Paul Wilson - Cold City (Repairman Jack - Early Years Trilogy)

“Abe and his revolvers.” His voice sounded as if he’d just spent a day screaming at bootcamp grunts.

“What do you mean?”

“A long-running argument: I like semi-autos and he prefers revolvers.”

Had Bertel given Abe shooting lessons too?

“A pistol’s a pistol, right? What’s wrong with revolvers?”

Bertel shrugged. “Sometimes six shots aren’t enough.”

“Isn’t there something called ‘reloading’?”

“Yes, but there’s also something called ‘no time.’ And don’t be smart, kid.”

Why did people say “don’t be smart”? He always wanted to stick his tongue out the side of his mouth and say, “Duh, okay.”

But what Bertel said made perfect sense. Jack just hoped he was never in a spot where he needed more than six shots. Ever. Because if he found himself facing three machete-wielding matóns from the DR, he knew he’d want more.

He was definitely getting tired of being called “kid.”

“And let’s get something straight,” Bertel added, hefting the Ruger. “This isn’t a pistol. I’m something of a nerd about nomenclature, and by definition a pistol’s chamber is part of the barrel.”

Nerd would have been the last word Jack would have used to describe Bertel, but he was sure as hell making a nerdy distinction, and not a completely clear one. Jack couldn’t resist a little fun.

“Wait a sec. That would make a shotgun a pistol.”

Bertel eyed him. “What? Are you stupid or just being a wise ass?”

“I prefer it to being a dumb ass. But a shotgun’s chamber is part of the barrel, so–”

“Don’t sass me, boy.”

“Hey, you’re the self-proclaimed nomenclature nerd. You said–”

Bertel took a breath. “Allow me to rephrase: By definition a pistol is a handgun wherein the chamber is part of the barrel. Clear?”

“As glass.”

“Therefore your typical semi-automatic handgun is a pistol. A revolver’s chamber is in the cylinder, which is separate from the barrel. So therefore we will refer to your Ruger here as either a handgun or a revolver or a weapon, but not a pistol, got it?”

“Got it. Can we shoot things now?”

Bertel went on as if he hadn’t spoken. “Your Ruger is double-action – which means you don’t have to cock the hammer to fire, because the trigger cocks and releases the hammer with a single pull.”

Jack fought to keep his eyes from glazing over. This was shaping up to be a long afternoon.

Although fearing another recitation, he had to ask, “What’s Abe got against a semi-auto then?”

“They can jam. With a well-cared-for, quality model, that concern’s more theoretical than real, but yeah, the cycling is much more complex than a revolver and so a jam always remains a possibility.” He laughed. “But Abe’s a dinosaur. Still believes in ‘down on empty.’”

“What’s that mean?” Although he really didn’t want to know.

“You’re going to learn that real soon.”

Be still my heart.

But learn he did. And as much as Jack was itching to start blasting away at something, the training wasn’t so bad. Before firing a shot, Bertel taught him how to break down his pistol – make that weapon – clean it, and reassemble it. Then to the firing line. Finally.

“Why do you have this?” Bertel said as they set up.

“The gun?”

“Well, I’m not asking about your dick. Target or protection?”

Jack hesitated, then figured he could tell him. “I pissed off some people who might come looking for me.”

Bertel didn’t blink as he loaded the Ruger from a box that read “.38 Special.”

“But I’ve got a .357,” Jack said.

“Right. A .357 will take a .38 Special but not vice versa. The .38 is a cheaper round and has less kick. Get used to these before you fire a magnum. You’ll thank me.”

Bertel suggested ear guards. Jack rejected them, figuring he didn’t need them. After firing one round he changed his mind.

“Kee-rist, that’s loud.”

“Wait till you fire some magnums.”

Bertel spent a lot of time with him on the targets, directing him to aim for the body.

“Make a point of going for center of mass. A head shot always puts them down, even if it’s not a kill shot, but it’s a lower percentage target. Heads can duck and bob and weave. Unless you’re shooting at Michael Jackson, the torso has a lot more inertia. No matter where you hit someone with one of those .357 magnum hollowpoints you brought along, he’s pretty well finished. May not be dead, but he’s out of the fight.”

He started talking about hydrostatic shock and other things that happened to a human body after a penetrating wound. None of which much interested Jack. He wanted to shoot his gun, and keep shooting it until he could reliably hit a target. Because whatever happened to someone after he was hit didn’t matter a whole hell of a lot if you couldn’t hit him in the first place.

“And please use only hollowpoints for self-defense,” Bertel said.

“Why?”

“Because hollowpoints tend to stay inside the target. A full-metal-jacket magnum round can go through the target and kill someone else in the next room, or half a block away if you’re outside.”

Jack vowed to remember that.

Shooting wasn’t as easy as it looked. At first Jack resisted the two-handed Weaver grip Bertel favored, but came to adopt it as the practice went on – that Ruger became heavy after a while.

After shooting two boxes of .38s and a few magnum rounds, Jack broke down, cleaned, and reassembled the Ruger under Bertel’s watchful eye.

“Good job,” he said as Jack spun the cylinder. “Think you’re ready to take on those bad guys?”

Jack looked at him. “No.”

He grinned. “Right. You’re not. And the fact you admit it shows you’ve got smarts.” He clapped Jack on the shoulder. “You old enough to drink?”

“Yeah.”

“Coulda fooled me. There’s a bar down the road. I’ll buy you a beer.”

“Love one, but–”

A burst of machine-gun fire from the rifle range brought them both to a halt. Jack saw a group of Arab types with some sort of automatic weapon.

“Wow!” Jack said. “What’s that?”

“Assault rifle,” Bertel said, staring at the group. “Kalashnikov.”

“An AK-47?” Jack had heard the term but didn’t know one assault rifle from another.

One of the Arabs was staring back. They made for a motley crew with their scraggly beards and varying ages and heights. They all wore similar T-shirts, but Jack couldn’t read the writing. Maybe they were an Arab gun club of some sort. One lanky guy – with red hair and an NRA cap, of all things – towered over the rest. He held the AK and began firing a series of bursts.

“Three-round bursts,” Bertel said.

“What’s that mean?”

“Reduces overheating.”

“You know them?” Jack said.

Still staring. “Yeah.” Bertel started walking again. “I know they’re trouble in the making. People better wake up to that, and soon.” He glanced at Jack. “You were saying you’d love a beer but . What’s the but?”

“No proof.”

“No driver’s license?”

Jack shook his head.

“But you drove that motorcycle here.” He used the Arlo Guthrie pronunciation.

Jack shrugged.

“Who’s it registered to?”

“Nobody.”

“But it’s got a license plate.”

“Came with the bike. Never took it off.”

“You must have some sort of ID.”

“Never got around to it.”

“No shit?”

“No shit.”

Bertel stared at him for what seemed like a long, long time, then said, “You looking for work?”