
“I intend to.”
“Can I see it?” Donaldson asked.
“Sorry, but I’m afraid I have to be going.” Mr. K carefully wrapped up the treasure, and slipped it into his inner blazer pocket. “Good to see you again, Donaldson.”
He walked away without getting a parting goodbye. Instead, the fat man began to cajole Morrell, demanding to get a knife like Mr. K had just picked up.
Mr. K hadn’t been lying. He did have someplace to be.
Porter’s Guns and Ammo.
One of the very bad people Mr. K worked for had asked him to pay Mr. Porter a visit to convince him to pay a marker. That wasn’t until tomorrow, though. But Mr. K wanted to be the first on the scene, because apparently his employer had also sent another man to talk to Porter.
Whoever got there first and put in the scare got the commission.
Normally, Mr. K avoided taking open contracts, because he disliked competition. But he’d been planning on coming to this show anyway to pick up the blade from Morrell, so this was a chance to get the knife for free.
He slipped through the crowd, humming tunelessly to himself, musing on what Mr. Dovolanni had said could be done to the mark.
“No permanent damage. We want him to pay up.”
Mr. K smiled, his lips tight, and wondered if filleting Porter’s penis counted as permanent.
Javier
The man browsing next to him at Table #137 handed six hundred-dollar bills to the gun dealer, who took the money, shook his hand, and said, “Kiernan it was great to meet you. You’re gonna love the Nineteen. Best all-around weapon Glock makes.”
“I can’t wait to shoot it.”
Jav studied Kiernan out of the corner of his eye, found it oddly amusing that with his black hair and strong, chiseled features, the man resembled a gringo version of himself.
The dealer slid the plastic gun case into a bag and handed it across the table.
“Hope to see you again.”
“You have a nice selection of Glocks,” Javier said to the dealer when Kiernan had left, running his finger over the surfaces of the pistols, each resting on a plastic case, a thin, metal cord running through all the trigger guards to prevent theft.
“It’s all I carry.”
Jav smiled. “It’s all I shoot.”
“Looking for anything in particular?”
“Yeah, but I’m not seeing it here. It’s the Glock 36. Slimline is the trademark I believe.”
The vendor smiled. He looked like the antithesis of every other dealer Javier had laid eyes on today. He was fit, or at least within a hundred pounds of his ideal body weight. No facial hair. And he wore a Spandex biking suit that had been autographed over the crotch by Lance Armstrong. He’d put an exclamation point on the ensemble with a handsome Swastika button pinned to his collar.
The vendor said, “Oh, a connoisseur. I don’t display everything.” He ducked down behind the table and reemerged again with another black, plastic case.
He opened it.
Jav looked in, smiled. Would’ve been like seeing his long lost friend, Emilio, again, if he hadn’t cut Emilio into four pieces and burned his traitorous ass into a pound of ash in a rusted-out oildrum. He’d mixed the ash into a gallon of lukewarm water and made Emilio’s widow drink it before he shot her between the eyes. “This…I’ve been looking for this.”
“Glock only started producing this model four years ago. It sold out early. Only one point one three inches in width. Secure grip design. Shoots a half dozen forty-five caliber ACP rounds.”
“You mean with the factory clip,” Javier said.
The vendor flashed an oblique grin. “Yes, a factory clip.”
“But you have non-factory clips.”
“I could probably scrounge one up.”
“May I?” Jav gestured to the firearm.
The spandexed bicycle-Nazi-gun freak said, “By all means.”
It took Javier approximately five seconds to field-strip the weapon. He checked the spring, sited down the barrel, and gave it a quick sniff for gun oil. Everything looked perfect.
Javier hadn’t heard the man move up behind him. Just sensed him and turned suddenly and there he was—good-looking black man, roughly his age, smiling at him through a pair of coffee-brown eyes.
“Well done, soldier.”
“What makes you think I’m a soldier?” Jav asked.
“Because it takes one to know one. Reassemble it.”
“Excuse me?”
“Put the Glock back together.”
“Why?”
“Because I can do it faster.”
Jav smiled, felt a spurt of adrenaline rush through him. This guy was pushing him into a game.
“You believe that you can beat five seconds.”
“Hell yes, son.”
“I’m not your son.”
“Relax, my man.”
Nothing made Javier more angry than being told to relax. Felt like a nuclear bomb detonating in the pit of his stomach, but all he did was flash a thousand-watt smile.
He took his time putting the pistol back together, and when it was reassembled, set it back on its plastic case.
His self-appointed opponent stepped up to the table and cut his eyes at the vendor. “You saw my man field-strip this motherfucker?”
“Yep.”
“You can judge if I beat his time.”
“I think so.”
The black man glanced at Javier. “Watch and learn, son. Count me down from five, Spandex.”
Javier registered a moment’s hesitation in the vendor, sensed that being told to do something by this young black man has stiffened his racist bristles.
But he started counting anyway.
“Five…four…three…”
The man cracked his neck and placed his hands palm down on the table.
“Two…one.”
Javier had seen fast hands during his stint with the Special Air Mobile Force Group, but nothing to rival this. It was a single, flawless movement, like choreography, and then the Glock 36 lay in four pieces—slide, recoil spring, barrel, and grip.
Javier couldn’t help shaking his head. “Damn.”
“Maybe three seconds?” the vendor said.
“Impressive,” Jav said. “You military?”
“Force Recon. Isaiah, by the way.” The man offered his hand and Jav shook it.
“Javier.”
>
Isaiah reassembled the firearm. “Maybe we’ll run into each other at the range some time. Have ourselves a little shootout.”
Javier said, “Competitive much?”
“I’m a Marine, what the fuck do you think?“
Isaiah slapped him on the shoulder, and when he was gone, Javier turned back to the vendor. “How much?” Javier asked.
“Six fifty.”
“That’s a bit more than retail, if I’m not mistaken.”
“Look, I don’t have to sell this gun. It sells itself. That’s the price.”
Jav ran a finger along the slide. “You have a suppressor to fit this pistol?”
“Suppressors are illegal in thirty-eight states. Which state are you from?”
“That’s not what I fucking asked you.”
“You know, you can make your own,” a deep voice said.
Jav turned to look at the man who had come up behind him, wondering what it was about gun shows that made complete strangers act like best buddies. This stranger was a white guy, tall motherfucker. Worst of all, he was wearing a police uniform.
Javier hated cops. They were down there with roaches and rats and needed to be exterminated. But at the same time, Jav knew how to play the game, act nice, pay them to look the other way.
But that didn’t mean he had to be buddy-buddy with them in public.
“I don’t recall inviting you into this conversation, officer.”
The large man smiled. Jav noticed the tag on his dress blues read FULLER.
“Just offering my two cents. A plastic pop bottle and some duct tape can do wonders for suppressing a pistol. Not as nice as a custom, but it works in a pinch.”
“I’ll keep that in mind.”
Javier gave the pig his back, but Officer Fuller didn’t take the hint. He leaned down close and whispered in Jav’s ear. “Look, I’m kind of hurting right now, if you know what I mean. Headache from motherfucking hell. Can you sell me something?”
Jav glanced back, his face screwed up in bewilderment. “Are you fucking with me?”
“I have money,” Fuller said. “I just need a little something to take the edge off.”
Javier considered gutting the pig right there. Then he looked around for cameras to see if this was some kind of Ashton Kutcher Punk’d bullshit. “I don’t know which should offend me more. That you think I’m stupid enough to sell drugs to a cop, or that you think just because I’m Hispanic, I must be carrying something.”