by Blake Crouch
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.”
“Don’t worry about it,” Luther said.
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.
“I would shake your hand and introduce myself properly if you were to wash yours,” he said.
Luther wasn’t a handwasher. Never had been. He liked the idea of spreading his germs everywhere. Anytime he found himself in a public pool, he made sure to take a nice long piss.
Then, he offered the Mexican psycho his hand. “Luther. I don’t really do last names.”
The man shook his hand. “Javier. Me neither. What’s in the bag?”
“I bought a couple of Spyderco Harpys,” Luther said. “You score anything?”
“A man is boxing up a Glock 36, custom suppressor, and non-factory clip as we speak.”
“Is that the Slimline model?”
“Exactly.”
“I’ve wanted to try that one out. I’m more of a…” he remembered the words Alex had used, “a sharp-edged kind of guy. But I’m always on the lookout for compact firearms.”
“Makes it a little easier to get them in the car, no?”
Luther nodded and smiled, feeling a twinge of disappointment that he was starting to not want to torture and kill this man. He’d have thoroughly enjoyed cutting him apart in his van.
“Look,” Luther said, “I’m planning to meet some friends back here at the range around nine. Why don’t you come along? Try out your new piece?”
Javier said, “There’s something I need to check in on first, but yeah. I think that might be fun.”
Mr. K
He arrived at Porter’s Guns and Ammo just as it was closing, the last customers being ushered outside by Porter. Mr. K recognized him by the picture Dovolanni had provided, but if that wasn’t enough, Porter wore a tee-shirt that read Fuck Off, I Own a Gun Shop.
“We’re closed,” Porter mumbled, as he was digging out his keys to lock the door.
Mr. K approached, pressing a 9mm into Porter’s flabby side. “Mr. Dovolanni wants his money, Mr. Porter.”
The man’s reaction was priceless. His jaw, quite literally, dropped. Mr. K drank up the fear in his eyes. Unlike some of his peers, who derived a sadistic, sexual satisfaction from hurting others, Mr. K approached his work with a more detached, clinical attitude. But he did get a tiny, private thrill when he announced to the mark what was happening. That sudden deer-in-the-headlights look of horror, realization, and hopelessness never failed to buoy his spirits.
Next would come the promises, followed by the begging.
“I’ve got the money. I swear. I just gotta wait until the credit card companies deposit it into my account. I can write a check…”
“The agreement was for cash, Mr. Porter. Mr. Dovolanni doesn’t take checks. Let’s go inside and talk.”
Porter hesitated, obviously not wanting to be alone with Mr. K. And those were good instincts, because Mr. K was planning on hurting him.
“Please don’t hurt me.”
“Inside. Now.”
Porter fumbled his way inside, while Mr. K gave him a quick pat-down, removing a Glock from the man’s waistband.
“Do you have a burglar alarm?” Mr. K asked.
Porter nodded, eager to please.
“Disarm it. And use the real code, not the dummy code. I’ll know the difference.”
In fact, Mr. K would not know the difference. But Porter thinking he would was persuasion enough to follow orders. Mr. K clicked the deadbolt on the door, then ushered the frightened man over to the cash register. Next, inevitably, would come the bribe.
“Whatever he’s paying you, I’ll double it,” Porter said.
Mr. K’s lips twisted up in a small, private smile. “I don’t take checks either, Mr. Porter.”
“I have some cash. And guns. I’ve got plenty of guns, some of them are worth big money. I can make you a deal.”
Mr. K nodded, pretending to think it over. Then he lashed out, smacking Porter in the side of the head, the butt of his nine finding the sweet spot and sending the flabby man to the floor.
Javier
The light was fading, and the crowd dispersing, a cold, winter breeze pushing through his hair like the fingers of a corpse.
Javier walked out of the tent carrying the box that contained his new Glock, and still puzzling over Luther.
He didn’t quite know what to think of the man with long, black hair. He’d been ready to murder him in that bathroom, risks be damned. But once they’d started talking, he’d realized there was something wrong with the man. Something deeply disturbed in the best sense of the word.
He hadn’t looked into a pair of eyes like that in…well, since he’d shaved this morning.
It took him five minutes to reach the G35, which he’d left in the parking lot of a bank, and he was just a few steps from the car when he heard it.
Soft, but certainly audible, a knocking on the underside of the Infiniti’s trunk.
Fuck, fuck, fuck.
She’d woken up. What the hell? He’d given her a perfect dose of shit that had knocked her ass out, but even when she came back, she should’ve been so beautifully fucking loaded she couldn’t move. Hell, he wished someone would shoot him up with black tar of this quality. Lock him in a trunk. What a way to spend a day.
Ungrateful bitch.
He scanned his surroundings. A few gun show attendees on the sidewalk behind him, presumably making their way to their cars.
He’d gotten lucky no one had noticed.
There were only a half dozen vehicles parked in front of the bank, the closest to him being a Chevy Nova, which was unoccupied. It looked old as shit. What kind of a person would let themselves be seen behind the wheel of such a beater?
Javier clicked a button on the automatic lock and the trunk popped open just an inch.
Glancing over his shoulder to make sure he wasn’t being watched, he lifted the trunk and reached into his leather jacket.
The woman stared up at him, her eyes slits in the evening light. She groaned something incoherent through her gag.
“I know you want some more,” Jav said. “Daddy’s here.”
He unsheathed the syringe he’d already filled that morning. This was getting pricey. A fine puta like this was worth some major coin, but all businesses were about keeping expenses low and profits high. Keeping her high was eating up profits.
The woman groaned something that sounded like, “No.”
Javier lifted her arm and turned it over, squinting for a vein. “Don’t be an ungrateful bitch. You know you like it, baby. Women where I come from would blow fifty guys in a day to get a high like this.”
“Mmmph.” Then she moaned something that sounded like, “Go home.”
“This is home for you now, angel. No more work. No being tied down to some dickhead esposo. You’re living the life now, bitch. All you gotta do is make some nice babies. But I’m warning you, if you make any more noise—even the slightest little bird-peep—I’m gonna cut your eyes out. You don’t need eyes to get knocked up.”
He slipped the needle into a vein, depressed the plunger. Her cry drifted off into a euphoric moan.
“Yeah, now you’re coming baby, aren’t you? Feels so good, no? You got no care in this world. Now fucking callate la boca.”
Then he slammed the trunk shut and started back toward the gun shop.
Alex Kork
It was after nine P.M., and they were walking back across the street toward Porter’s Guns and Ammo, coming from a Waffle House where she and Charles had run into Luther.
Kite had moved over to their table and insisted everyone order the triple-scattered-all-the-way hashbrowns. Spent half the meal raving about how it was the best thing he’d put in his mouth, maybe ever. Alex, tired of hearing about fried potatoes, had stretched her right leg under the table and dug the steel toe of her cowboy boot into his crotch, given it a little wiggle, and told him he hadn’t tasted her yet.
That shut shy-boy down for a while.
Seemed to get under her brother’s skin, too.
Well, fuck him and what he thinks. Ever since Charles got married, Alex had been seeing less and less of him. They hadn’t killed anyone together in months. She actually considered stretching over the table, giving that odd fucker Luther a sloppy, wet kiss,
just to watch how Charles reacted.
But that would be weak, giving in to petty insecurity. There was a part of her that despised feeling so vulnerable. No one but Charles could elicit such weakness. Sometimes, she hated him for it.
Now they were moving through the dark parking lot of the gun shop.
They passed a trio who reeked of gunpowder, obviously fresh off the range—a good-looking forty-something woman walking between two men, one tall and ruggedly handsome, the other short and as wide as a Mack truck.
Up ahead, a man in a leather jacket stood by the entrance.
When he turned, she could see that he was Hispanic.
And drop-dead gorgeous.
“Hey, Javier,” Luther said. “These are my friends, Alex and Charles. Alex and Charles, here’s the guy I was telling you about.”
Alex was the first to extend a hand.
“Nice to meet you, Javier,” she said. “I’m Alex.”
“The pleasure is all mine, senorita.” The handshake lingered.
Charles sidled up beside Alex, threw his arm over her shoulder. “What’s in the box?” he asked.
“New pistol I picked up today at the show. Unfortunately, the shop here’s closed.”
Charles glanced at the door. “It’s not closed,” he said.
“Excuse me?”
“I said it’s not closed. At least, not to certain people.”
Javier straightened, Alex studying his hands, to see if they clenched into fists, wondering what Charles was up to, but also kind of thinking it might be funny to see him take an ass-beating.
“What do you mean certain people?” Javier asked. “And you better answer that question very, very clearly. I’ve had all the redneck, bigot bullshit I can take today.”
By the light which illuminated Porter’s Guns and Ammo, Alex saw her brother smile one of his wicked smiles.
“I meant to people who can’t pick locks,” Charles said.
Mr. K
“You obviously like firearms, but can you also recognize the craftsmanship of a well-made knife?” Mr. K asked as he pulled Porter’s pants down below his knees.
The shop owner was inching back into consciousness to find his wrists zip-tied behind his back. His ankles were similarly bound.
Mr. K watched Porter’s eyes flutter open. The hitman had taken off his jacket and was sitting on Porter’s thighs, holding the Morrell ice pick. He knew the penis was fed by numerous blood vessels, so this required a delicate touch. A dead client couldn’t pay, and employers universally frowned upon that.