Part 40 (1/2)
5.
One of the cops in the blue-and-white elbowed the other. ”Now that,” he said, ”is a serious serious comparison shopper.” comparison shopper.”
His partner laughed. ”Oh G.o.d, G.o.d,” he said in an effeminate voice as the man in the business suit and gold-rimmed gla.s.ses finished his study of the merchandise on display and went inside. ”I think he jutht dethided on the lavender lavender handcuffths.” handcuffths.”
The first cop choked on a mouthful of lukewarm coffee and sprayed it back into the styrofoam cup in a gust of laughter.
6.
A clerk came over almost at once and asked if he could be of help.
”I wonder,” the man in the conservative blue suit replied, ”if you have a paper...” He paused, appeared to think deeply, and then looked up. ”A chart, chart, I mean, which shows pictures of revolver ammunition.” I mean, which shows pictures of revolver ammunition.”
”You mean a caliber chart?” the clerk asked.
The customer paused, then said, ”Yes. My brother has a revolver. I have fired it, but it's been a good many years. I think I will know the bullets if I see them.”
”Well, you may think so,” the clerk replied, ”but it can be hard to tell. Was it a.22? A.38? Or maybe-”
”If you have a chart, I'll know,” Roland said.
”Just a sec.” The clerk looked at the man in the blue suit doubtfully for a moment, then shrugged. f.u.c.k, the customer was always right, even when he was wrong... if he had the dough to pay, that was. Money talked, bulls.h.i.+t walked. ”I got a Shooter's Bible. Shooter's Bible. Maybe that's what you ought to look at.” Maybe that's what you ought to look at.”
”Yes.” He smiled. Shooter's Bible. Shooter's Bible. It was a n.o.ble name for a book. It was a n.o.ble name for a book.
The man rummaged under the counter and brought out a well-thumbed volume as thick as any book the gunslinger had ever seen in his life-and yet this man seemed to handle it as if it were no more valuable than a handful of stones.
He opened it on the counter and turned it around. ”Take a look. Although if it's been years, you're shootin' in the dark.” He looked surprised, then smiled. ”Pardon my pun.”
Roland didn't hear. He was bent over the book, studying pictures which seemed almost as real as the things they represented, marvellous pictures the Mortcypedia identified as Fottergraffs. Fottergraffs.
He turned the pages slowly. No... no... no...
He had almost lost hope when he saw it. He looked up at the clerk with such blazing excitement that the clerk felt a little afraid.
”There!” he said. ”There! Right there! Right there!”
The photograph he was tapping was one of a Winchester.45 pistol sh.e.l.l. It was not exactly the same as his own sh.e.l.ls, because it hadn't been hand-thrown or hand-loaded, but he could see without even consulting the figures (which would have meant almost nothing to him anyway) that it would chamber and fire from his guns.
”Well, all right, I guess you found it,” the clerk said, ”but don't cream your jeans, fella. I mean, they're just bullets. bullets.”
”You have them?”
”Sure. How many boxes do you want?”
”How many in a box?”
”Fifty.” The clerk began to look at the gunslinger with real suspicion. If the guy was planning to buy sh.e.l.ls, he must know he'd have to show a Permit to Carry photo-I.D. No P.C., no ammo, not for handguns; it was the law in the borough of Manhattan. And if this dude had a handgun permit, how come he didn't know how many sh.e.l.ls came in a standard box of ammo?
”Fifty!” Now the guy was staring at him with slack-jawed surprise. He was off the wall, all right.
The clerk edged a bit to his left, a bit nearer the cash register... and, not so coincidentally, a bit nearer to his own gun, a.357 Mag which he kept fully loaded in a spring clip under the counter.
”Fifty!” the gunslinger repeated. He had expected five, ten, perhaps as many as a dozen, but this... this... the gunslinger repeated. He had expected five, ten, perhaps as many as a dozen, but this... this...
How much money do you have? he asked the Mortcypedia. The Mortcypedia didn't know, not exactly, but thought there was at least sixty bux in his wallet. he asked the Mortcypedia. The Mortcypedia didn't know, not exactly, but thought there was at least sixty bux in his wallet.
”And how much does a box cost?” It would be more than sixty dollars, he supposed, but the man might be persuaded to sell him part part of a box, or- of a box, or- ”Seventeen-fifty,” the clerk said. ”But, mister-”
Jack Mort was an accountant, and this time there was no waiting; translation and answer came simultaneously.
”Three,” the gunslinger said. ”Three boxes.” He tapped the Fotergraff Fotergraff of the sh.e.l.ls with one finger. One hundred and fifty rounds! Ye G.o.ds! What a mad storehouse of riches this world was! of the sh.e.l.ls with one finger. One hundred and fifty rounds! Ye G.o.ds! What a mad storehouse of riches this world was!
The clerk wasn't moving.
”You don't have that many,” the gunslinger said. He felt no real surprise. It had been too good to be true. A dream.
”Oh, I got Winchester.45s. I got.45s up the kazoo.” The clerk took another step to the left, a step closer to the cash register and the gun. If the guy was a nut, something the clerk expected to find out for sure any second now, he was soon going to be a nut with an extremely large hole in his midsection. ”I got.45 ammo up the old ying-yang. What I want to know, mister, is if you you got the card.” got the card.”
”Card?”
”A handgun permit with a photo. I can't sell you handgun ammo unless you can show me one. If you want to buy ammo without a P.C., you're gonna hafta go up to Westchester.”
The gunslinger stared at the man blankly. This was all gabble to him. He understood none of it. His Mortcypedia had some vague notion of what the man meant, but Mort's ideas were too vague to be trusted in this case. Mort had never owned a gun in his life. He did his nasty work in other ways.
The man sidled another step to the left without taking his eyes from his customer's face and the gunslinger thought: He's got a gun. He expects me to make trouble... or maybe he He's got a gun. He expects me to make trouble... or maybe he wants wants me to make trouble. Wants an excuse to shoot me. me to make trouble. Wants an excuse to shoot me.
Improvise.
He remembered the gunslingers sitting in their blue and white carriage down the street. Gunslingers, yes, peacekeepers, men charged with keeping the world from moving on. But these had looked-at least on a pa.s.sing glance-to be nearly as soft and un.o.bservant as everyone else in this world of lotus-eaters; just two men in uniforms and caps, slouched down in the seats of their carriage, drinking coffee. He might have misjudged. He hoped for all their sakes-that he had not.
”Oh! I understand,” the gunslinger said, and drew an apologetic smile on Jack Mort's face. ”I'm sorry. I guess I haven't kept track of how much the world has moved on-changed-since I last owned a gun.”
”No harm done,” the clerk said, relaxing minutely. Maybe the guy was all right. Or maybe he was pulling a gag.
”I wonder if I could look at that cleaning kit?” Roland pointed to a shelf behind the clerk.
”Sure.” The clerk turned to get it, and when he did, the gunslinger removed the wallet from Mort's inside jacket pocket. He did this with the flickering speed of a fast draw. The clerk's back was to him for less than four seconds, but when he turned back to Mort, the wallet was on the floor.
”It's a beaut,” the clerk said, smiling, having decided the guy was okay after all. h.e.l.l, he knew how lousy you felt when you made a horse's a.s.s of yourself. He had done it in the Marines enough times. ”And you don't need a G.o.ddam permit to buy a cleaning kit, either. Ain't freedom wonderful?”