Blake Crouch - Birds of Prey

D. Eisenhower grunted, hitched up his pants, and walked off without another word.

“Odd fella. More than a passing resemblance to that Pillsbury mascot.”

“I’m looking for Chester,” I said.

“Chester’s not here today. I’m his little brother, Clayton. Call me Clay.”

He didn’t offer his hand, but his smile was inviting, and he leaned over the table just a bit to get closer.

“Hi, Clay. I’m looking for an HK P2000.”

“Replacement carry, Detective?”

“Lieutenant,” I corrected. “Yes. My team is giving me shit for my current carry.”

“And what would that be?”

“Detective Special.”

He nodded. “Colt. A classic. May I see it?”

I tugged the revolver out of my shoulder holster. Clay had correctly deduced I was a cop because we were the only ones allowed to carry concealed. Since I was in plainclothes, he had incorrectly assumed I was a detective. But then, I could forgive the assumption—I liked to think I looked too young to be a Lieutenant. I released the cylinder, spilled the bullets into my hand, and gave him the weapon.

His eyes narrowed with focus as he studied it.

“I see a lot of use, but this is in great shape. I like a woman who takes care of her weapon.”

“I admire the same thing in a man,” I said.

“Nice butt.”

“Thanks. I work out.”

His smile widened. “I meant the grip. Older guns, the wood sometimes cracks. You looking to sell this? I’d make you a good deal.”

“No, thanks. Do you have the P2000?”

“Sure do.”

He handed my gun back, and while I reloaded and holstered it, he ducked under his table and took out a metal gun box. When he flipped open the top, I was staring down at an HK with a spare clip, each nestled in foam.

Clay removed it, did a customary check of the slide to confirm it was empty, and handed it over. “Chambered for .357 Sig rounds.”

I noticed a thin sheen of oil on the piece. “Brand new?”

“A virgin,” he said.

“I like mine with a little experience.”

“We could work something out. My other brother, Remy, is taking over in a few minutes. If you’d like, we can go to the range at Porter’s next door. Try before you buy.” His eyes flicked down to my hands. Checking for a wedding ring, maybe?

“That would be great, Clay. Thanks.”

“I didn’t get your name, Lieutenant…?”

“Daniels. Jack Daniels. Call me Jack.”

His eyes lit up. “Your reputation precedes you, Jack. Even as far west as Colorado. I watched that TV show based on you. You’re much better looking than that chubby actress, if I may say so.”

“You may. And you just did.”

It felt good to flirt with a cute guy, especially since my current romantic interest had been treating me so icily I could see his breath when he spoke.

“Here comes my bro, Remy. Remington, this is Jack Daniels.”

Remy nodded at me. He looked even younger than Clay, though not nearly as cute.

“Chester, Clayton, and Remington?” I said.

“Dad said he wanted a ton of kids,” Remy said, shrugging.

“Remy, I’m going to take Jack and Alice to the range, see if she’s interested in buying our P2000.”

“Alice?” I asked.

Clay smiled, and from under the table removed the biggest revolver I’d ever seen. It was nickel-plated and had RAGING BULL engraved on the barrel.

“This is Alice. A Taurus .454 Casull.” He beamed like he was watching his son score a winning touchdown.

“You named your gun Alice?” I asked.

“Sure,” he said, putting his hand on the table and vaulting over it. “Haven’t you named your Colt?”

“No.”

“Well, let’s see how she fires,” Clay said, winking and cocking out his arm for me to take. “Maybe we’ll think of something.”

Mr. K

The man known in law enforcement circles as Mr. K walked past the attractive woman and the cop she was flirting with, and approached a booth occupied by Morrell’s Edges. Morrell was an older man, sturdy, his red cheeks separated by a black mustache, known to be one of the finest custom knife makers in the country, if not the world.

Mr. K had come to pick up a custom piece, something that he needed for his line of work. He made a living committing very bad deeds for very bad people for very good money. Often, those very bad things involved detail work.

Try cutting off someone’s eyelids with an over-the-counter pocket knife, for example. Or slicing off their fingernails with a serrated folder. Fulfilling special orders like that required a precision device, and Morrell was the man to see about such cutlery.

Already at the table stood a familiar, pudgy gentleman with distasteful armpit stains.

The pudgy man was arguing with Morrell.

“I’m telling you, it was a custom piece. I saw it maybe ten years ago. Guy said it came from you. Most beautiful knife I’d ever seen. Handle made of ivory. Long, heavy blade, also had some serration. Could shave the skin off a newborn child, if you know what I’m saying.”

“You’re welcome to look through my custom book, Mr. Donaldson.” Morrell indicated a cheap, bound photo album, full of his designs. “But ivory is illegal, and I don’t mess around with that.”

“I already looked through the book,” Donaldson said. “Wasn’t in there.”

“Then I’m afraid I can’t help you.”

Mr. K offered a pleasant, “Excuse me,” and then butted in front of the sweating fat man. “Mr. Morrell, you did a special order for me. Walnut handle, blade like an ice pick.”

“Indeed I did. I had one helluva time tempering the steel to make it strong enough to hold that edge, Mr…”

“I didn’t give you my name,” Mr. K said, offering a tight smile. “But I did pay you in advance, and I’d like my merchandise.”

Morrell nodded.

The fat man folded his arms. Scowling like a pouting child. He glanced over at Mr. K.

“Fancy seeing you here.”

“You as well,” replied Mr. K. “Staying out of trouble?”

“Hell, no. You?”

Mr. K shrugged. He remembered Donaldson from a short car ride they’d shared years ago. He had found the man to be unpleasant back then, and was in no mood to play where has all the time gone.

“Are these knives?” Mr. K and Donaldson turned to see a young girl, short and thin, with a stunningly-beautiful face. He would’ve placed her in her twenties, but her blond pigtails made her seem younger. So did her shoes, which were pink and appeared to be made out of foam.

“Yes, dear, this is a knife maker’s booth,” Mr. K said. “That’s an interesting choice in footwear.”

“They’re called Crocs. They’re new. I got one of the first pairs.” She smiled sweetly at him. “Do you have a car? Because I’m looking to get over to Chicago, and I need a ride.”

“Sorry,” Mr. K said. Something about the girl struck him as odd, and he made it a habit never to give people rides. Not since picking up Donaldson, all those years ago.

“I’ve got a car,” Donaldson offered.

The girl dismissed him with a quick grimace. “I bet,” she said, and then walked away, lugging a guitar case with her.

Mr. K managed to hide his smile, and then Morrell reappeared with a chamois cloth. He set it on the table and carefully unwrapped it.

At first glance, the object appeared to be just a knife handle, sans blade. But a closer inspection revealed something that resembled an ice pick.

This was no ordinary ice pick, however. It was an ice pick that had been sharpened down to the width of a single sheet of paper.

“May I?” Mr. K asked.

“Please.”

He lifted it, feeling the weight, admiring the craftsmanship. On an angle, the blade glinted under the artificial tent lights. Straight on, the blade practically disappeared.