Joe Haldeman - Work Done for Hire

The revolver seemed heavy and obvious in my Amtrak bag, and perhaps the idea of a gun clashed with its cheerful logo, but it would be more conspicuous in my pocket. I decided to use my layover in Washington to buy a shoulder holster. And a double-breasted dark jacket, with padded shoulders, to go with it. Mirror shades and a rent-a-girl to hang on my arm. Or maybe I should stick with the Amtrak bag.

Actually, an inconspicuous light jacket and a shoulder holster would be a good idea. I checked the web on the bar-car computer, and was amazed to find out (admittedly in an ad for shoulder holsters) how risky it was to simply carry a pistol in your pocket—at any second, the trigger could snag the pocket lining and blow your dick off! Buy a shoulder holster for the sake of your theoretical progeny! I’d gone all my life without worrying about that.

Actually, I’d be more concerned about a policeman saying, “Is that a pistol in your pocket, or are you just… wait! That is a pistol in your pocket! Hands up!”

The Amtrak bag seemed effective and inconspicuous, and the price was right. But I wondered whether I might be going into a situation where I would want a concealed weapon and both hands free. That might be worth the hundred bucks or so. Though I wouldn’t put it on unless I was walking into an actual “situation.”

I did get a solid six hours of sleep on the train, even getting up a couple of times to take the foil off for random intervals, to confuse things. As we approached Washington, I left it off for the last hour or so. The people who were renting the room in the Marriott would no doubt be listening.

I’d want it covered up all the time when I headed north, but also, naturally, I’d want it to be “not working” for hours at a time before I left.

Of course I had no idea where the listeners were located. Maybe they were in Maine, in the same room as Kit, which they implied. I must be ready to surprise them there, at least approaching with the hand quiet, wrapped up.

But first there was Washington to worry about. In all likelihood, they would expect to meet, or at least contact, me when I arrived in Washington. Perhaps I should do that, reassuring them just before I headed north, with my foil-silenced hand. If I checked into the hotel on schedule and then turned around, wrapped up the hand, and went straight to the train station, I could be halfway to Maine before they missed me.

By now, I hoped, they should be used to the intermittent signal from the hand.

When I got off the train in Union Station, I looked around, checking the time, as if I were expecting someone to meet me. Kept looking as I walked from the track through the huge station, but nobody contacted or, apparently, followed me.

I got to the taxicab rank and then doubled back to the ticket machine. Quickly bought a ticket up to Maine via Penn Station. There were lots of trains from Washington to Boston, but not so many from Boston to Maine. Two leaving in the morning, two in the afternoon, and a red-eye just before midnight.

I did toy with the idea of chancing a plane north. Of course the pistol was the obstacle. I could just ditch it and improvise when I got to Maine, a state with a lot of hunters. How hard could it be to buy a pistol in Portland?

Actually, I had no idea. But a gun in the hand is worth two in the bush, or something, conjuring the pubic ultimate in concealed weapons.

And I would actually only save about two hours, flying. There weren’t that many flights to Maine from New York. I guess people in Maine took the train or stayed home.

The only legal gun store in the District of Columbia, according to the computer, was one operating inside the main police station—how handy for them. I’m sure there was a fascinating story behind that. But I just needed a holster, and Googling, found a list of sporting goods stores that sold them, one right in Union Station.

I got a hot dog and a Coke from a vendor and asked her where the sporting goods store was. She pointed down a long corridor of shopfronts. I sat and finished my lunch contemplating the question, “How do you look innocent while asking to see concealed-weapon accessories?” Then I went off to try it.

I walked through a huge assortment of balls and bats and gloves and hats, until I got to the very rear of the store, where behind a forest of rifle barrels pointing skyward and a veritable clothing store of desert- and jungle-colored garments, there was a glass case with dozens of bright new airguns. A few aisles down, I found stacks of various holsters.

The shoulder holsters looked a little too gangster-ish. But I guess gangsters preferred them for a reason.

“Can I help you decide?” asked a little round man with a nametag.

“Looking for a holster for a snub-nosed Taurus.”

“Would that be a 605? An 85?” He looked left and right. “You don’t have it with you?”

“No. No, it’s for a friend.” Wouldn’t be smart to pull it out, I presumed.

“Good. Do you know if it’s a .38 Special or a .357 Magnum?”

“Either, I think. I was told.” By a highly trustworthy arms merchant in a smoky New Orleans dive.

“Will you be wearing it under your clothing or outside?”

“Under.” He nodded and didn’t ask to see my permit.

He picked up two cardboard cartons. “Under the arm or on the belt?”

“Belt, I suppose.”

He handed me one. “This is best, I think, for men who aren’t, well, very fat. Some policemen are.”

“I’ve noticed.” I took it from him. The belt clip seemed to be on the wrong side.

“It’s not for cross-draw,” he said. “Strong side.”

I clipped it on my belt on the right hip. “You don’t recommend cross-draw?”

“Your choice.” He shrugged, I think meaning not for the likes of you . “You might want to wear it with a roomy jacket. Sports coat.” I bought it and went to look for something inconspicuous to put over it.

There was a clothing store called Next2New less than a mile’s walk away. Plenty of time before the train, so I strolled there, through a part of Washington the guidebooks probably didn’t mention. I got a shabby tweed jacket for less than a hamburger on the train, and a well-worn beige shirt with the monogram MPX on the breast pocket. Michael P. Xavier, if anyone asks.

I changed clothes in a grubby men’s-room stall at Union Station, throwing away the old shirt. My heart jumped when I did that: before the next time you change clothes, you’ll face down the Enemy. Don’t sweat, now.

Clipped the holster onto my belt and slid the Taurus into place. In the mirror I looked innocent enough. Would it fool a trained policeman? An untrained one? I put the gun back in the Amtrak bag.

On the way to the waiting room I passed the sporting goods store and hesitated. I’d reloaded the pistol after the billboard confrontation, but no longer had that box of cartridges. So should I face the bad guys with only five rounds, or go in and buy a new box?

I didn’t know enough. Could you buy a carton of bullets as casually as a carton of milk here? Or would your face automatically appear on a Homeland Security computer screen with the notation “armed and presumed dangerous”? Escaped from a military hospital where he was being held under armed guard.

Here’s your change, sir. You might want to run for the door.

Well, the depressing truth was that one box of cartridges more or less was not going to profoundly affect my fate. If five rounds didn’t do the job, then thirty wouldn’t either. Factor in the time it would take me to shuck out the used shells and reload, cowering behind that Ikea coffee table. Five would have to do.

If it came down to a firefight, my trusty snub-nose against however many serious weapons they had, I was going to come in second anyway. That didn’t worry me as much as it should have, though; give a man a weapon and he starts to think with his balls.