Gun Work

The gun was an unsung classic, most definitely an antique. It was stamped UNITED STATES PROPERTY M1911A1 U.S. ARMY on the right side of the receiver, though the serial numbers had been scratched off both the slide and receiver (probably with a Dremel, Barney noticed). It bore the Coltwood plastic grips introduced in the 1940s — dull reddish-brown, no mold numbers — to replace the Coltrock and checkered walnut stocks of earlier iterations. Slide marks and factory stamps indicated the barrel had probably been replaced several times.

Barney put fifty rounds through the pistol to warm it up and check its balance. The action was tight as a snare drum; whoever had stolen or bought or recovered this pistol had taken good care of it. Barney dum-dummed another box of fifty and loaded four clips of nine. He acquired a brown leather shoulder holster that had gone furry at the rivets, with a counterbalance web for the extra magazines. He was strapped to several pounds of shooting iron plus about a pound each for the mags; the Zen trick now was to forget the burden existed. It had to become part of him, no second thoughts, and a weapon was a tool, and you never drew it capriciously. Unholstering the gun had to be instinctive, and deployment of firepower a foregone conclusion. The combination of thoughts and actions required for threat/response/aftermath was too cluttered to permit linear logic. It had to be almost autonomic, like breathing or blinking. Barney had spent a great portion of his life subverting his fear triggers in order to fix things, to get jobs done, to never flinch.

He had become, he realized, a kind of monster to normal human congress, like a rattlesnake in a society of rodents. Normally they were prey, and left you alone due to your threat protocols. Your look, your attitude, your aura. But occasionally they could gang up on you and kill you for being different. A fellow Barney would always remember as the Old Assassin had once told him: “I am what I am, and that’s not always very pretty. But being ugly is better than being nothing.”

The Old Assassin was no longer alive. He was no longer anything.

Most American law enforcement had switched to nine-millimeter sidearms in the 1980s. Not so with the ostentatiously Kevlared policemen of the Distrito Federale, who packed whatever they wanted, including grease guns dating back to the Second World War. They peppered the streets in pairs and quartets, spoiling for trouble from behind mirrored sunglasses and body armor, defining corruption in a freefire zone of aching poverty. For the most part they were sadistic, bored, and sailing on some form of speed, with a predator’s eye for weaklings in any herd. This was why Carl had not called the cops, and had called Barney instead.

Carl was a tourist. Tourists were prey. End of story.

Tourism was shallow people attempting to sample local flavors that by definition were ruined by the presence of tourists. These days, it was even worse if you were an American; they openly sneered at you in foreign ports because you were a loathsome example of the worst of the phylum; ignorant, loud, alien, greedy for things you cannot have, eternally disappointed in ways you can never cognate or admit. Tourists flew the big red flag that read victimize me, I deserve it.

And Mexico... Jesus. Most Americans viewed Mexico the way most Californians viewed Tijuana, as a cesspool, a whorehouse, a dumping ground, a party zone where you did not have to clean up after yourself.

Barney’s test, and indeed his skill, was invisibility in the midst of the circus of human congress, no matter what country he was in. He had enough Spanish to ask questions, order food, or obtain the odd farmacia medication. Ampicilina, cincocientos milligramas, por favor.

Hence, he had been able to obtain his toys without comment.

He knew his old buddy Carl probably thought Barney had evolved into some kind of black ops badass. Kill a man with a paper napkin. Eat roadkill to survive. Make bombs out of fertilizer and kitchen cleaning products. The emotional depth of a robot. Barney was none of the inhuman things ordinary people assumed. He was one thing — a gunman, the sort of man who would not mind if every single walking citizen was packing a legal firearm. It certainly would make strangers more polite in mixed company. To a certain extent, Barney felt that he was the embodiment of his own skills, an instrument for action that could rust through disuse or neglect. For Carl to ask Barney for help confirmed Barney’s own existence. Simple.

The vehicle Carl had procured was pretty amazing.