Paul Cleave - The Killing Hour

My cell phone pulls me from a world of dreams into a world of nightmares. I reach from beneath my blankets and walk my fingers over the nightstand until I find it. When I pick it up I don’t bother wasting any hellos. I know who it’s going to be.

“Hey, asshole,” Cyris says.

Cyris isn’t a morning person. I think back to Frank’s body and decide that Cyris isn’t much of a night person either. “Yeah?”

“You got the money?”

“I got it.”

“You better show up, otherwise I’ll. .”

“Yeah, I get the point,” I tell him. “I’ll be there.”

“It’s a hundred grand.”

“What?” I ask, sitting up. “What in the hell are you talking about?”

“You heard me.”

“No, because it sounded like you said one hundred grand. That wasn’t the deal.”

“It’s the deal now, partner.”

“I can’t get that sort of money.”

“Get it.”

“I’m not a bloody bank. We had a deal.”

“So did I, with somebody else. Deals get broken, partner. Get used to it.”

“That’s not my fault.”

“No, but it’s your problem. Listen, I’m not an unreasonable man. You come with fifty grand tonight, and I give you an extra couple of days. I’ll keep the goods while you keep on paying.”

The insane-sounding Cyris from the last few nights has been replaced by somebody who seems to be putting more thought into this. I try to think how I could get that sort of money. If I actually had to. I try to sound as if I’m really struggling to come up with an idea, but of course it isn’t a problem. Frank helped me out there. “I’ll take out another mortgage on the house,” I lie. “I’ll get the hundred.”

“See? This is why I have faith in you, Feldman.” He hangs up and my cue to start the day has arrived.

I pull back the curtains to a typical summer morning. I have a fast breakfast containing nothing healthy before dumping the plastic bag of money onto the dining room table and counting it out. It takes me over thirty minutes and the final result is one hundred dollars short of one hundred grand. One hundred grand divided by two. That’s how much Kathy was worth. How much Luciana was worth.

I put the money back into the bag, walk to my bedroom and add another hundred dollars from my top drawer before hiding the bag in the ceiling. The rest of the money from my top drawer I stuff into my pockets along with the note I found in Frank’s mouth. Then I spend fifteen minutes on the phone to various builders, trying to find somebody who can come around and fix my back door. Most of the guys think the job is too small, but can come take a look in another few weeks. In the end I get hold of a young-sounding guy who says he can take a look at it later on today. I tell him if he can come and fix it today, I’ll pay him twice his usual rate. He tells me that’s a deal, and we fix a time.

It’s nearly midday, the sun already well on its way into a cloudless sky. A warm nor’wester blows across my face, suggesting the day will only get hotter. I have so much summer cheer it’s bleeding from my pores.

I climb into the rented Holden and push my thumb in on the cigarette lighter. I back out of my driveway and pause outside my house. I realize I haven’t even checked my mail for the last few days so I still don’t know what that kid jammed into my letterbox on Monday. There’s a whole bunch of other stuff in there now. Bills, probably. Perhaps some junk mail, crap like pizza vouchers and shop brochures. The cigarette lighter pops back out. I hold it against the one-hundred-dollar bill I wrote on. It starts to melt and I hold it out the side of the car as it shrivels away, surrounded by black smoke. Then it crumbles into small pieces and I set them free into the warm breeze.

For the entire drive into town I contemplate the value of life. Jo is going to cost me a hundred grand, exactly what Kathy and Luciana cost Frank. Saving a life is twice as expensive as ending one. It’s all about supply and demand. Economics. You get what you pay for.

I park directly outside the gun store recommended by the army surplus guy with the flabby upper arms. When I approach the shop I keep glancing around the street to see if anybody is watching me. I don’t know who I’m looking for. Cyris, maybe. Or a cop. Another Landry. Or the way this week is turning out, perhaps even Landry himself. I swing open the door and step inside. A buzzer goes off somewhere letting staff know I’ve entered the premises. There are rows and rows of guns that look impressive, as if guns solve a lot of problems in this world rather than creating them. The air-conditioning is turned on full, the motor humming in the background. There are no customers, just one man behind the counter reading a newspaper with news in it that I helped make.

I approach him, but he doesn’t look up from his paper until I reach the counter. He looks around forty years old, a tall man with a joined eyebrow that makes the bridge of his thick glasses look like they’re growing a beard. His smile disappears when he sees the working over I’ve been given. There’s a moment where I can see him taking it all in, and he knows why I’m here.

“Morning, sir. What can I do for you today?” He manages to sound both polite and unhelpful. His finger is holding the place where he’d been reading. He obviously wants to get straight back to it. He doesn’t want to deal with the likes of me.

I ask for the name the thousand dollars bought me.

He nods slowly and stands up straight, losing his place in the paper. “I’m Arthur,” he tells me, but he doesn’t sound excited about it, and looking at his eyebrow I don’t blame him. “You’re the guy Floyd was telling me about, aren’t you.”

“Yes.”

“You’re the guy who’s hunting deer.”

“That’s me.”

He takes a few seconds to adjust his glasses. “I don’t think I can help you,” he says.

“Please.”

“What is it you want, mister?”

I point to a picture of a pistol on the wall. In the picture it is stripped down. The parts are labeled. I can make out a few of the words. Firing pin. Slide. Breech block. Safety mechanism. If he gave me that exact pistol in that condition I’d be screwed.

The salesman turns and looks at the picture.

I tell him that’s what I want.

“That might be what you want, but you can’t have one,” he says.

“If it’s a matter of money. .”

He shakes his head. “It’s a matter of many things,” he says. “That up there, that’s a Colt Combat Elite,” he says, not quoting from the poster. “Fine pistol. Not available here. Never available to anyone without a license.”

“Then what do you have that is available?”

He gives me a funny look. Scrolls his eyes over me. Up and down, slowly, taking in the beatings I’ve had this week. “What kind of trouble are you in, mister?”

I shrug. “No trouble. I just want a pistol for home. For self-defense.”

“They’re illegal to use anywhere but a firing range.”

Again I shrug. “I’m prepared to pay for quality.”

I leave it at that. Let him make up his own mind. He’s either going to sell me the gun or he isn’t.

“I can get into a lot of trouble selling you a gun.”

“And five thousand dollars should compensate you for that.”

He shakes his head. “Five thousand, no. Ten thousand. . now that’s a different story.”

I pull some money out and slowly flick through the notes like a card dealer showing off. His eyes never leave it. I put the entire amount on the counter. Arthur looks from left to right. His eyes hold on the door for a few seconds as if he’s mentally trying to lock it, then he looks out the windows with the iron bars running down them. Nobody around.