The Killing Hour

I point to a picture of a pistol on the wall. In the picture it is stripped down. The parts are labelled. I can make out a few of the words. Firing pin. Slide. Breech block. Safety mechanism. If he gave me that exact pistol in that condition I’d be screwed.

The salesman turns and looks at the picture.

‘That’s a Colt Combat Elite,’ he says, not quoting from the poster. ‘Fine pistol. Not available here. Never available to anyone without a licence.’

‘Floyd gave me a licence.’

He gives me a funny look. Scrolls his eyes over me. Up and down, slowly, taking in the beatings I’ve had this week. ‘What kind of trouble are you in, mister?’

I shrug. ‘No trouble. I just want a pistol for home. For self-defence.’

‘They’re illegal to use anywhere but a firing range.’

Again I shrug. ‘I’m prepared to pay for quality.’

I leave it at that. Let him make up his own mind.

‘You say you’ve got a licence?’

‘Right here in my pocket.’ I pat the side of my jacket.

‘Can I see it?’

I pull some money out and slowly flick through the notes like a card dealer showing off. His eyes never leave it. I put the entire amount on the counter and split the deck. I leave half there and the other half I hold onto. I can hear him getting ready to drool.

‘You get the rest of the licence after we’ve made a deal.’

‘How much is that?’

‘Ten grand in total. Floyd told me that’s what you’d charge.’

Arthur looks from left to right. His eyes hold on the door for a few seconds as if he’s mentally trying to lock it, then he looks out the windows with the iron bars running down them. Nobody around. He swings his eyes back on me. I say nothing as he fights with his temptation. Greed wins out. It always will with a guy like this. Without breaking eye contact, he sweeps the money into his pocket. He’s decided I’m no cop. Cops don’t have this sort of money to play with.

‘Are you a cop?’ he asks.

‘No.’

‘If you are,’ he says, ‘this is entrapment.’

I don’t know if it’s entrapment or not. ‘Whatever you say.’

‘Wait here.’

From beneath the counter he pulls out a sign that says ‘Back in 15 mins’ and hangs it on the door, checking that it’s locked. He comes back to the counter, makes his way around it, and disappears though a doorway. Ten grand is a lot of money for a gun. But it guarantees the fact I’m going to get one. If I showed up with forty dollars and a free hamburger voucher I wouldn’t get the same quality of service.

I spin around the newspaper he was reading and study the headline. It’s dedicated to Frank McClory. He was found early this morning by an unnamed woman. It doesn’t mention how he died or whether it’s related to his dead wife, but he must have been found early enough for it to make the paper. The article is small, proof the reporter had little information and even less time to come up with something dramatic. There’s little speculation – that’ll come later with news bulletins and tomorrow’s paper.

So now the police are going to rake a fine-tooth comb through Frank’s affairs. And they’re going to find out he was more involved than they first thought. Does this make it safe for me to go to them?

‘Shame about that lawyer,’ the salesman says, stepping back through the door. He puts a wooden box on the counter. He’s wearing a pair of thin gloves.

‘It’s not often they get put to such good use,’ I say.

Arthur starts laughing, then stops when he sees I’m being serious. I can see him considering if I’m the type of person who should have a gun. He pats his pocket. Reminds himself of why he’s doing this.

‘You’re not going to be shooting somebody, are you, mister?’

‘It’s for self-defence. Home invasions have been in the papers all week.’

‘And you want to be prepared.’

‘Exactly.’

He nods slowly. He knows what I’m getting at.

‘Come on back through here. It’s more private.’

I follow him through the doorway. There are posters of guns and girls, sometimes of both. A calendar from four years back with a naked smiling woman stops me from looking around at the shelves full of stock and the cluttered workbench.

‘This is a Glock 18-C,’ he says, putting the package down on the workbench. ‘It takes a nine-millimetre Parabellum bullet. Nine-millimetre is the most famous and frequently used handgun cartridge in the world. It’s used in semi-automatic pistols and in sub-machine guns. This Glock here,’ he hands it to me by the handle, ‘has a magazine capacity of seventeen rounds. Of course it’s currently unloaded.’

‘Of course.’

‘Naturally it isn’t designed for target shooting. It’s purely a defence weapon. Used in the service industry overseas.’

‘What, like restaurants?’

‘Yeah, good one,’ he says, his face tightening as he frowns at me. ‘Police. Military. Armed security.’

‘Right.’ I’m holding the gun by the handle, bouncing my arm slowly up and down like gun guys do, getting a feel for the weight. Shame there aren’t any tyres to kick.