Ed McBain - The House That Jack Built

There were guns everywhere Leona looked.

Rifles and shotguns on three walls of the shop. Handguns in cases along two of the walls. More handguns in a center case with an aisle on either side of it.

“Good afternoon, ma’am,” the man said, moving behind the counter toward her. “I’m Bobby Newkes, this is my shop. May I help you choose a weapon?”

The word almost threw her. Weapon. Yes, she was here to buy a weapon. But naming it so openly seemed somehow to define without question its lethal properties. Weapon. She was surrounded in this shop by instruments of death.

“Yes, thank you,” she said, and moved toward the counter.

“What sort of gun did you have in mind, ma’am?” Newkes asked.

She did not know how far she needed to go in order to present an image of a law-abiding citizen as defined by Florida’s gun laws. Did she have to tell this man she planned to use the gun for target practice? Or hunting in the woods? She had looked at only last year’s statutes; the most recent law made it possible for virtually anyone to carry even a hidden pistol. Not knowing this, she smiled nervously and said, “I really don’t know. I’ve never owned a gun.”

“Well, were you thinking of a rifle? Something like the Remington here on the wall? Or the Springfield?”

“No, actually…”

“A shotgun were you thinking of?”

“No. A smaller gun.”

“Ah. A handgun.”

“Yes. A handgun.”

“Well, let’s take a look in this case here,” Newkes said, “all kinds of pistols in this case. What we’ve got here is Colts and Llamas, Rugers and Savages, Steyrs and Derringers…”

“Are those guns?”

“Yes, ma’am, the names of guns is what those are. Bernadellis and Crosmans, Smith and Wessons…”

“What’s this gun here?” she asked. “This one.”

She tapped her finger on the glass case.

“The one here in the bottom row?” Newkes said.

“No, just above. And to the left. Yes. That one.”

“That one’s what we call a snubbie, ma’am, because of the way the barrel is shaped. That model is an Iver Johnson Trailsman Snub, which a lot of women at twenty-five ounces find a bit heavy. There are lots of pistols have a lighter u eight, you might find ’em more suitable to your needs. Did you just want to keep this in your home, ma’am? For protection? Or were you planning on carrying it about with you? ”

“Just to keep at home,” Leona said, and cleared her throat.

“Not a bad idea these days,” Newkes said. “Here’s a nice lightweight gun, this Llama here, their Airlite model. It’s an automatic pistol, weighs only seventeen ounces, has a magazine capacity of nine shots. Or, you know, if you just plan to keep this in a drawer in your bedside table, weight possibly won’t matter to you, and you’ve got a nice automatic here in the Walther P-38. Weighs twenty-seven and a half ounces, has a magazine capacity of eight shots. Beautiful gun. This gun right here.”

“What’s a magazine?” Leona asked.

“A magazine?” Newkes said, and blinked. “Well, it’s this… well, let me show you.”

He slid open the back of the case, reached into it, and took out the gun he’d just mentioned. “You see, there’s this magazine, what we sometimes call a clip, it’s this thing here in the handle of the gun…”

He pressed something or did something that caused a sort of drawer to slide out of the handle.

“… with all these bullets in it. This is only on an automatic, mind you. Your revolvers don’t have magazines, they load in the cylinder… well, you see this gun here in the case?”

“This one?”

“Yes, that’s a thirty-two-caliber Smith and Wesson Terrier, a very nice gun by the way, you might want to consider it. Do you see that cylinder there?”

“Here?”

“You’re pointin’ right at it, that’s it. That’s where you load your bullets on a revolver. You put ’em in there one by one. With your automatic, you just slide the magazine in, and the job’s finished. Revolvers or automatics, it’s six of one, half a dozen of the other. I’ve had women whose preference runs to either. Solely a matter of taste.”

“I still like the way this one looks,” Leona said.

“The Iver Johnson. That’s a nice weapon, ma’am, and it also comes in the thirty-two-caliber and the twenty-two long rifle, if that’s…”

“No, I don’t want a rifle.”

“No, ma’am, I’m not talking about a rifle as such, I’m talking about the caliber of bullet, what we call a twenty-two long rifle. In that particular model, the gun has an eight-shot cylinder capacity.”

“How many shots does it have in the model here?”

“This is the Sixty-six, this model, it’s got a five-shot capacity.”

“Mmm,” Leona said.

“If you’re thinking of a revolver, ma’am… you seem to be leaning toward a revolver…”

“Well, this is a nice-looking gun.”

“Yes, ma’am, it is, and a fine gun, too. But I’ll tell you what I really like in a revolver, and that’s a gun here in the center case, ma’am, let me just come around the counter and show you.”

He walked to the end of the counter closest to the door, came around it, and then moved into the aisle on the right-hand side of the center case. He took a ring of keys from his pocket, found the one he wanted, unlocked the case, and slid back a portion of the glass top.

“This here’s a Colt Cobra,” he said, taking the gun out of the case. “It’s a part-aluminum version of the Detective Special. The difference is the Special weighs twenty-one ounces and the Cobra weighs only fifteen, which makes it nice for a woman to handle. It’s got a six-shot capacity, and it also comes in a twenty-two-caliber model. You ever decide to do any game hunting sometime in the future, this is your ideal gun, ’cause it can be special-ordered with a five-inch barrel.”

“It does look very nice,” she said.

“It is nice, ma’am. Would you care to hold it?”

“Could I?”

“Certainly. It’s not loaded, you don’t have to worry.”

“Are you sure?”

“Well, take a look for yourself,” he said, and snapped out the cylinder. “Nothing in it, ma’am. Perfectly safe.”

She took the gun in her hand.

The walnut stock felt cool to the touch. The barrel glinted under the overhead lights. She trained the gun on the front door. Her finger was inside the trigger guard. She tightened her finger on the trigger. There was a small click .

She could imagine herself using this gun.

Shooting this gun.

Killing someone with this gun.

“I’ll take it,” she said.

From where she sat hunched behind the wheel of the tired green Chevy, Toots Kiley saw her coming out of the gun shop with a package in her hands.

She turned the key in the ignition, starting the car before Leona had taken three steps from the front door

On a tail, a suspect didn’t pay much attention to a car starting before he’d climbed into his own car. But if he got into his car, and started it, and all of a sudden another car started up and began moving, this was likely to attract attention. Toots was playing it the way Otto had taught her. Spot your suspect, start your car, back out of your space, let her think you’re on your way out. No way you could be following her, you simply had no interest in her at all. Until you picked her up again a few blocks down the line.

Otto knew everything there was to know about surveillance work.

He also knew everything there was to know about cocaine.

Come back when you’ve kicked it, he’d told Toots. I can’t use you the way you are now.

She’d kicked it.

But meanwhile he’d got himself killed.