Blossom - Andrew H. Vachss [55]
I ordered a whiskey from the bartender, left it sitting on the counter. A white man was making noise at the end of the bar, drunk, whining to his friends.
"Why can't I sing the blues?" he demanded. "Because I'm white?"
A factory man's dark voice answered his call. "'Cause you can't sing, sucker!"
Virgil took me into a back room. The massive blues shouter was sitting in an armchair big enough for a meeting. "Doc, I want you to meet my brother. Burke," Virgil said, bringing me over.
He held out his hand. I took it, felt a palm leathered from years of holding crutches. "You're the best I ever heard," I told him.
"Thank you, brother."
The harp man was talking on the phone, intensely. The slide–guitar man was smoking a joint. Nobody else around. Virgil moved his head a couple of inches. I followed him to another door.
Inside, an old chrome–and–Formica kitchen table. Four chairs. One of them occupied by a featureless man in a white shirt, balding, bifocals perched on top of his head.
"Arnold, this is my brother. The guy I told you about."
"How ya doin'?" he piped up, in a thin voice younger than his face.
I sat down. Lit a smoke. Bowed my head slightly to greet him. Waiting.
"Virgil said you needed some stuff?"
"A pistol."
"A pistol? What's that supposed to mean, pistol? I got more kinds of pistols than you've had birthdays. Give me the specs. Or give me the job, I'll pick one out for you."
"Revolver. No more than three–inch. Thirty–eight or .357. Blue. Something decent, a Colt or a Smith. Ice–cold."
"You want this for…?"
"Protection. Protection I can carry around with me."
"Look, man, you're talking Stone Age stuff. Take a look at this little piece of perfection." He opened one of the suitcases on the floor next to him. Came out with a dull gray automatic. "This here's a Glock, ever hear of it? Designed by an Austrian. The guy's a genius, not a gunsmith. Started with a blank piece of paper. Plastic undercarriage, metal frame. Takes nine–millimeter ammo. Any nine–millimeter, see?" He held up a bullet, black–tipped. "You know what this is?"
"Uzi."
"Right you are, my friend. You put high–pressure submachine slugs like this in a regular semi–auto, you blow it up in your hand. But not the Glock. Holds sixteen rounds, fast as you can pull them off."
"Automatics jam."
"Bullshit. Some automatics jam. I do all the work myself. Custom. You got my personal guarantee."
I didn't waste time explaining to him how I'd have trouble getting my money back if his toy jammed. "I'm not going to be in a gunfight," I told him.
His eyes shifted but his expression didn't change. "Okay, I understand. I recommend you take the Glock, plus this Wilson suppressor I just happen to have machined for it. Instead of the Uzi ammo, we switch to subsonics. Makes a little pop, that's all. Never draw a crowd."
"I appreciate it, but I got to use what I'm familiar with, okay? You got any revolvers in that case?"
"Three–inch max?"
"Yeah."
He rummaged around. "How about this? Ruger Speed–Six. I modified the trigger pull myself. It's so smooth you won't feel it go home even in double–action."
I took the piece from him. Black rubber handgrips, blue steel. Looked new.
"This been around?"
"Virgil, you tell your brother anything about me or what? The pieces of this weapon, they've been around, you understand what I'm saying to you? This little unit has been hand–assembled from a wide range of similar units. Made it myself, from parts. You finish with this one, you mail it to the ATF, they won't be able to do nothing with it."
"How much?"
"A piece like this, new, maybe four hundred retail."
"But you don't sell retail."
"Sure, I sell retail. I got me an FFL and everything. But over the counter, you know, there's a lot of paperwork. Besides, I got a lot of custom labor in this piece, like I told you."
"So?"
"Seven–fifty. And I'll throw in a box of Plus P, hundred and fifty–eight grain. That's about all you want to load in this baby."
I dragged on my