Robert Crais - The Last Detective

Mazi said, "He theenkeeng about ewe gun."

"Big fuckin' deal. He did all right out there. He's a natural-born killer."

Ben said, "I can shoot."

Eric raised his eyebrows, glancing up from his cards.

"That's right, you're a coonass. You people hunt before you can walk. What kinda shooting you do?"

"I have a twenty-gauge shotgun and a.22. I've been duck hunting with my uncles and my grandpa. I've shot my mom's pistol."

"Well, there you go."

Mazi said, "Waht meenz koonahz?"

"A coonass is a Frenchman from Louisiana."

Eric liked it that they were talking about guns. He reached under his shirt, and took out the gun. It was big and black, with a checked grip and worn engraving on its side.

"You wanna hold it?"

Mazi said, "Stop eet. Put ewe gun ah-way."

"Fuck off. What could it hurt?"

Eric turned the pistol from side to side so Ben could see.

"This is a Colt forty-five Model nineteen-eleven. It used to be the standard-issue combat sidearm until the Army went pussy with this nine millimeter shit. A nine holds more bullets, but a nine ain't shit; you don't need more bullets if you hit your target with this."

Eric waved the gun toward Mazi.

"Take a big nigger like Mazi here, he's strong as a cape buffalo and ten times as mean. You can shoot him all day with a nine and he'll keep comin', but you put one of these in him, you'll knock him flat on his ass. This gun's a stopper."

Eric waved the pistol back to Ben.

"You wanna hold it?"

Ben said, "Yeah."

Eric pressed something on the gun and the magazine fell out. He pulled the slide. The gun coughed up a bullet and Eric caught it in the air. He handed the gun to Ben.

Mazi said, "Mike see thees, he keek ewe ass."

"Mike's off havin' all the fun while we do this, so fuck'm."

Ben took the gun. It was heavy, and too big for his hands. Eric set the magazine on the floor, showed Ben how to work the safety and the slide, then handed back the gun so that Ben could do it himself. The slide was hard to pull.

Ben held the gun tightly. He pulled back the slide and locked it in place. All he had to do was shove in the magazine, release the slide, and it would be loaded and cocked. The magazine was right by his knee.

Eric took back the gun.

"That's enough."

Eric jammed in the magazine, jacked the slide, then returned the loose bullet to the magazine. He set the safety, then put the gun on the floor in front of him.

"Fuck all that shit about no round in the chamber. You gotta keep one in the box and good to go. If you need it, you won't have time to dick around."

They played cards all afternoon as if they did this kind of thing every day. Ben sat close to Eric, thinking about the gun being loaded and cocked with one in the box. All he had to do was release the safety. He rehearsed doing it in his mind. If he got his chance, he wouldn't have time to dick around.

Eric went to the bathroom, but brought the gun with him. When he returned, the gun was back in his pants, but now Eric had clipped it onto his far side. Ben told them that he had to go to the bathroom, too. Mazi brought him. When they came back to the cards, Ben sat on Eric's side near the gun.

Mike didn't return until almost dark.

When he walked in, he said, "Okay, we're set."

"Ewe find dee plaze?"

"It's Delta, man. Everything's rigged and ready to rock.

They won't see it coming."

Eric said, "Fuck all that, I wanna know if we're getting the money."

"After they see what's in the van, I'd say yes."

Eric laughed.

"This is so sweet."

"I'm gonna grab a shower. Get your shit together. Once we leave here, we won't come back."

Ben stayed close to Eric. If they worked it the same as before, Mike would leave by himself, and Ben would go with Eric and Mazi. Ben planned to sit as close to Eric's gun as possible. He could make himself throw up so that Eric would turn away, or drop something so that Eric would have to pick it up. Hey, buddy, your shoe's untied! A chance would appear, and Ben wouldn't have time to dick around. He would stay with Eric like a second skin.

Ben's mom had told him about something called visualization, which all the best tennis players do to help their game. You imagine yourself smashing a perfect service ace or a killer passing shot, and you see yourself winning. It's a mental rehearsal that helps you do the real thing.

Ben imagined every possible scenario for grabbing Eric's gun: Eric getting into the car ahead of him, Eric getting out, Eric bending over to pick up a quarter, Eric chasing a bug – Ben only needed one brief moment when Eric's back was turned, and Ben would do this: He would lift Eric's shirt with his left hand and grab the gun with his right; he would jump backwards hard as Eric turned, and release the safety; he wouldn't yell Stop or I'll shoot! or anything stupid like that; he would pull the trigger. He would keep pulling the trigger until they were dead. Ben visualized himself doing it just like that – POWPOWPOWPOWPOW. It's a stopper.

Suddenly, it was time. Mike came from the back of the house with a short pump-action shotgun and a pair of binoculars.

Mike said, "This is it, ladies. Showtime."

Eric shoved up from the floor like it couldn't come too soon, pulling Ben with him.

"Fuckin' A. Let's get it on."

They slung their duffel bags and trooped through the house. Ben was so scared that his ears buzzed, but he stayed close to Eric. A battered blue compact that Ben hadn't seen before was waiting in the garage next to the sedan. Eric steered him toward the compact.

Eric said, "Okay, troop, step lively."

Behind them, Mike said, "Hang on."

They stopped.

"The kid's coming with me."

Mike took Ben's arm and turned him toward the sedan. Eric climbed into Mazi's car. Ben pulled back from Mike.

"I don't want to go with you. I want to go with Eric."

"Fuck what you want. Get in the car."

Mike pushed him into the passenger side, then got in behind the wheel with his shotgun. The garage door opened, and Mazi and Eric drove away. Ben watched Eric's pistol go with them, cocked, good to go, with one in the box. It was like seeing a life preserver drift out of reach while he drowned.

Mike started the engine.

"You just sit still and be cool like before, and everything will work out all right."

Mike put the shotgun on the floor so that it rested between his legs. Ben looked at it. He had a twenty-gauge Ithaca shotgun at home and had once killed a mallard.

Ben stared hard at the shotgun, and then stared at Mike.

"I know how to shoot."

Mike said, "So do I."

They backed out of the garage.

time missing: 49 hours, 28 minutes

Pike was waiting for me at one of those flat anonymous office buildings that were clustered all through Downey and the City of Industry, just south of LAX; cheap buildings thrown up by aerospace companies during the defense boom in the sixties, surrounded then as now by parking lots jammed with midsized American cars driven to work by men wearing ill-fitting dark suits.

When I got out of my car, Pike studied me in that motionless way he has.

I said, "What?"

"They have a bathroom in here."

He brought me into the lobby. I went into the men's room, turned on the hot water, and let it run until steam fogged the mirror. DeNice's blood was still speckled around my nails and in the creases of my skin. I washed my hands and arms with green soap, then put them under the running hot water. My hands turned bright red again, almost as red as the blood, but I kept them in the water trying to burn them clean. I washed them twice, then took off my shirt and washed my face and neck. I cupped my hands and drank, then looked at myself in the mirror but I was hidden by fog. I went back to the lobby.