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Authors: George P. Pelecanos
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big-ass sucker they called Zulu with him, too.
Foreman slipped back into the house and went down the stairs off the kitchen. He hoped Ashley had got herself dressed by now. She could show Durham in, and his personal giant, too.
FOREMAN had spread out several pistols on the felt of his pool table down in the recreation room of the rambler. He had bought a ring once for Ashley, and this was the way the jeweler had presented it to him, on a square of red felt. When Foreman had chosen his pool table at that wholesale store he went to, he had gone for the red, remembering how he had been sold on the ring. This was the way he presented all his goods.
Five guns were set in a row, turned at a forty-five-degree angle to the line of the table. Above them were boxes of ammunition, “bricks,” the contents of which fit the guns. A Heckler & Koch 9mm automatic was at the head of the row. A Sig Sauer .45 was next, followed by a stainless steel Colt of the same caliber, then a Glock 17. The Glock was the MPD sidearm and, Foreman knew, was always a sure sale. The young ones wanted what the police carried, nothing less. At the end of the row was a Calico M-110 auto pistol, a multiround, 22-caliber chatter gun. It was generally ineffective and hard to conceal but had recently gained popularity on the street due to its round capacity and exotic look.
“That’s pretty right there,” said Dewayne Durham. He was pointing to the Colt .45 set between the Sig and the drab plastic Glock. Foreman had placed the gun there strategically, knowing it would stand out.
“You like it, huh?”
“What kinda grips you got on there?”
“That’s rosewood,” said Foreman. “The checkered style. Ordered them from Altamont and put ’em on my own self. Looks good against the stainless, right?”
Durham picked up the gun, felt its weight in his hand. He racked the slide and dry-fired at the wall. He placed the gun back on the table.
“Pretty,” repeated Durham, Foreman knowing right then that he had made a sale. “That’s like that gun you got, right?”
“Same gun,” said Foreman. “Only I got the ivory grips on mine.”
“You had it long?”
“Just came in. Got bought at a store down in Virginia and changed hands once since. Never even been fired.”
“How you know?”
“Smell it.”
“Okay, then. I’m gonna take that Glock, too, if it’s clean.”
“You could eat off it, dawg.”
“Aiight, then.”
“What about that?” said Bernard Walker. Foreman had been watching the tall man’s eyes and knew he was talking about the Calico.
“Brand-new,” said Foreman.
“Where the bullets come from?”
“Right up top there, why it’s long like it is. They call it a helical feed.”
“What you need that for, Zulu?” said Durham. “Shit ain’t even, like, practical.”
“I guess I don’t need it,” said Walker. “I was just askin’ after it, is all.”
Durham said to Walker, “I’m buyin’ you the Glock.” To Foreman he said, “How much for the two?”
Foreman closed his eyes like he was counting it up. He had already decided on a price.
“Sixteen for the both of them is what I’d normally charge. With those grips and all, price got up.”
“Sixteen hundred for two guns?” Durham made a face like he had bitten into a lemon. “Damn, boy, you gonna make me pay list price, too. What, you see me pull up in my new whip and the price went up? Or I got the word
sucker
stamped on my forehead and nobody done told me.”
“I said it’s what I’d
normally
charge. I’m gonna make it fifteen for you. And I’ll throw in the bricks.”
Durham looked down at his Pennys. He had made up his mind, but he was going to let Foreman wait. They both knew it was part of the process.
Durham looked up. “You got anything to drink up in this piece?”
Foreman smiled. “I’ll throw that in, too.”
Foreman got them a couple of beers from the short refrigerator he kept running behind his bar and opened one
Foreman slipped back into the house and went down the stairs off the kitchen. He hoped Ashley had got herself dressed by now. She could show Durham in, and his personal giant, too.
FOREMAN had spread out several pistols on the felt of his pool table down in the recreation room of the rambler. He had bought a ring once for Ashley, and this was the way the jeweler had presented it to him, on a square of red felt. When Foreman had chosen his pool table at that wholesale store he went to, he had gone for the red, remembering how he had been sold on the ring. This was the way he presented all his goods.
Five guns were set in a row, turned at a forty-five-degree angle to the line of the table. Above them were boxes of ammunition, “bricks,” the contents of which fit the guns. A Heckler & Koch 9mm automatic was at the head of the row. A Sig Sauer .45 was next, followed by a stainless steel Colt of the same caliber, then a Glock 17. The Glock was the MPD sidearm and, Foreman knew, was always a sure sale. The young ones wanted what the police carried, nothing less. At the end of the row was a Calico M-110 auto pistol, a multiround, 22-caliber chatter gun. It was generally ineffective and hard to conceal but had recently gained popularity on the street due to its round capacity and exotic look.
“That’s pretty right there,” said Dewayne Durham. He was pointing to the Colt .45 set between the Sig and the drab plastic Glock. Foreman had placed the gun there strategically, knowing it would stand out.
“You like it, huh?”
“What kinda grips you got on there?”
“That’s rosewood,” said Foreman. “The checkered style. Ordered them from Altamont and put ’em on my own self. Looks good against the stainless, right?”
Durham picked up the gun, felt its weight in his hand. He racked the slide and dry-fired at the wall. He placed the gun back on the table.
“Pretty,” repeated Durham, Foreman knowing right then that he had made a sale. “That’s like that gun you got, right?”
“Same gun,” said Foreman. “Only I got the ivory grips on mine.”
“You had it long?”
“Just came in. Got bought at a store down in Virginia and changed hands once since. Never even been fired.”
“How you know?”
“Smell it.”
“Okay, then. I’m gonna take that Glock, too, if it’s clean.”
“You could eat off it, dawg.”
“Aiight, then.”
“What about that?” said Bernard Walker. Foreman had been watching the tall man’s eyes and knew he was talking about the Calico.
“Brand-new,” said Foreman.
“Where the bullets come from?”
“Right up top there, why it’s long like it is. They call it a helical feed.”
“What you need that for, Zulu?” said Durham. “Shit ain’t even, like, practical.”
“I guess I don’t need it,” said Walker. “I was just askin’ after it, is all.”
Durham said to Walker, “I’m buyin’ you the Glock.” To Foreman he said, “How much for the two?”
Foreman closed his eyes like he was counting it up. He had already decided on a price.
“Sixteen for the both of them is what I’d normally charge. With those grips and all, price got up.”
“Sixteen hundred for two guns?” Durham made a face like he had bitten into a lemon. “Damn, boy, you gonna make me pay list price, too. What, you see me pull up in my new whip and the price went up? Or I got the word
sucker
stamped on my forehead and nobody done told me.”
“I said it’s what I’d
normally
charge. I’m gonna make it fifteen for you. And I’ll throw in the bricks.”
Durham looked down at his Pennys. He had made up his mind, but he was going to let Foreman wait. They both knew it was part of the process.
Durham looked up. “You got anything to drink up in this piece?”
Foreman smiled. “I’ll throw that in, too.”
Foreman got them a couple of beers from the short refrigerator he kept running behind his bar and opened one
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