The Mystic Arts of Erasing All Signs of Death - Charlie Huston [84]
The first thing I noticed about holding a gun for the first time in my life was that the damn thing was heavy. The second thing was that shaking it and just kind of handling it didn't make any noise like it does in the movies and on TV where you'd swear guns must be full of little tiny moving parts that click and rattle all the time. A real gun only makes noise when you do something to it. Like work the slide or snap the safety off, or pull the trigger. The last thing I realized about a gun was that holding one felt seriously fucking cool and dangerous at the same time. I didn't like that feeling.
I found a button on the side of the gun that was far enough from the trigger to make me feel reasonably secure nothing terrible would happen if I pushed it. I thumbed it in and the end of the clip popped out of the bottom of the grip. I pulled it free, finding more resistance than I expected, and set the gun on the seat. One by one I flicked the bullets from the clip and into the palm of my other hand. Having seen what they do to a body, I didn't much want to touch them, but I did. Once the clip was empty I dribbled the shells into the breast pocket of my bowling shirt, and then slipped it back into the gun and pressed until I felt a firm click. I had the gun back in the glove box when I remembered something from one of L.L.'s screenplays. I took the gun out and looked at it. I made sure the little safety lever was firmly set to o, and, taking care to aim the damn thing out the open door of the Apache at the ground away from Jim's or the truck wash or Dreams, I pulled the slide back and watched the bullet Jaime had been stupid enough to keep chambered pop out and arc behind the seat and down into the hollow where Chev stored his tool bag.
—Shit.
I gentled the slide back into place and found that the hammer was cocked. I placed my thumb over it, and, for what I swore would be the only time in my life, I pulled the trigger of a gun. Nothing happened, of course. I mean, there was a snap and the hammer came loose and I lowered it into place, but the gun didn't go off by some weird alignment of having a hidden bullet and my thumb not being strong enough to hold the hammer back or anything like that. But until I put the thing back in the glove box, I kept expecting it to fire of its own will and send a round ricocheting over the parking lot and through a window and into someone else's life.
But that didn't happen. Which was a huge relief.
Next I made a final call to Po Sin and told him what he needed to know. Beyond that information, there seemed to be little excuse for conversation. Especially seeing as he was clearly still contemplating bailing on the whole deal.
I thought it best not to think about what that could mean. And succeeded in doing so. Not thinking about bad things being a gift of mine.
Finally, I got out of the truck and walked to the storm drain in the middle of the lot and dropped the bullets down between the grates to splash into the dirty soapy runoff from the truck wash.
—What's up?
I looked up at Jaime as he came from the diner.
I shrugged.
—Just killing time.
I started back to the truck.
—We should get going.
—Fine by me. Where's my gun?
I got in and knocked on the glove box.
—In there. But for fuck sake don't shoot anyone with it.
He took the gun out. —Shoot anyone? It's a gun. That's what it's for. I mean, what am I supposed to use with Harris to make him give Soledad back so I can get the fucking money you owe me?
—We don't need a gun, we have a plan.
—Fucking plan? You never told me about a plan. A gun is better than a plan. A gun is a guarantee. What you -planning to do when your -plan doesn't