Victor Gischler - Gun Monkeys

I had the briefcase down by my ankles. We hadn’t opened it. We didn’t know if we were supposed to. I hadn’t told them what I’d heard on the wire during Stan’s meeting with Beggar Johnson. But we knew our instructions. Take the briefcase to Beggar’s man Jeffers. The monkey cage wasn’t supposed to ask questions.

Benny had reached that conclusion ahead of me. “Look. Just give me the case, and I’ll run it over to this Jeffers character. We did what we were told. Period. We can’t get in trouble for that, can we?”

Bob watched for my reaction.

I thought. Scratched my head. Drank coffee. Rubbed the stubble along my chin. Thought some more.

“Okay,” I said. “What’s our job is the question, right?” I looked at them.

They looked back.

Yeah, we were supposed to do what we were told. Sure. But we were also supposed to look out for the boss. If he went under, we were all sunk. “I’m going to call Stan.”

I told them to wait and went upstairs to use the phone in the bedroom. None of the other boys had Stan’s personal home number, so I dialed with reverence. He answered after five rings. Stan always answered his own phone.

“I got news.”

“Tell me.”

I told him.

“I see.” He didn’t really sound too surprised, went quiet for long seconds.

“Stan?”

“I’m deciding.”

I waited, ear glued to the phone. When he finally came back on the line, my heart jerked up in my throat. Anxious.

“Open the case,” said Stan.

“It’s locked.”

“Pry it open.”

I didn’t hesitate. I grabbed the bowie knife and pried open the latches in ten seconds flat. The briefcase contained two leather-bound ledgers, accounting books. I flipped through the pages. Rows of numbers. All Greek to me.

I told Stan.

“Bring it to my place. One hour.”

“You don’t want me to take it to Jeffers?”

“Who’s running the show here?” His talk was tough, but his voice strained.

I swallowed hard. “Right.”

“Charlie.”

“Yeah?”

“You done good.” His old, old sack-of-rocks voice sounded fatherly for just a second.

We hung up.

I went downstairs.

“I’m going to Stan’s.”

Benny shook his head, but Bob said, “Good.”

“Listen,” I said. “We got to keep a lid on this. Take the mini-van and ditch it.” It was stolen anyway. “Dump the shotguns.” I handed over the.45s and the.38. “These too.” I had replacements.

“What about you?” asked Benny.

“I’ll get Danny to drop me by my place. I want to change before I see Stan.”

They got up, and I showed them out. They had their marching orders, and I had mine.

I yelled for Danny.

From upstairs: “What?”

“Pull your hot rod around,” I yelled back. “I need a ride.”

The first time Danny tried college, he’d surprised the hell out of everyone by getting a baseball scholarship. So we gave him the eight thousand dollars we had in a savings account that we’d been saving for tuition. He dropped three grand on a 1965 Chevy Impala, big V-8 engine, fire-engine red. Convertible. He spent a month covered in grease, rebuilt the transmission, fixed it up nice.

So we were heading up 17-92 to my apartment, Danny driving. We had the top down. Wind blew. Normally, I’d be noticing how cool we looked, but my brain kept spinning me around in circles thinking what I was supposed to do with the briefcase in my lap. Take it to Stan I guess. Keep my mouth shut. Why didn’t that seem good enough?

“Have you thought about what I asked?”

I blinked, stopped thinking about who I could shoot to make things better for Stan. “Huh?”

“About working down in the monkey cage,” said Danny.

I waved him away. “You don’t even know what it takes.”

“Oh yeah?” He wore a denim jacket. He steered with one hand and pulled back his jacket with the other. Tucked in the belt of his jeans was an enormous, nickel-plated automatic pistol. There was a scope on it.

“What the hell is that?”

He took it out, slid it across the seat. “Take a look.”

I picked it up, turned it over in my hands. Danny had added a barrel extension, extra-capacity clip. What I’d thought was a scope was actually a laser sight. “I’m serious,” I said. “What the hell is this?”

“That’s one bad-ass chunk of serious heat. That’s what that is.”

“What are you, Buck fucking Rogers?”

“What’s wrong with it?”

“Nothing, I guess. If you’re trying to blow up the Death Star.”

“Listen, man, I’m good with that thing. I’ve been to the range twice a week.”

“Let me ask you something,” I said. “Where’d you get this thing?”

“Shoot Straight Gun Emporium.”

“How’d you pay?”

“Visa.”

“Okay,” I said. “So you shoot somebody. The cops get the ballistics and have no trouble tracing the piece right back to you. A nice, legal trail. Puts you in the slammer, twenty-five to life. Am I making my point?”

“Fine. I get it. I don’t know everything. You probably didn’t either at first. You had to learn.”

“That’s right. I had to . You don’t.”

“But-”

“Danny, it’s an ugly, hard, shitty way to earn a living.” I couldn’t help I was good at it. “And frankly this is not a good time. Things are crazy right now, and I’ve got to think about what I’m going to do.”

“Maybe I can help.”

I exhaled, the breath huffing out of me like it had given up. “I’ll let you know.”

Danny let me out in front of my garage apartment, rumbled away in the Impala with his giant gun and a sour look on his face. I went upstairs.

I shed my jeans and T-shirt, slipped into a black double-breasted suit, cuffs, red tie with a subtle pattern. Wingtips.

I went into the bathroom and opened the medicine cabinet. I took out the aspirin, milk of magnesia, various antiseptics and bandages. Set them all on the back of the toilet. I pried away the false back with a penknife, revealing the hidey hole where my spare pistols hung on pegs. I left the two Colt.45s and took down the.38 police special with the four-inch barrel. I checked to make sure it had a full load, then snugged it into the belly holster. When I buttoned the jacket, the piece was almost invisible, and I could draw three times faster from across my belly than I could from the shoulder.

I put the medicine cabinet back together and checked myself in the mirror. Good. I looked professional again.

At my kitchen table, I fussed with the eel-skin briefcase. After my makeshift locksmithing with the bowie knife, I could only get one of the latches to snap back into position. I didn’t want the books to spill out into the street, so I found a dark green gym bag under my bed and put the books inside. Zipped it up.

I started out the door with the gym bag, stopped, looked at the briefcase still on the table. Stan said bring it. Of course, he wanted what was inside, but why risk having to drive back? Details. That’s what separates the professionals from the average jerkoff. Details.

I grabbed the briefcase and my car keys and went downstairs.

Behind my Buick, I dropped the gym bag at my feet, still had the briefcase under my arm. I slipped the key into the trunk but never had a chance to turn it.

The blow slapped sharply across the base of my skull. My eyes were swallowed by darkness; the big fireworks display went off in my head. I stumbled forward, sprawled on the trunk. The blackness drawing me down into a spiraling funnel of white noise.

My suit was dirty.

So was the left side of my head.

That’s what happens when you lie facedown in a sandy driveway, I guess. I felt the back of my head before trying to get up. No sticky layer of blood. Thank God for small favors. I got up on one knee, a little wobbly. I put my hands against the trunk of the Buick for support, climbed to my feet.