almost okay

SEVERAL DEATHS IN
THE FAMILY
Chapter Five: Locked And A Little Loaded

I could hear a big dog barking viciously from somewhere nearby. He must have been fenced in or tied, because roaming dogs generally don't bother barking, they just growl, then bite. This one sounded like he was ready to kill if he could get loose. I took a swig of my beer.

I was sitting in the dining room of my buddy James' place in Oakland, a few days into my California vacation.

Before leaving Pittsburgh I had maxed out the cash advances and ATM withdrawals on my current work-issued credit card. Since the boss was in on whatever was going down, I knew it was probably just a matter of time before he shut off my money supply. I was still carrying a handful of cards leftover from the last few trips and was pleasantly surprised to find that three out of four of them were still active, so I did the same with them, booked a flight to San Francisco under an old alias, then ditched the rental car. Fortunately, I always carried a stack of former fake I.D.'s for just such an emergency. With a little luck, I wouldn't have to rob any liquor stores to stay flush while I was on the road. As a last resort, I could always fall back on my real identity and my own cash, but it would be nice to not leave a trail of activity that placed me at the locations of half a dozen murders.

My current alias had been blown, that was for sure, and there was no way I would have been able to turn my rental car in and make my flight out of Pittsburgh without being taken into custody. Amy the bartender had been very understanding. She helped me cut and dye my hair blond, and let me shave my beard off in her sink, although she winced when she saw how much curly hair it produced. I didn't tell her the truth, of course, because I doubt she would have been so agreeable had I been honest and told her I'd left a dead man in a hotel room not two miles from her apartment.

“It looks good on you, man,” said James.

“What's that?”

“The blond hair...heh, heh, heh...Makes you look ten years younger. And kinda gay.”

“Thanks a lot.” James and I went way back. He'd been a bouncer at one of the strip tease joints in L.A. where I worked as a stand-up comic back in the late sixties. He helped me out one night when a drunken heckler got way out of hand. I bought the drinks after work and we'd been friends ever since.

James approached the bookshelf, pulled the last three volumes from their place on the second tier and reached carefully into the empty space. Solemnly he withdrew the small bundle, which was neatly wrapped in a ratty forest green hand towel. He sat down at the dining room table opposite me, took a quick look around to make sure that he had closed all the blinds to prevent anyone seeing in from the street. He had. The drapes had been drawn tight together, too, and he'd rolled his finger over the dimmer switch on the wall to all but kill the light coming from the overhead fixture. I could have seen better by candlelight.

“Well, here it is,” he said. “You need another beer?”

“No, man,” I said. “I still have over half.”

He peeled back each fold until the towel was open and flat on the table, the pistol - a snub nose .32 revolver, lying directly in the middle of it. It didn't look like much to me, didn't even look real. The finish was a dull black, and the grip appeared to be made of tan plastic. It looked as though it had been used. A lot. Maybe even run over by a tank or something.

“It's just your basic starter's pistol,” James said. “A cheap Saturday night special.”

“It looks like a toy,” I said.

“Ain't no toy, man,” he said. “Here, have a feel.” James slid the gun, towel and all, towards me.

“Is there a safety?”

“Naw, man. Just be careful. It's loaded.”

“Take the bullets out for me, would you?”

James pulled the pistol back to him, picked it up and broke it down by turning out the latch pin, flipped the cylinder open with a quick motion of his wrist. With the barrel pointed towards the ceiling, he spilled the bullets into the towel, then handed it to me. It was lighter than I expected. I pulled hard at the trigger, but it wouldn't budge.

“Here, put this back in. It might not work without it.” James handed me the latch pin, a threaded steel rod about two-and-a-half inches long, the same dull black as the rest of the gun. I screwed it in, pulled the trigger and the hammer snapped onto an empty chamber. I pulled again. Snap. The cylinder rotated with each imaginary shot.

“Can I shoot it like this?” I demonstrated the gunslinger method by slapping at the hammer with the palm of my left hand.

“Heh, heh. You crazy, man,” James laughed. “Yeah, I guess you can. I wouldn't do it that way, though. Who you think you are? Matt Dillon?”

“Yeah, that does seem like a hard way to do it,” I said as I continued to practice my draw and shoot. “It can't be very accurate, either.”

I reached over and picked up one of the bullets. It also didn't really look like much. It was short, maybe an inch and a quarter long. The shell casing was brass, the nose a rounded slug of lead with a flat tip. I pulled the latch pin and tried flipping the cylinder open as James had done, but it only swung part way. I pushed it the rest of the way out on its hinge, slid the bullet into one of the chambers, and gingerly spun the cylinder between my thumb and forefinger. The cylinder had five chambers. There were only three more bullets laying on the towel.

“That all the bullets you got?” I asked him.

“That's it,” he said. “I can get more, though.”

“No, this should do. How much?”

“If you need it, you can have it, man. But you owe me one.”

“I'd rather give you some cash,” I said. “I might not be in a position to repay you later. How much?”

James hesitated for a moment, stared into space as he made his calculation. “A hundid,” he said finally. “And I'll throw the bullets in for free.” James looked at me and chuckled, then flashed an ear-to-ear smile that revealed beautiful white teeth, one upper incisor crowned in platinum. I fished through my pockets and found three crumpled twenties, put them on the table. I pulled a fifty from my wallet.

“You got change?”

“What I look like, man? A bank?” I frowned at him. He chuckled and pulled a thick roll of cash from his pocket. It was wrapped with a wide pink rubber band. James slid the rubber band off, thumbed through the bills until he found a ten, peeled it slowly out of the roll and handed it to me. “Pleasure doin' business with you, br'uh. You ain't expectin' a receipt, are you?”

I looked at him, rolled my eyes and shook my head. James laughed.

“So this thing's never killed anybody has it?” I asked him, fearing the answer.

“Now, I don't know about all that,” James said. “To the best of my knowledge, no.” He emphasized the word 'knowledge', dragged out the second syllable while looking straight at me. I got the message.

I pushed the cylinder open again, turned the gun up and the lone bullet dropped back onto the towel. I scooped up all four bullets and put them in my shirt pocket, closed the cylinder and replaced the latch pin.

“Ain't no good without the bullets in it,” James said.

“I know. I just need to get used to carrying it, that's all. I'm afraid I'll blow my balls off.”

James gave out a hearty laugh. “You funny, man. You always was funny.”

“Thanks. I wish more people thought I was.” I held the revolver out, my arm straight, sighted down the barrel at an imaginary target. “This thing kick?” I asked him.

“A little.”

“I guess it doesn't really do much good to aim, eh?”

James got serious for the first time all night. “Here, let me show you,” he said as he offered me his palm. I handed him the gun. James looked me in the eye. He wasn't smiling anymore. “Take your time and cock it like this.” He pulled back the hammer with his thumb. “Don't aim. Just think of the gun like it's your finger. Use both hands, keep your arms straight and point it right at the motherfucker's chest. Don't get cute, like you tryin' to hit his heart or some shit. Shoot right for the middle.”

James pulled the trigger. Snap.

“And make damn sure you're close enough to hit the motherfucker. It ain't like you can shoot this little thing from across the street. You gotta be close or you ain't gonna hit nobody. And like I said, take your time. Look him in the face when you pull the trigger. You'll know by his expression whether you did some damage or not. If he don't look like there's something wrong, cock this bitch and put another slug in him. As many as it takes to bring him down. You only got four, though, so you better make 'em count. Even if you do get more ammo, this thing ain't easy to reload. If the guy you're shootin' at has a piece and you run out of bullets, you're ass is grass, man.”

I took a couple long pulls on the beer and finished it. If everything went according to plan I'd have one bullet to spare.

If it didn't, my ass was grass anyway.