Victor Gischler: Gun Monkeys

It only took me a second to think of someplace to go.

I found Marcie on her front porch. She sat on the wooden bench sipping a gin and tonic.

I stopped in front of her, just off the porch. “I shot your bear.”

“You what my what?”

“The big stuffed polar bear in the garage,” I said. “I shot it. With my gun.”

“Why the hell’d you do that?” She stood, balled her little fist.

I shuffled my feet, shoved my hands deep in my pockets. “It sort of startled me.”

“My God. A grown man.” Marcie stomped into the house trailing obscenities.

I followed but paused in the kitchen. She’d left the door open, so I could hear her growling from the garage. I tossed some ice cubes into a glass and drowned them in gin. I went into the garage.

Marcie fingered the singed fur around the holes in the bear’s chest. She frowned at me with every muscle in her face. “Well, that’s just great.”

“He’s not getting any more dead. What’s the big deal?”

“This is my work.”

“Don’t you have some stuff to shove in the holes? Just use some white shoe polish on the burn marks. When the people come to pick it up they’ll never notice.”

“It’s not a job for a client,” said Marcie. “It’s one of my art pieces.”

“Oh.”

“And you shot it.”

She huffed back into the kitchen, built herself another gin and tonic.

I stayed in the garage, looking up at the bear’s snarling mug. “How’s this art?” I shouted over my shoulder.

“I wouldn’t expect you to understand,” she shouted back from the kitchen. “You’re an uncouth Neanderthal crap-head.”

That seemed a little harsh.

“I have a master’s in art from SUNY Buffalo for fuck’s sake.” She loudly slurped the gin and tonic, sucked ice.

And the bear, the way he looked, seemed angry. Not merely savage like an animal hunting food or defending its territory, but actually angered by some wrong. Like somebody had insulted the bear’s shoes. Or kicked his granny down the stairs.

I told this to Marcie, voice raised so she could hear me in the kitchen.

She came back into the garage quietly, her drink leading the way. “He looks angry? Really?”

“Is that wrong?”

“No.” She was surprised. “That’s what I meant. I was going for angry.”

“Yeah?”

“When people bring in an animal for me to mount, I try to give each piece an expression that matches the owner’s. It’s hard to give animals human emotions. Most people don’t think they can love or hate or be angry like people. But the bear’s mine. I wanted him to look angry.”

“So this is your art, huh?”

She laughed, put her hand on my arm. “I can’t exactly claim my work is wildly popular.” She kissed me on the cheek. “But thanks for getting it.”

I wasn’t sure I was getting it, but I was glad she wasn’t yelling at me anymore.

On a whim, I fished out the folded-up picture of paradise, the cover of the National Geographic, and showed it to her. “Let’s go here sometime.”

“Here?”

“Why not? Doesn’t everyone want to go someplace like that? The beach. Palm trees.”

“Who gives a shit about palm trees?”

“Who gives a- are you kidding? Look at the picture. It’s paradise.”

“I want to see pyramids.”

“Egypt?”

“Or Mexico,” said Marcie. “We could go to Acapulco. They have beaches and pyramids both.”

I slipped an arm around her waist. “Well, that’s one idea, I guess. I’ll take it under advisement.”

“Are you staying here tonight?” she asked.

“Yeah.”

We drank our drinks and stood for a while looking at her angry polar bear.

In the morning, Marcie got a call for a taxidermy job and took the Volvo to pick up a dead pelican.

I put last night’s plates in the dishwasher and cleaned up the kitchen. That took fourteen minutes. I made the bed. Three minutes. I showered, shaved and dressed. Twenty-one minutes.

I had a cup of coffee.

I had some guns in the trunk of my car, fetched them out. I took the Belgian.308 apart and cleaned it and the Browning automatics too, even though I hadn’t fired them, and they were spotless. I did a quick inventory of my ammunition. I had a hundred.308 shells and two hundred.45 rounds including what was in the spare clips. I had eighteen bullets for the.38 revolver. I drank another cup of coffee.

Time to call Ma.

I dialed her number, and she answered after four rings. She was happy to hear from me, then immediately bawled me out for not calling sooner. She filled my ear with news of aunts and distant cousins.

“Ma, you didn’t want me to call just to tell me Aunt Nora was having her gall bladder out, did you?”

“It’s Danny,” said Ma. “Your brother’s making me crazy.”

“He’s a Swift. Comes with the territory.”

“I know, and I’m probably worrying over nothing. You know, if your father were still alive-”

“I know, Ma.”

“Sometimes, he needs a man to talk to. I do my best.”

“I know.”

“Come over. I’ll cook for you.”

“Soon.” I cleared my throat. “I’ve met somebody.”

There was a pause. “Oh?”

“She’s nice. Smart. Has a master’s degree from college.”

“Well, be careful, Charlie.”

I fought down my irritation. “Why would I need to be careful?”

“I know you’re an adult, of course.” She lightened her tone and put a chuckle into her voice. “It’s just that no one’s good enough for my baby.”

“She’s good enough. Maybe too good.”

“Let me know when you’re coming.”

We made our goodbyes, and I hung up the phone.

I poured a third cup of coffee. It was 8:41 A.M.

I picked up the phone. No more stalling. Marcie had her work, and I had mine. Vacations were nice, but I was a professional. Stan picked up after seven rings.

“Hello?”

“Hi, Boss,” I said. “You’ve been looking for me?”

Back in the day.

I’d been out of the army for two months, and I’d already killed five men, but I could barely pay the bills. The army hadn’t really paved the way for legitimate employment on the outside.

I had a string of medals for marksmanship.

After the first seven weeks of Ranger training, a guy with bars on his shoulders ordered my transfer to a special outfit. No patches. No insignia. No name. It wasn’t anything I could put on a resume.

But there was always work for someone with skills. Fists, knives, guns.

Stan had gotten word I was handy with my pistols. That’s how things worked back in the day. No matter how careful you thought you were in keeping a lid on things, The Word always got around. So Stan had sent Thumbs Hogan to invite me for pie.

In the years I’d known Stan, we’d had pie four times.

The first time was when he made me New Guy in the monkey cage. I was young and hungry and smart, and I’d known a good opportunity when I was handed one.

We shook hands. I started making good money.

I didn’t have set hours. I didn’t punch a clock. I just did whatever Stan said. Or, more often, whatever Thumbs Hogan said. Sometimes people wouldn’t come across with money they owed Stan. A laundry service or a gin mill or one time even a Lutheran preschool. Sometimes a deadbeat gambler needed a knuckle job. Sometimes people got too curious about Stan’s business, and I was sent to convince certain parties to take up other hobbies. Variations on a theme solved any problem. Me and a gun. Me and a set of brass knuckles. Me and a baseball bat. Me.

Then there were those times that somebody called Stan for help and was willing to pay big money to have a problem go away. And Stan would put me on a plane to Denver or Little Rock or Portland, and I’d disappear the problem into the night. Sweep it away in a clap of cordite, a.45 caliber stab of light into the darkness.