Blake Crouch - Birds of Prey

Which had a trunk.

Which was where his cargo currently slept in a blissful black tar dream. He could simply redose her, hit the gun show for several hours, and see if there was anything special that caught his eye.

Porter

Leo Porter, of Porter’s Guns and Ammo, surveyed the customers milling about in his eponymous shop and frowned. He was busy, but not busy enough. Unless he started selling some big ticket merchandise, and plenty of it, he was never going to be able to repay the loan.

The loan, eleven thousand bucks, had been given to him by Sal Dovolanni, a Chicago wiseguy who wanted the principal, plus an outrageous thirty percent interest, by noon tomorrow. Porter had taken the loan to bid on hosting the annual Bullets and Babes Gun and Knife Show. The BABGAKS traveled around the country, and Sal had done well as a vendor during the past years. But he’d been told the big money was in sponsoring the event. If Sal did that, the vendors would pay him, and he’d be able to offer his entire inventory for sale, rather than just the limited amount of firearms he could cart from state to state.

So he’d taken the loan, convinced that he’d make the money back and plenty more besides. And actually, he’d more than doubled the loan. But he’d forgotten something extremely important.

The majority of his sales were by credit card. Porter wouldn’t see that money until next week, when it was direct-deposited into his bank account.

Dovolanni wanted cash. Wanted it right fucking now. And Porter only had 5k in the safe, maybe another few hundred in the register.

He’d realized his mistake that morning, but a frantic call to Dovolanni for more time had been met with derision. Sure, Porter could be late. But he’d get two broken legs just the same.

So earlier that day, Porter began offering drastic discounts for cash. In some cases, he was actually losing money by selling below cost. But he liked his legs as they were, functional and unbroken. Years ago, he’d dislocated a finger. That had been agonizing. He couldn’t imagine the pain of a larger bone being broken. If it came down to that, he’d seriously consider eating a bullet first. Porter knew plenty of guys who’d been shot. Supposedly, it didn’t hurt that much.

“How much is this box of 7.62 shells?” The question came from a guy in fatigues with SWANSON stenciled on his breast pocket. Two other matching wannabes named MUNCHEL and PESSOLANO flanked him. Porter knew they were wannabes because they called the ammo shells instead of their proper name, cartridges. He would have bet all the cash in the safe that none of them had a shred of military experience.

“Price is on the box, like all the other cartridges you asked about,” Porter said. These guys had been in his shop for over an hour and hadn’t bought a single thing.

“Right,” said Swanson, “but you said there’s a twenty percent discount for cash.”

“Yeah.”

“So how much?”

Porter fought not to shake his head, and instead explained, with infinite patience, as if speaking to a brain-damaged child, how to calculate twenty percent off.

The moron put the ammo box back anyway.

Porter turned away and sighed, wondering if he should run for the border now, or at least wait until closing time.

He decided to ride it out. Occasionally, miracles happened.

Maybe he’d stumble into one today.

Jack

Cops and guns went together like cops and donuts. While I’ve never been partial to donuts, except for an occasional Boston Crème, I did respect and appreciate guns.

Last year, the Bullets and Babes Gun and Knife Show had been in Chicago, and I’d attended with my partner, Herb Benedict, for the express purpose of buying a semi-automatic.

My carry gun, a .38 Colt Detective Special, held six cartridges and weighed twenty-one ounces. It was no longer being produced, and I was becoming the butt of ageism jokes around the station. The latest was a Photoshopped pic of me wielding a wooden club with the caption: “Lt. Daniels Finally Upgrades Her Weapon.”

I liked revolvers, because they never jammed—one of my first cases almost ended in my death because I’d been relying on a semi-auto. But last year I’d been tempted by a Heckler & Koch P2000, which weighed the same as my Colt, and held a clip of ten .357 Sig rounds. I liked how it fired, how it felt, how it didn’t jam even though I put two hundred rounds through it on the practice range, and I’d been very close to sealing the deal when Herb was overtaken with a particularly terrible bout of food poisoning, publicly erupting at both ends. Which, coincidentally enough, came from eating donuts. I took him to the ER, intending to return to the show, but didn’t have the chance. And while Illinois had its fair share of gun shops where I could order an HK P2000, real life had gotten in the way and I never got around to it.

But my Captain had forced me to take a day off, and so I drove out to Indiana for this year’s BABGAKS, with the intent to pick one up. It didn’t hurt that the gun dealer from last year was easy to look at. Though I was currently living with a guy, things had been going poorly, so it didn’t hurt to keep my options open. My boyfriend was the reason for my recent tendency to put in more hours at work. Better to stay at the Job than try to deal with our growing dissatisfaction with one another.

The show took place under a gigantic tent, in a parking lot adjacent to Porter’s Guns and Ammo. Half of it was apportioned to the vendors, the other half to speakers for various demonstrations. Even though it was cold outside, the body heat generated by the number of people inside provided so much efficient heating, I regretted not leaving my Donna Karan jacket in my car.

The crowd was 90% men, most of them carrying. You’d think there’d be strict regulations about bringing in ammo for fear of a disagreement that ended in a shooting, but in fact the opposite seemed to be true. When everyone was armed, people tended to stay on their best behavior.

The remaining 10% of the crowd consisted of young girls in bathing suits—the promised Babes. They strutted around in high heels, passing out vendor fliers and presentation schedules.

In the background, some speaker droned on about the velocity, energy, and stopping-power differences between .40 S&W and .357 Sig rounds, and since I was planning on going with the .357, I gave him partial attention as I weaved through the throng of armed men. Using a vendor map supplied by one of the Babes, I located the booth I was looking for—Theel Firearms. After three minutes of walking, and two more checks of the map, I arrived at my destination.

Except it wasn’t manned by the cute guy from last year. It was manned by another cute guy, several years my junior.

And by “several years” I meant “at least ten, maybe fifteen.” But he had a strong chin, the rugged good looks of a cigarette model, and kind eyes. He also wore a uniform with a patch across the heart in the shape of a badge. It read, “DEPUTY OF THE SHERIFF’S OFFICE – LA PLATA COUNTY, COLORADO.”

He was in discussion with another cop, a portly Sheriff in green khakis with a tan shirt. Name badge read D. EISENHOWER. This man was bald, and had a round, doughy face.

“I’ve never been asked that before,” said the cute guy. “All rounds fired at a human being are going to cause some bleeding. I don’t know which ones would cause the least amount.”

“I’d go with a steel jacket, use fewer grains for a lower velocity,” I chimed in. “The round exits the body with minimal target damage, minimal expansion.”

They both looked my way.

The cute one had no name tag.

“The lady is right,” he said, giving me a fast wink. “We don’t carry anything like that, but if you load your own, I could set you up with some equipment.”