said—he was a little out of practice speaking English—but he got the gist. He wasn’t so easily offended, and he knew that if this pawnshop was anything like the pawnshops back in Juárez, who you were and where you came from did not matter. Only money mattered.
He also knew pawnshops had guns on display, and then they had other guns. The kinds they kept around for greasers who shopped in the middle of the night.
Paco smiled at the clerk. “Very funny,” he said in English. “We stop the bullshit. What pistols you have for me?”
The clerk knit his brow. “Who you think you’re talking to, Sanchez?”
“You want my business? I have money. I go to the shop down the street. OK?” Paco strode toward the door.
“Now hold on, son. What exactly are you looking for?”
Paco stopped in the doorway, looked up at the security camera. “Turn that off, yes?”
The clerk hesitated, then reached behind him and depressed a button on a black digital recorder. “Now you wanna tell me?”
“Nine millimeter or bigger.”
“What you see in the case. But…”
“No, señor.” Paco was smiling, mostly with his eyes. “The other ones. The ones not in the case.”
“Look, son—”
“ Por favor, señor, you are wasting my time, and your time. Do you have nine-millimeter pistols or do you not?” Paco was looking for the ones that would fly under the radar, ones that there were no records of and that didn’t require any paperwork.
The clerk squinted at him. “I have a police issue.”
“ Bueno. May I see it?”
The clerk unlocked a metal drawer behind him, glanced at the front door, and then held up the black automatic.
“Work the action, please.”
Paco watched as the clerk cocked the gun.
“Now pull the trigger.”
“That’s not good for the—”
“You think I buy a gun with no firing pin? Show me the real thing, man, stop joking.”
“You have cash? Serious cash?”
Paco fished a thick wad of greenbacks from his black jeans and held it up. The robbery in the Dallas bus station wasn’t his only robbery along the way.
With a glance at the front door, the clerk motioned Paco to the back of the store. At the end of the Lucite hallway was a display case of watches. The clerk detached the top of the display case and set it aside. Below was another display case, lighted. In it were a variety of pistols, the serial numbers ground off of them.
Paco’s face shone in the light of the display case, his yellow eyes aglow. “This is what I talk about.”
CHAPTER
FIFTEEN
WHERE HAD I BEEN WHILE Grant was falling under the spell of a palmist? While Purity was getting drunk and while Paco was cruising skid-row Memphis for guns?
There was no way I was cruising the bar at El Quixote again.
I asked the bald concierge in the red tie at my hotel where one could find a place where singles mingle. In case you do not know—and you might not if you are not gentry—a concierge is someone at a nicer hotel who can arrange things for hotel guests. Things like theater tickets, sporting events, and restaurant reservations. I only say this because you will not find a concierge at most Red Roof Inns. This one had a name tag that read ROGER.
The concierge leaned in across his desk and whispered, “You looking to pay for it or just to try your luck?”
“Pay?” I scoffed. “No.”
“You looking for women or men?”
“Women, of course.”
He nodded. “I have to ask. Some foxes like grapes.” He jotted a destination onto a pad, tore the sheet off, and handed it to me. “Can I give you some advice?”
“You are the concierge, it is what you do.”
“Do bottle service.”
“Bottle service?”
“Find an empty lounge area, and ask the waitress for a bottle of Grey Goose, mixers, and ice. It will cost you, but you gotta break eggs to cook omelets.”
“I do not drink vodka.”
“The ladies do. If you hang around the bar you look cheap; the ladies will steer clear. If you stake out a lounge area for
He also knew pawnshops had guns on display, and then they had other guns. The kinds they kept around for greasers who shopped in the middle of the night.
Paco smiled at the clerk. “Very funny,” he said in English. “We stop the bullshit. What pistols you have for me?”
The clerk knit his brow. “Who you think you’re talking to, Sanchez?”
“You want my business? I have money. I go to the shop down the street. OK?” Paco strode toward the door.
“Now hold on, son. What exactly are you looking for?”
Paco stopped in the doorway, looked up at the security camera. “Turn that off, yes?”
The clerk hesitated, then reached behind him and depressed a button on a black digital recorder. “Now you wanna tell me?”
“Nine millimeter or bigger.”
“What you see in the case. But…”
“No, señor.” Paco was smiling, mostly with his eyes. “The other ones. The ones not in the case.”
“Look, son—”
“ Por favor, señor, you are wasting my time, and your time. Do you have nine-millimeter pistols or do you not?” Paco was looking for the ones that would fly under the radar, ones that there were no records of and that didn’t require any paperwork.
The clerk squinted at him. “I have a police issue.”
“ Bueno. May I see it?”
The clerk unlocked a metal drawer behind him, glanced at the front door, and then held up the black automatic.
“Work the action, please.”
Paco watched as the clerk cocked the gun.
“Now pull the trigger.”
“That’s not good for the—”
“You think I buy a gun with no firing pin? Show me the real thing, man, stop joking.”
“You have cash? Serious cash?”
Paco fished a thick wad of greenbacks from his black jeans and held it up. The robbery in the Dallas bus station wasn’t his only robbery along the way.
With a glance at the front door, the clerk motioned Paco to the back of the store. At the end of the Lucite hallway was a display case of watches. The clerk detached the top of the display case and set it aside. Below was another display case, lighted. In it were a variety of pistols, the serial numbers ground off of them.
Paco’s face shone in the light of the display case, his yellow eyes aglow. “This is what I talk about.”
CHAPTER
FIFTEEN
WHERE HAD I BEEN WHILE Grant was falling under the spell of a palmist? While Purity was getting drunk and while Paco was cruising skid-row Memphis for guns?
There was no way I was cruising the bar at El Quixote again.
I asked the bald concierge in the red tie at my hotel where one could find a place where singles mingle. In case you do not know—and you might not if you are not gentry—a concierge is someone at a nicer hotel who can arrange things for hotel guests. Things like theater tickets, sporting events, and restaurant reservations. I only say this because you will not find a concierge at most Red Roof Inns. This one had a name tag that read ROGER.
The concierge leaned in across his desk and whispered, “You looking to pay for it or just to try your luck?”
“Pay?” I scoffed. “No.”
“You looking for women or men?”
“Women, of course.”
He nodded. “I have to ask. Some foxes like grapes.” He jotted a destination onto a pad, tore the sheet off, and handed it to me. “Can I give you some advice?”
“You are the concierge, it is what you do.”
“Do bottle service.”
“Bottle service?”
“Find an empty lounge area, and ask the waitress for a bottle of Grey Goose, mixers, and ice. It will cost you, but you gotta break eggs to cook omelets.”
“I do not drink vodka.”
“The ladies do. If you hang around the bar you look cheap; the ladies will steer clear. If you stake out a lounge area for
Similar Books
