The sound system was playing tunes from the seventies. “Brandy” was on at that moment, and I cursed to myself-now I’d have it in my head for a week or more.
The spaces on the wall that didn’t contain firearms held a large American flag hung horizontally and a six-foot-long stained wood plaque reciting the Second Amendment. Bumper stickers also abounded: Illegal aliens SUCK, Stop the Invasion, Every Juan Please Go Home, and Illegal Alien Hunting Permit among them.
“I see you have good taste, too.” He eyed the Python on my hip. “May I?”
Never give up your gun, Peralta taught. The night before I had almost carelessly lost it. Now I unholstered it, opened the cylinder, and dropped the shells into my palm. Then I handed it across the counter to him.
He snapped the cylinder back in, pointed it at me. “Bang!” He laughed with a strangely high-pitched voice, like a boy soprano, and his belly tectonically undulated the folds of his T-shirt. His bad eyelid fluttered then froze again grotesquely in place.
“You’re not the jumpy kind, huh?”
“You just caught me on a slow day.” I watched him evenly. He examined my gun.
“Nice action. You’ve taken care of it. Want to sell it?”
I told him no, which was a shame, he said, considering they weren’t made any more and he’d give me top dollar.
“Shoot it much?”
“Every now and then. Helps me relax.”
“You bet your ass.” He handed the gun back to me. “I’m Barney.”
“David.”
We shook hands. He was one of those guys who wanted to hurt you with a handshake. I returned the grip back at the same intensity. He appraised me freshly with his good eye and the handshake ended.
“So what can I do you for?”
“Never been in. Looks like a great store. I had a friend pass on one of your matchbooks and I thought I’d check it out.”
“I got a hundred boxes full of ’em. Help yourself.” He tapped on the open cardboard container of matchbooks by the cash register.
“But you’re not a pawn shop?”
“Used to be. But the chains drove me out of it. Everybody’s pawning shit, the economy’s so bad now, but an independent outfit has a really hard time making it. Anyway, I get better margins on guns. Now, if you’re a revolver man, I’ve got everything your firepower-seeking heart would desire. If you want more, got a special going on Sig Sauer P238 Equinox. Sweetest little concealable you’d ever want.”
“They’re nice.” I knew: Lindsey had one. “I’m just kind of browsing for home defense.”
“I got you,” he said, poking his eye-socket with a stubby finger. “Like to say to folks, ‘I got my eye on you!’ ” This brought more child-like laughter. “I don’t always look like this. Usually have in my glass eye. But last night I went down to this club, see. That one down on Indian School? The Stuffed Beaver, with all the neon out front? Was buying this stripper drinks-Jager shots-and she’s never seen a glass eye before. Get it? Seen a glass eye?” I was in the presence of comedic genius. “Anyway, I pop it out and show it to her and she fools around with it and puts it in her mouth and next thing you know, shit, she swallows it! Fuck, that eye cost real money!”
