Craig Johnson - Kindness Goes Unpunished

I unsnapped the thumb strap from the Colt at my back, pulled it, and placed it on the counter with the slide group locked in the open position and the magazine removed. “That’s what they all say.” I palmed the seven-shot clip in my hand, dropped it to my side, and told her to pick up the. 45.

“It looks old.”

“Older than you.” After getting her acquainted with the particularities of the weapon, she adopted a wide stance with her arms extended; we both now wore the hearing protectors that had been hanging in the stall.

She squeezed the trigger as instructed, and the big Colt jumped in her hands; it was pointed at the ceiling, but I caught her shoulder. She peered at the paper target but could see no effect, unaware that the gun hadn’t fired. I pulled one of her ear cups back. “You flinched.”

“No, I didn’t.”

I cocked the empty. 45. “Try it again, but make sure you keep your eyes open this time.” I put her ear cup back, and she imitated the exact same motion, but this time the automatic stayed steady.

She turned and looked at me. “It didn’t fire.”

“It didn’t last time, either.” I showed her the clip in my hand. “The involuntary response is pretty common. You think the gun’s going to jump, so you make it jump.” I took the Colt, popped the mag into place, cocked the slide, and placed her hands around the gun, aimed toward the target. “Don’t worry about blinking; a lot of people do it.”

She spoke out of the side of her mouth. “Do you?”

I looked at the target. “No.”

She doubled her attentions on the silhouette and squeezed, all her efforts going into not blinking. The. 45 blew her back and, from her expression, there was no doubt in her mind that it had fired this time. We both peered at the target; there was a perforation at his left kidney on the line between the four and five score. “Much better.”

She smiled and pulled the ear cup back again. “Do they all kick like that?”

I smiled back. “No. This one’s just an antique, heavy, hard to aim, slow rate of fire…” Her smile faded quickly as she looked over my right shoulder, past the barrier, and I figured I had accomplished what I’d set out to do.

She handed me the automatic and pulled her ear protectors all the way off. “Hello, Oz.”

I didn’t turn but lowered the hammer on the Colt and pushed the safety. His voice wasn’t what I’d expected; it was higher-pitched and discordant.

“I thought I’d come over here and see who was shooting the howitzer.” It was silent, except for the music and a few conversations that were still going on a little ways away. “Who’s your friend?”

Her face remained still. “This is Walt Longmire, Cady’s father.”

“Oh, my God.” He was as tall as me, mid-thirties, with an athletic build, a receding hairline, and the ubiquitous goatee. “I am so sorry about your daughter.”

I placed the Colt on the counter. “Thank you.”

He switched the Glock to his other hand, and I noticed the clip was in and the safety was off. He extended his right. “Vince Osgood. They call me Oz.” I nodded, and he continued. “I was a friend of Cady’s.”

I noticed he used the past tense, which made me want to grab his throat. “You were also a friend of Devon Conliffe?”

His eyes were steady. “I was…Did you know Devon?”

I pointed at the Glock in his left hand. “Would you mind securing that weapon before we talk?”

He froze up for a second. “It’s got a safe-action feature…”

I did my best ol’ boy routine. “I’m just a little nervous around unsecured firearms.”

He reached down and pushed the button, the image of allocated grace. “Sure. I’m around these things so much that they just become second nature.”

“I was able to meet Devon just before the accident.”

“Yeah, I heard about that.” He leaned against the stall, and I could smell his aftershave. “You and I should talk.”

I nodded and glanced at Joanne. “I agree. You might be in a position to give me a better insight as to what’s going on.”

He puckered his lips and looked down at his four-hundred-dollar shoes, the picture of the all-knowing assistant DA, if suspended, there to assist his rustic cousin. “I think I can do that.” His head came back up. “Where will you be later tonight?”

I thought about Lena. “I’ve got a dinner date this evening, but I could meet you after for a beer. You know a place called Paddy O’Neil’s on Race?”

He watched me for just a second too long. “Near the bridge?”

I pulled out my pocket watch. “Ten-thirty?” He nodded, and I gestured toward the Glock 34. “You’re pretty good with that thing.”

“Goes with the job.”

I wondered about lawyering in Philadelphia and picked up my Colt. “You gonna shoot again?”

“Oh, yeah, how about you?”

I let him watch as I reloaded and replaced the. 45 in the pancake holster at my back. “No, thanks.”

He smiled and bobbed his head. “I guess you’re pretty good, too, huh?”

Good enough to know I was cocked and locked with a full clip and one in the pipe; good enough to know he was empty.

“Alphonse, if you don’t turn the tourist music down, we’re going somewhere else.”

The restaurant had been closed, but Lena had unlocked and marched through the back door as if she owned the place. She deposited me in a small booth by the kitchen and called up the steps to Alphonse, threatening him with brimstone if he didn’t come down and fix us dinner.

Alphonse, the uncle, was Victor Moretti’s brother, and his restaurant was quintessential Italian Market, from the red-and-white-checkered tablecloths to the battered, raffia-covered Chianti bottle with a tapered candle flickering in its throat. The booths were high-backed and worn, with the many layers of varnish making their surfaces glisten, but it was Alphonse who made Alphonse’s. Alphonse Moretti must have weighed as much as I did, no mean feat since he only stood about five foot six.

“You want me to create, I have to have music.” He blew through the kitchen door with a fresh bottle of wine and an assortment of water glasses, pulled the cork with his hands, and slid onto the bench with me, singing along with Frank Sinatra in a soulful duet of “The Lady Is a Tramp.” He wore glasses but, like everything else on his face, they looked as if they were being swallowed by flesh. The only part that seemed up to the fight was his mustache, a salt and pepper affair that drooped past the corners of his mouth. It would have looked dour on any other man, but it gave Alphonse the look of a painter who had stuffed a brush in his mouth and had forgotten about it. “She is beautiful, isn’t she?”

Lena rested her chin in the palm of her hand and looked at him. “Alphonse…”

He poured the wine into the water glasses and slid one toward me. “A race of principessas, not like us peasants.” Lena slouched against the wooden back of the booth and looked at me; I was sure this was a repeat performance. “You know the island of Capri?” He extended a chubby finger toward Lena and spilled a little wine on the table. “This one, she will tell you she is from Positano, but this is not true.”

She picked up her glass and retreated from the candlelight. “Al, you don’t have any wine glasses?”

He gestured toward her again. “You see- principessa.”

“Al…”

“ Un pezzo di cielo caduto in terra they call it; a piece of heaven fallen to earth. They say Lucifer stole the place and brought it to Italy, and if you want to know about beautiful women, you ask the devil.” Lena blew air from her lips in dismissal. He continued. “You know Tiberius, the emperor that threw people off cliffs?” I nodded. “He had palaces built across the entire island, even moving the imperial capital to Capri.”