Joe Haldeman - Work Done for Hire

It’s very close to what my hero in the novel was doing, in reverse, but the only reference to that in the whole world was buried in Duquest’s files; maybe my agent’s. Under anybody’s radar.

Kit was carrying the fake Glock, the pellet gun with the orange nose spray-painted black, figuring that if one of us was going to need it on these deserted country roads, it would be her. My thinking had gone a little beyond that, though.

The one morning drunk at the bar got up and left. I took a G-note out of my pocket and smoothed it onto the bar. “Jimmy,” I said to the bartender, “maybe you can help me with a little problem.”

Two hours later I was down in bayou country, headed east on Route 90, a bright red accessory bag on a quick-release clip in the center of my handlebars. It held my wallet, maps, some nuts, and a candy bar—and a snub-nosed Taurus .38 Special, the favorite little pistol of TV detective actors. Actual criminals probably favor something with more punch, but a new .357 Magnum would have cost nearly a thousand more.

I didn’t want anything bigger anyhow. When I unsnap the bag and carry it into a convenience store, I don’t want the clerk to gauge its weight and reach for his own gun.

I’d bought it from a black guy who had conspicuous tracks on his left forearm and hadn’t bathed in a while. But his hands were steady and his eyes clear, so I assumed he was a cop, or worked for them. Which didn’t bother me too much. If somebody tried to bust me I would have Sara Underwood rain some Homeland Security shit on them. Though she might just ask them to lock me up and throw away the key.

There was enough truck traffic to keep me from being bored, and the road was pretty rough. The bikes were set up for endurance rather than speed, medium-fat tires with Kevlar inserts. Fewer miles per day but no flats, and we could go off-road if necessary.

There were no good scenarios that involved that, though. If someone was after us with a car, we were just caught. I wasn’t going to hit the dirt and lay down a field of fire, not with five rounds of .38 Special ammo indifferently aimed. Twenty-five rounds if I had time to reload a few times, which didn’t seem likely.

I guess the gun was more a psychological crutch than actual protection. As my M2010 had been in the desert, most of the time—if you live with a weapon 24/7 it becomes like another limb, and anytime it’s out of sight you start to panic.

(So when is a crutch not a crutch? When you could walk better without it?)

I’d gone unarmed for most of eight years, but the feeling of symbiosis, of dependence, came back immediately. It made me feel more calm, in control, even though my rational brain knew that was nonsense. If any of our enemies produced a weapon, it would trump the hell out of a Dick Tracy snub-nose .38 not-so-Special revolver.

But it was better than nothing. Nothing would be total helplessness, being a target rather than a foe. And even though Sara Underwood probably already had a memo on her desk with the serial number and exact provenance of my .38, whoever was after us probably didn’t know yet. That might buy us a second or two in a few of the less likely futures that we faced.

We had figured that it would be safe enough if we came together each night. Two people on bicycles might be conspicuous at a mom-and-pop motel, but two car-less bikers at two separate motels would be even more conspicuous, and we felt safer together.

She called me on the walkie-talkie and said there was a vacancy at the place we’d tentatively chosen, the Southern Comfort motel, a half mile up the road. On the way there I stopped at a convenience store and bought a pint of that odd beverage, honey-flavored whiskey. At a 7-Eleven. God bless Louisiana’s liquor laws!

We celebrated our first day as two-wheeled fugitives with a couple of big plastic cups of ice and the sweet liqueur, sitting on folding chairs on a screened porch overlooking some bayou. The mosquitoes were pretty fierce for our being technically indoors, but after we swatted a dozen or so they showed us some respect.

We’d brought the bikes inside the motel room rather than risk them being stolen or identified, and Kit had just nodded when I showed her the .38. She didn’t bring it up until we were halfway through the “Judy Collins Juice,” as my father called it. The sun was a dull crimson ball behind a confusion of spindly trees and power poles and lines.

“You know about guns and I don’t,” she said, “but I thought we decided back in Iowa…”

“Yeah, we did.” I could’ve bought a regular pistol at the Kmart where I’d bought the pellet gun. But I didn’t want to raise the ante, at the time. “I guess it was Blackstone getting killed. Like they’re playing hardball now.”

She nodded, staring at the dying sun. “Hardball. You sound like somebody on TV.”

I laughed. “Guess I do.”

“But guns are real to you, from being a soldier. That’s something we’ll never share.”

What could I say? “Hope not.”

The sun disappeared and a dozen birds swifted by overhead, talking about dinner. A good still moment.

“Would you show me how?”

“How what?”

“How to use the gun. If something happens to you that doesn’t happen to me.”

“’Course.” I stood up and stretched. “Not that I’m an expert.”

We went inside and I unzipped the red bike bag and took out the pistol, feeling a little foolish. The thin film of gun oil had collected some lint and grit. I took a tissue from the box on the desk and wiped it clean.

I thumbed the catch and the cylinder swung out. Looked down the barrel, using my thumbnail to reflect light up; it wasn’t even dusty.

Shook the cylinder into my palm but only one round dropped; I used the built-in ejector rod to push the others out. “Never had one like this,” I said apologetically. “Couldn’t fit an assault rifle into the bike bag.”

I snapped it shut and passed it to her with the nose pointed to the ceiling. “Rule Number One, they say. There’s no such thing as an unloaded gun.”

“That must save a lot on ammunition.” She took it. “Sorry; I’ll be good.”

“It does hurt a lot of soldiers, forgetting the round in the chamber. I don’t think you will, though.”

“No.” She held it like a ticking time bomb. “Heavier than it looks.”

“Always.” I passed her the handful of cartridges. “Load it up?”

She fumbled and dropped two, which was a complete lesson in its way. “Easier in the movies,” she said with a nervous laugh.

“I hear it happens to cops,” I said. “They practice for years, but when they have to reload under fire they’re all over the place.”

“I won’t be doing anything ‘under fire.’ Running, maybe.” She pushed the cylinder into place with a soft click.

“Me, neither, I hope.” I took it back from her and unloaded it again. “You don’t really aim a gun like this. You can’t hit the wall with it, anyhow, no matter how well you aim.” I pointed it at the TV and click, good-bye weather girl. “You know what a sight picture is?”

“No, I never heard the term.”

I handed it to her. “Point it at the door?”

She did, and I stood behind her and wrapped my hand over hers, and raised the pistol up to eye level. “The thing in the front is the blade sight. You line it up with the notch in the back and the bullet ought to go in that direction.”

She rocked it up and down. “You can’t focus on three things at once.”

“That’s right.” I peered over her shoulder and thought about what my eyes were doing. “I guess you look at the target, then bring the front sight in line with it, and then the rear sight, and then squeeze the trigger.” She did, and the hammer clicked down.