Fifty Grand

A whole row of handguns in a glass cabinet in front of him, the cheapest a.38 police special for $180. I’m fifty-five bucks short. But it doesn’t matter anyway-a sign on the wall says HANDGUNS FOR SALE TO US CITIZENS ONLY and another informs me that BACKGROUND CHECKS WILL BE ENFORCED AT ALL TIMES.

This kid doesn’t seem the type who is authorized to haggle or bend the rules.

Damn it. I turn, go to the door. Kid looks up again.

“Help you with anything?” he asks.

“No, thank you.”

He goes back to his college book, and as I nod goodbye I notice something that actually might be very useful. Behind him on a rack are half a dozen sets of police handcuffs and above that, cans of pepper spray. I’ve used pepper spray before in the PNR but it’s a controlled substance in Havana and private citizens are not permitted to purchase it. Pimps like it, though-gun possession is an automatic year in jail, whereas having a can of pepper spray can be bribed out of court. Once I traded two cans of CS gas for twenty bucks and a week’s tickets from the ration book. Eggs, sugar, flour. Ricky and I made a birthday cake for Mom.

“How much for the pepper spray?” I ask.

“Twenty dollars.”

“Do I need a permit to buy it?”

“No.”

“And how much for the steel handcuffs?” I ask.

The boy looks at the price label.

“Fifteen.”

Out into the street two minutes later. A snow flurry. I pull on my wool hat.

I still need a gun.

Plan B.

I fish out the ad from the Fairview Post: “For sale: Thorpe hunting Rifle new 750 dollars. Smith and Wesson M &P 9mm good con with ammo 400 dollars OBO.”

The address is 44 Lime Kiln Road, about two kilometers north out of town.

I don’t have the cash but my plan is not to buy the weapon.

Risky, but I don’t see any other choice. Esteban has a rifle in his apartment but Esteban’s in Denver, the apartment’s locked, and no one else in the Mex Motel owns a gun.

Noon.

Go there now before you lose your nerve.

I walk to the crossroads at the liquor store. Lime Kiln is a narrow two-lane curving northwest into the mountains. No sidewalk but there is a trail next to the tree line.

Walk it.

Twenty minutes along the wood.

Cars and SUVs racing past on the downhill lane at close to a hundred kilometers per hour.

The dull clothes better than camouflage, just another Mex going about her silent business, just another invisible with no plans or dreams or thoughts in her head. No one slows to avoid showering me with stones, no one notices me at all.

After half an hour the gradient increases and the trees thin out and there are half a dozen houses next to one another. I read numbers on mailboxes.

Number 44 is a little yellow trailer home set off from the others.

A whole lot of people around. Kids playing, people raking leaves, a lady with a blanket over her legs reading a book.

All these witnesses. This is fucked. Should have scouted this yesterday. This is a night op.

It’s two kilometers back to town. I’m not going back.

Before they notice me I dart into the woods to check out the approach from the rear.

Some of the houses have tall antibear fences but number 44 does not. Just a grassy yard and a well-worn path leading into the woods.

Tires, a workbench, a lathe, half a Dodge pickup parked in the yard.

If I was a pro I’d scout and make notes and wait but I have no time for that, and besides, something tells me to go for it, now. That something is desperation.

I walk out from under the tree cover and approach the rear of the trailer home. I reach into the backpack, remove the ski mask, and pull it over my head. I put the knife into the lock on the screen door. Pull. The plastic gives with a loud snap.

Two houses over, a dog barks. The barking becomes a low growl and then stops.

Heart hammering. This is crazy. Get out now. I turn the handle on the back door and enter a tiny, dirty kitchen. Pots and pans on a gas stove, a box of pancake mix on a table next to a carton of milk. A smallish black dog is sleeping in a wool-lined box near a washing machine. The dog blinks and looks up at me. He registers my presence and rests his head back down on his paws.

This is stupid, Mercado. Get out of here.

I tighten the grip on my knife and push the door to the next room.

A living/dining room and a man, watching TV in a reclining chair. His back is to me but I can see a white hand holding a can of beer. I can’t tell if he’s big, small, young, old. The other hand must have the TV remote because every fifteen or twenty seconds the channel flips.

The room is painted a dull yellow and, apart from a few newspaper fragments on the floor, is quite tidy. There are cupboards along the wall, and through the front window I can see the children throwing an American football to one another.

The longer I stand here the harder it’s going to be.

I pad gently across the floor with as much silence and economy of movement as my nerves will permit.

I look at the knife.

How am I going to do this?

Quickly.

One op. No second chances.