Caught Stealing - Charlie Huston [88]
Paris is standing in the doorway of the kitchen, holding a large black alloy attaché case. A little grin slides along his lips.
—Yeah, slick.
He hefts the case and points at the table.
—Why don’t you clean that off and I’ll show you something real slick, Mr. Bad-Ass.
The town I grew up in was a gun town. We never had them in my family, but most of the kids I knew grew up shooting and hunting. I’d go up in the hills with them or out to the Rod and Gun Club and plug away for a few hours. I’d flip through their back issues of Gun magazine and Soldier of Fortune and look at the guns and read about stopping power and firing rates and blow-back and concealment profiles. It was like knowing about cars or my favorite ball players. I fired rounds from an M1 Carbine, a .357 Magnum, a .38 Police Special, a 9 mm Chinese Mauser knockoff, a Ruger .32, a couple of .30-06 hunting rifles, several shotguns and any number of .22 rifles and handguns. Russ’s .22 was the first gun I’ve picked up in over ten years. I haven’t fired one since I was eighteen.
Paris sets the case on the table, works the little combination locks, flips the catches and opens it up. The interior of the case is lined with black foam rubber. Nestled in this lining are eight very beautiful tools designed for the single purpose of ending human life. Ed reaches into the case and runs his fingertips over all the steel.
—So how ’bout it, Hank? You wanna carry a piece on this or what?
When I was a kid, my mom would let me go to R-rated films as long as they were rated R because of sex and cursing, not violence. I got to see Saturday Night Fever, but not Friday the 13th. I wasn’t allowed to watch Hogan’s Heroes because it treated war like a game and a joke. I wasn’t allowed even a toy gun. When the kids in the neighborhood played cops and robbers, I used a stick. And when I went shooting with my friends, I never ever let her know. I look at the guns in the case: some vintage pieces, like the set of Colt Peacemakers; others so modern and efficient, they look more like computer components than weapons.
Ed takes a small gun from the case and holds it out to me.
—This is perfect for you, a real classic.
I know this gun. It’s a .32 Colt Detective Special. It’s a narrow snub-nose revolver with the hammer filed down to a nubbin so it won’t snag on anything as you whip it out of your shoulder holster. It has no safety, minimum recoil, is designed for concealment and very short range combat. I take the gun from Ed.
—Careful, it’s loaded.
I keep my finger off the trigger and keep the barrel of the weapon pointed at the floor. I thumb the catch and flip the cylinder open: full load, five rounds. I empty the bullets into the palm of my left hand, flip the cylinder closed, place my finger on the trigger, raise the weapon, point it at the wall, inhale and, in the pause just before I exhale, I squeeze the trigger in a single smooth motion. The action is just a bit tight, so that it gives you a real sense of control at the firing point. The hammer pulls back as the cylinder rotates and then snaps down hard with the sound unique to an empty gun.
—Hey, Paris, looks like our boy knows what he’s doing here.
Paris nods.
—Just full of hidden talents, ain’t he?
I hand the gun and the bullets back to Ed.
—I’ll pass. My mom wouldn’t like it.
I nod in the direction of a little black-and-white TV, with rabbit ears on top of it, that sits on the kitchen counter underneath a picture of a black Jesus.
—Any chance we might get a look at the game on that thing?
The brothers DuRanté look at each other and you’d think those boys might never stop laughing.
Mets vs. Braves: top of the third, no score, rain delay. The Giants game won’t start for a couple hours yet.
We flip on the news. They’ve found Russ. Some do-gooder got concerned when Russ’s body tumbled to the floor of the C train and lay there without moving for about five minutes. She waited until she got out at the JFK stop and told the station manager