Sara Paretsky - Indemnity Only

The drive south should have taken only an hour, but I was feeling light-headed, my head and body not connected too strongly. The last thing I wanted was for one of Chicago’s finest to pull me over. I took it slowly, swallowed a couple more tablets of bute, and put all my effort into holding my concentration.

It was close to five when I exited from I-57 to the south suburbs. By the time I got to Riley’s, they were ready to close. I insisted on coming in to make my purchase.

“I know what I want,” I said. “I called a couple of hours ago-a Smith & Wesson thirty-eight.”

The clerk looked suspiciously at my face and took in the black eye. “Why don’t you come back on Monday, and if you still feel you want a gun, we can talk about a model more suited to a lady than a Smith & Wesson thirty-eight.”

“Despite what you may think I am not a wife-beating victim. I am not planning on buying a gun to go home and kill my husband. I’m a single woman living alone and I was attacked last night. I know how to use a gun, and I’ve decided I need one, and this is the kind I want.”

“Just a minute,” the clerk said. He hurried to the back of the store and began a whispered consultation with two men standing there. I went to the case and started inspecting guns and ammunition. The store was new, clean, and beautifully laid out. Their ad in the Yellow Pages proclaimed Riley’s as Smith & Wesson specialists, but they had enough variety to please any kind of taste in shooting. One wall was devoted to rifles.

My clerk came over with one of the others, a pleasant-faced, middle-aged man. “Ron Jaffrey,” he said. “I’m the manager. What can we do for you?”

“I called up a couple of hours ago asking about a Smith & Wesson thirty-eight. I’d like to get one,” I repeated.

“Have you ever used one before?” the manager asked.

“No, I’m more used to the Colt forty-five,” I answered. “But the S &W is lighter and better suited to my needs.”

The manager walked to one of the cases and unlocked it. My clerk went to the door to stop another last-minute customer from entering. I took the gun from the manager, balanced it in my hand, and tried the classic police firing stance: body turned to create as narrow a target as possible. The gun felt good. “I’d like to try it before I buy it,” I told the manager. “Do you have a target range?”

Jaffrey took a box of ammunition from the case. “I have to say you look as though you know how to handle it. We have a range in the back-if you decide against the gun, we ask you to pay for the ammo. If you take the gun, we throw in a box free.”

“Fine,” I said. I followed him through a door in the back, which led to a small range,

“We give lessons back here on Sunday afternoons, and let people come in to practice on their own during the week. Need any help loading?”

“I may,” I told him. “Time was when I could load and fire in thirty seconds, but it’s been a while.” My hands were starting to shake a bit from fatigue and pain and it took me several minutes to insert eight rounds of cartridges. The manager showed me the safety and the action. I nodded, turned to the target, lifted the gun, and fired. The action came as naturally as if ten days, not ten years, had passed, but my aim was way off. I emptied the gun but didn’t get a bull’s-eye, and only two in the inner ring. The gun was good, though, steady action and no noticeable distortion. “Let me try another lot.”

I emptied the chambers and Jaffrey handed me some more cartridges. He gave me a couple of pointers. “You obviously know what you’re doing, but you’re out of practice and you’ve picked up some bad habits. Your stance is good, but you’re hunching your shoulder-keep it down and only raise the arm.”

I loaded and fired again, trying to keep my shoulder down. It was good advice-all but two shots got into the red and one grazed the bull’s-eye. “Okay,” I said. “I’ll take it. Give me a couple of boxes of ammo, and a complete cleaning kit.” I thought a minute. “And a shoulder holster.”

We went back into the store. “Larry!” Jaffrey called. My clerk came over. “Clean and wrap this gun for the lady while I write up the bill.” Larry took the gun, and I went with Jaffrey to the cash register. A mirror was mounted behind it, and I saw myself in it without recognition for a few seconds. The left side of my face was now completely purple and badly swollen while my right eye stared with the dark anguish of a Paul Klee drawing. I almost turned to see who this battered woman was before realizing I was looking at myself. No wonder Larry hadn’t wanted to let me in the store.

Jaffrey showed me the bill. “Four hundred twenty-two dollars,” he said. “Three-ten for the gun, ten for the second box of cartridges, fifty-four for the holster and belt, and twenty-eight for the cleaning kit. The rest is tax.” I wrote a check out, slowly and laboriously. “I need a driver’s license and two major credit cards or an interbank card,” he said, “and I have to ask you to sign the register.” He looked at my driver’s license. “Monday you should go down to City Hall and register the gun. I send a list of all major purchases to the local police department, and they’ll probably forward your name to the Chicago police.”

I nodded and quietly put my identification back in my billfold. The gun took a big chunk out of the thousand dollars I’d had from McGraw, and I didn’t think I could legitimately charge it to him as an expense. Larry brought me the gun in a beautiful velvet case. I looked at it and asked them to put it in a bag for me. Ron Jaffrey ushered me urbanely to my car, magnificently ignoring my face. “You live quite a ways from here, but if you want to come down and use the target, just bring your bill with you-you get six months’ free practice with the purchase.” He opened my car door for me. I thanked him, and he went back to the store.

The bute was still keeping the pain from crashing in on me completely, but I was absolutely exhausted. My last bit of energy had gone to buying the gun and using the target. I couldn’t drive the thirty miles back to my apartment. I started the car and went slowly down the street, looking for a motel. I found a Best Western that had rooms backing onto a side street, away from the busy road I was on. The clerk looked curiously at my face but made no comment, I paid cash and took the key.

The room was decent and quiet, the bed firm. I uncorked the bottle of nepenthe Lotty had given me and took a healthy swallow. I peeled off my clothes, wound my watch and put it on the bedside table, and crawled under the covers. I debated calling my answering service but decided I was too tired to handle anything even if it had come up. The air conditioner, set on high, drowned out any street noises and made the room cold enough to enjoy snuggling under the blankets. I lay down and was starting to think about John Thayer when I fell asleep.

Some Visitors don’t Knock

I came to slowly, out of a sound sleep. I lay quietly, not sure at first where I was, and dozed again lightly. When I woke up the second time, I was refreshed and aware. The heavy drapes shut out any outside light; I switched on the bedside lamp and looked at my watch-7:30. I had slept more than twelve hours.

I sat up and cautiously moved legs and neck. My muscles had stiffened again in my sleep, but not nearly as badly as the previous morning. I pulled myself from the bed and made it to the window with only minor twinges. Looking through a crack I pulled in the drapes, I saw bright morning sunlight.

I was puzzled by Thayer’s account of a police arrest and wondered if there would be a story in the morning paper. I pulled on my slacks and shirt and went down to the lobby for a copy of the Sunday Herald-Star. Back upstairs I undressed again and ran a hot bath while I looked at the paper, DRUG ADDICT ARRESTED IN BANKING HEIR’S MURDER was On the lower right side of the front page. Police have arrested Donald Mackenzie of 4302 S. Ellis in the murder of banking heir Peter Thayer last Monday. Asst. Police Commissioner Tim Sullivan praised the men working on the case and said an arrest was made early Saturday morning when one of the residents of the apartment where Peter Thayer lived identified Mackenzie as a man seen hanging around the building several times recently. It is believed that Mackenzie, allegedly addicted to cocaine, entered the Thayer apartment on Monday, July 16, believing no one to be at home. When he found Peter Thayer eating breakfast in the kitchen, he lost his nerve and shot him. Commissioner Sullivan says the Browning automatic that fired the fatal bullet has not yet been traced but that the police have every hope of recovering the weapon.