Chris Offutt - The Good Brother

He woke folly dressed on top of the bedspread. Sunlight filtered through the curtains as he removed his clothes and went back to sleep. In the afternoon he took a long bath. Winning money at poker had given him the first good feeling in months and he strolled downtown. A faint snow made the buildings indistinct, as if seen through silk. The money felt free to him, come from nowhere, and he wanted to buy something before it wound up transformed to a stack of chips in someone else’s pile.

The courthouse reminded him of the one in Rocksalt. It was built of stone and occupied an entire block, with a statue of a soldier charging across the wide lawn. Across the street was a bail bondsman and a lawyer’s office. It occurred to Joe that Montana made life handy for criminals.

He found a pawnshop with rows of leather jackets and stereo equipment, a motorcycle, and a pinball machine. The young proprietor wore a heavy mustache that ran to his jawline. Joe inspected several pistols and asked for a.32 caliber that would fit in a coat pocket. The man gave him a form to fill out.

“Costs fifteen dollars to run the Brady check,” he said. “Come back in five days.”

Joe didn’t want to put his new name into the federal system. A driver’s license was risk enough.

“It ain’t the money,” Joe said, “but I don’t come to town that often. I’d just as soon get everything taken care of at once.”

“I understand, but I can’t.”

“What about if you just sell it to me personally?”

“Wish I could, partner. Ml these guns are catalogued already and I have to account for them.”

“Ain’t they nothing I can do?”

“Use the paper,” the man said.

“What do you mean?”

“Take a look at the classified ads in the newspaper. Hell, it’s like a black market.”

“How about ammo?”

“Don’t worry, they’ll have that, too.”

Joe bought a gun cleaning kit, and inquired about gold coins.

“What weight?” the man said.

“How’s it come?”

“Ounce, half-ounce, and a quarter.”

“Ounce I guess.”

“Eagle or Maple Leaf?” the man said.

“Shoot, I don’t know.”

“Eagle is American. It’s ten-percent copper alloy but the value’s the same. Canadian Maple Leaf is solid gold.”

“What do most people get?”

“You know how it is around here. Folks mainly go for American. Had some Krugerrands out of South Africa but some man bought them all. Came in wearing full fatigues and carrying a Glock. Paid in hundreds.”

“Reckon I’ll take the Eagle.”

The man stepped into the back room. Stacked on the counter were new Liberty Teeth pamphlets. The front held a quote from Thomas Jefferson; “No free man shall ever be debarred the use of arms.” Inside was a drawing of a scaffold with a man hanging from the noose. Pinned to his shirt was a note that said RACE TRAITOR. A fire burned below his dangling feet. At the bottom were the words MONTANA FOR AMERICANS ONLY.

The man returned with a gold coin in a small plastic bag. It was very heavy. One side bore a raised image of an eagle bringing a sprig to its young in a nest. Below it were the words ONE OZ. FINE GOLD— 50 DOLLARS.

“Fifty bucks,” Joe said. “I’ll take half a dozen.”

“I guess you would. We go by spot price in the newspaper, plus twenty dollars.”

“Then what’s the fifty on it mean?”

“Original mold.” The man shrugged. “They never changed it. I don’t know why.”

The price of the coin was very high, but Joe bought it anyway and slipped it in his pocket. He tapped the pile of pamphlets.

“What are these all about? I keep seeing them.”

“Some friend of the owner drops them off. I threw out two bunches and got in trouble over it.”

“What’s a race traitor?”

“Hell if I know. I can’t keep up with that bunch. One week it’s Indians, next week it’s taxes.” The man shook his head. “They started out being over gun control and I was all for it. The government wanted us to hold a guy’s gun for three days when he took it out of hock, but that didn’t work out. Pawnshops put up a stink all over the country. Now they got the sheriff’s office doing extra work, running background checks. Some of them are so busy with, paperwork, they can’t get out and do no sheriffing.”

“Do these pamphlets help?”

“Hell, no. They piss a lot of people off, including me. But it ain’t my store. If it was, I’d get rid of the damn guns and deal in video games. Biggest turnover we got. You don’t want to look at a setup, do you?”

“I don’t have a TV.”

“No problem, partner. We’ll fix you right up.”

Joe shook his head and left. Though it was late afternoon, he ate breakfast at a diner and read a newspaper. For the first time in months, he took an interest in events of the world. There was an article about Christmas spending having risen since last year. He checked the paper’s date and was astounded to learn that it was January thirteenth. The holidays had come and gone without his notice. He thought of his mother and was stricken by the knowledge that she’d stayed near the phone in case he called.

From a pay phone he called a number in the paper that advertised guns for sale. The voice on the other end was curt, stressing that he only had legal weapons. Joe told him he wanted a small-caliber pistol and arranged to meet the man in the parking lot of a tavern. Outside, a thick snow fell. Neon bar signs tinged the air with gleaming shades of red, Joe drove to the lot and waited. Half an hour later, a small white car parked next to the Jeep. Joe opened the passenger door and sat inside.

The driver was in his forties, with long hair and a black Stetson. He wore a light denim jacket and beneath it Joe could see the web harness of a shoulder holster. The man didn’t talk as he opened a duffel bag and handed Joe one pistol at a time until he chose a.32 caliber. Joe asked for a box of ammunition and the man nodded. When Joe asked how much, the man held up two fingers.

“Two hundred?” Joe said.

The man nodded.

“That’s too much.”

The man shrugged and held out his hand for the pistol. Joe counted the money into the man’s palm. The silence made him nervous. He slipped the gun in his pocket and opened the car door. The man touched his arm. Joe stiffened, a quick surge of fear rushing through him. He turned warily and the man handed him the box of ammunition, Joe left the car.

Snow made a screen that blocked the street. He locked the front hubs into four-wheel drive and crossed the Clark Fork in snow too thick to see the guardrails. His headlights reflected off the wall of snow and shined back through the windshield. He passed two car wrecks, one deserted, the other attended by police and ambulance. He suddenly had no idea how far he’d traveled or how much time had passed since he’d left town. No one knew where he was. He held the steering wheel tightly, afraid of losing his balance and falling from the seat. He wanted to pull over and wait until daylight, wait until spring.

Lights flashed in his rearview mirror and he steered to the edge of the road as a small pickup passed him very fast. Joe drove through the whirl of snow left by the truck’s passage, deciding that the driver must be a local. He wondered if he’d ever be able to rush into the slippery darkness with such confidence.

He stopped at the tavern by Rock Creek, hoping to show off his gold piece» but it was empty. The bartender sat at the bar with a glass and a bottle of liquor. A situation comedy flickered on a small television.

“I don’t know why I watch this shit,” she said.

“Nothing else to do.”

“You can watch with me, if you like. Everything’s on the house tonight.”