The house is small, one room with one window.
No glass.
It's just a hut, a cut above a lean-to, with the kind of cheap vinyl flooring I used to see in the trailers of my earliest clients, before I moved on to the bigger fish with the real money. I can see the wooden angles of the roof through the holes in the ceiling, and afternoon light shines in through the warped slats so that the room, while dingy and in disrepair, is neither dark nor depressing. I think there are birds nesting in the rafters up there, because every now and again there's a chitter or two.
In the corner, there's a small stove, a pitiful thing, paint chipping, eyes broken. There's no gas line in this place, so I'm not sure what the fuck it's doing here, but even in this state, it's cute, in a forlorn sort of way. This place is abandoned, sure, falling apart, sure, but there's a stoutness, a quiet dignity about it as it faces a long, slow journey into dust and ashes. There'll be nobody here to watch it, nobody to miss the way things were while they cook grits on the stove or remember the time their grandmother took a spill while her arthritis was acting up, but this house doesn't give a fuck. It'll stand until it falls, it'll be here until it's gone, and when that day comes, hey, fuck it, we all gotta go sometime, man. We all gotta go sometime.
There are holes in the walls.
Not the kind that come from rot, but from fists thrown in a drunken rage, shots taken at moving targets. I can always tell. It's important, in my line of work, to spot a history of violence when there's one to be seen. But still, I'm almost sorry for what's going to happen here. This house might have seen some not-so-better days, sure, but it doesn't deserve to go out like it probably will tonight. It deserves better, and I'm sorry, but I have no place else to go, nowhere else to run. This is it, all I got in the world. The house ain't mine of course, not legally, but it's been here since I was kid and it's the only place I can think to go now.
So I line the guns up along the walls, one beside the other like dominoes, like crayons, soldiers. Twenty, thirty, forty. Larger than my usual haul, but not the biggest I've ever handled. I like to have a wide selection. My customers can be picky and petty about their guns, and I don't really get what the big fucking deal is myself, I mean, just fucking buy one already, they're all basically the same. But I can respect it. Guns mean a lot to them, more than I'll probably ever know, and they pay on time and pay well. So I line them up for display like we're in a fucking museum or an art gallery. They like it, and you know what they say, the goddamned customer is always right.
When it's done, I sit on the folding chair I brought and cross my ankles, looking out the window. Is it still a window if there's no glass? I don't know. But the breeze feels nice and it's pretty warm out, like it has been the last few days, so that's good. I sit and look around the dignified room and listen to the birds chittering in the rafters and just enjoy the breeze and the sunlight.
It's a rundown shack if there ever was one, that's for damn sure.
But it's not such a bad place to die.
*****
Only one of the guys I got scheduled shows up.
Figures.
It's Frank Winchester, of course, a man I've known a while, from the old days when I used to have to take the bus to the spot because I didn't have a car and my mom's was always in the shop. He's some Wall Street dude, down from New York. I don't know why the hell he comes all the way out to wherever I am to buy from me - there are plenty of arms dealers in New York, I'm sure. He could probably have his shit delivered to his door if he wanted, by the looks of him. Even now, when he's wearing a plaid button down and cargo shorts, you can tell he's somebody.
He looks in the window, smiling at me like a goddamned customer service rep.
"Hey, D."
Frank thinks it makes him look cool to call me D instead of Derek, which is my damn name, but it just makes him look like a fool who tries too hard. But I'd be lying if I said I didn't like it a little. I like him far more than I should, always have. And Frank, well, he likes me too.
He's always been real good to me.
"Hey, Frank. Come on around back."
The back door is little more than a piece of plywood, but he waits for me to unlock and open it and then steps inside, crossing his arms and surveying the room like this is an open house.
"The usual?" I realize how that sounds - we both do - and bite my lip like kid lying about his report card and turn away from him. "This is everything I got."
He nods noncommittally as he stands next to me, looking over the haul. He has lawyer looks, tall and thin with salt and pepper hair and a serious haircut and a clean shaven face. I can imagine him in a boardroom, dressed from head to toe in Brooks Brothers or Fred Segal or whoever makes those suits that heads of state and shipping magnates like to wear. Probably has a top hat and monocle, just like that little dude on the peanut can.
He picks up my only Heckler and Koch G36, a far cry from the Walthers he's always been hard for.
"You want a ski mask with that? Directions to the mall?"
He laughs, and he has a real laugh, not one of those smarmy ass chuckles so many customers give me. It's one of the reasons I know I can tell him where I am and he won't open his mouth to anybody. And in all the years we've been doing business, I've never gotten into any bullshit behind Frank.
And that laugh, it makes me feel some type of way, but I don't want to think about that. Not today. It's too late for all that shit now.
"No," he says, looking sadly at me and handing me way too much money. "Just always wanted to buy something like this. Don't trust anyone else not to exploit me somehow, and if the talk I hear can be believed, you'll be...closing up shop, soon."
"Nothing lasts forever, right?"
He looks sad, and it's making me feel all fluttery in the chest. I wish I could think of something more clever to say, something to cut the damn tension, but I got nothing. I'm always so fucking tongue-tied around this dude.
"I know people," he says. "I could help you." His look turns all serious, like those actors on the promo ads for police procedural reruns on Ion Television. I want to laugh because it looks so damn stupid on his trust fund face, but it also looks tragic. The darkest side of Frank is barely even gray, but I'm sure he does know people, and I'm both surprised and touched that he would call those people for some black dude he goes to for thrills. He might be a poser, but not in any way that matters.
"Nah." I give him what I hope is a convincing smirk and clap him on the shoulder. It's so fake-casual that I want to slap myself. "Don't do anything like that. You just stay out of this. I know you think you're untouchable, but these guys are nothing to fuck around with."
"But-"
"It's been good, Frank," I say. He's about to get sentimental, I can feel it, and I really just cannot right now.
He nods, his lips pressed into a line, and he extends a hand to me. I take it and squeeze, the way my father taught me. He's staring me dead in the eyes, looking for something, I guess. Don't know what. Don't want to think about what.
After way too long, he finally lets go, and he follows as I lead him out the way he came in. I look out the door and scan the horizon before I send him out; I don't know what time they're coming, and I don't need Frank caught in the crossfire. His ass watches way too many movies for me to let him catch sight of the men after me. I could just see him when things get hot, trying to dive behind that plastic Maserati he drives, thinking that's gonna cover him.
I smile.
When I tell him it's clear he slips past me and walks officially out to his car, shooting a glance back over his shoulder on the way. I give him a two-fingered salute as he folds his tall self into the driver's seat and slams the door. The windows are so tinted they're damn near painted black, and I can see myself in them, looking raggedy as hell. It's been a while since I could stay in one place for too long, and I haven't been to a barbershop in like two months.
