Fifty Grand

“Ok. You want an M and P? Good choice, by the way. The new one is over on the left-hand side but I got one with a little bit of scoring on the handle, very similar gun, 1997, shoots real good, just under the-”

“I see it,” I say, pulling it out. Looks perfect, not heavy. The grip a little big for me, but not too unwieldy.

“You like it?” he asks.

“Yes.”

“Excellent, ninety bucks even for her and no questions asked. She’s a beaut, shot her myself behind the old homestead here. Fires pretty steady up to fifty feet.”

“I’ll take it.” To prove my honesty I remove four twenties and other bills from my pocket and hand them to him. He grins, showing a couple of missing teeth, the first American I’ve seen with that very Cuban look.

“Tell you what, let’s call it seventy. Can’t say fairer than that. That’s a good gun. Serial number filed-not by me, I don’t do that kind of thing. Not my line. Serial number’s gone but it wouldn’t be fair dealing if I didn’t tell you that in the Salt Lake City police department there’s a ballistics report saying that there handgun was used in an armed robbery. Smart cop might be able to trace it back. You shoot that ex-boyfriend of your’n and they’ll have you for armed robbery too. And of course, if you ever brought up my name I’d deny everything.”

“I understand.”

“Good, good. Well, we’re almost done here, I reckon.”

“We are done, thank you.”

“Don’t go running off now just yet. You and me got off to a rocky start, but ain’t that the way sometimes? We’re fast friends now.”

“I’ve got what I came for.”

“Wait a minute, you’re going to need something from me and I’m gonna need something from you.”

Suspicion makes me frown under the ski mask.

“What do I need from you?”

“Don’t you want some shells?”

For a second I don’t understand what he’s talking about. Why would I want shells?

“Ammo,” he clarifies.

“Yes, of course.”

“Fair trade, I’ll give you enough for a clip. Gratis. But you gotta remove these here handcuffs. There’s no way I can tell any of the neighbors around here to cut ’em off. Laugh themselves silly. And as for calling Sheriff Briggs, forget it.”

“What are you saying?” I ask him.

“Bottom drawer of the cupboard. Standard nine-millimeter rounds. I want you to load your clip and when you’re done, throw me that handcuff key. I’ll uncuff myself, you’ll take your gun. You go out the way you came in and we’ll say no more about it.”

“Sounds reasonable, as long as the ammo isn’t dud.”

“It’s good stuff. A-grade. Dry as a hornet’s nest.”

I find the ammo box and load eight rounds into the clip. The spring has a little more give than I would like but it’s not bad for an older weapon.

I throw him the handcuff key. He fumbles with it but eventually uncuffs himself. I take the cuffs and key and put them in my pocket.

“What now?” I wonder.

“There is no what now,” he says. “What now is you going and me staying and us never meeting again.”

He sits in his chair and picks up the beer can. He hits the remote and the TV comes to life.

I walk into the kitchen and slip out the back door and down the yard.

I’m half expecting a shotgun blast tearing up the air around me, but nothing happens.

I dart into the woods and take off the ski mask.

No one follows me on the road back to town and everything’s real smooth until Sheriff Briggs in his black Escalade pulls in beside me.

Bad judge of character-I didn’t figure the old man for someone who would call the cops.

Briggs leans out the window. “Aren’t you one of Esteban’s… Wait a minute, I know you. I got you myself, day before yesterday. What the hell are you doing down here?”

No, Mr. Jones isn’t a chivato, this is just the Mercado luck.

Briggs handbrakes the car and takes off his aviator sunglasses.

Looks at me. I look at him.

A spark.

That man and I know each other. In other lives or other universes our paths have crossed. We’re right to be wary.

Let me see you, Sheriff. Let me really see you.

Skin the tone of a throat-cut murder victim. Eyes the blue ice of an alien moon.

“Asked you a question.”

No muscle in his face moves when he speaks, his voice slipping between his thin lips like one of Mother’s voodoo spirits.

“I must have gotten lost, sir,” I say in Spanish.

“Lost? Christ on a bike, your people managed to fucking walk here from Siberia and you can’t find your way around a town with half a dozen streets?”

“I took a wrong turn,” I suggest.

After this remark, which seems to highlight a prima facie case of falsehood, he hesitates for a moment and then pulls out a packet of cigarettes.

Something’s up, something’s not quite right.

“Lost, eh?” he repeats.

“Sí, señor.”

“Gonna tell you one more time, cut out the Mex.”

“Yes, sir.”

He opens the car door and gets out. “Gonna search you, sister. If you got any large sums of money on you, you and Esteban are in for the fucking high jump. I don’t care if the INS is fucking with the program, I’m not that desperate. I run this town, not him, get me?”

“Yes, sir, but I have no money, sir.”

Just a ski mask, a gun, a fucking sledgehammer.