coins.
One-Eyed’s formidable laugh finishes up in a hacking cough that turns his one eye red; he pounds himself on the chest to quell it.
Man, you are nuts. What do you need? A twenty-two long. Good timing, I’ve got a jewel. What is it? It’s not cheap. Show me. Wait here.
One-Eyed Giardina stands up, tells the woman to keep Horacio company and leaves. She sits down, lights a cigarette and stares at him while she fiddles with a box of matches. Horacio can’t remember if he’s seen her before or if she just reminds him of somebody else, but he knows that what he has in front of him is the ruins of a woman who once was beautiful. She still has some of a beautiful woman’s gestures, something her appearance can’t completely cancel out. Ten minutes later Giardina returns carrying a gun wrapped in a flannel cloth. The woman, clearly obeying rules long since established,
immediately gets up and leaves. One-Eyed places the package on the table and lights a cigarette, motioning to Horacio to unwrap it. He slowly folds back the flannel. One-Eyed was telling the truth: there in front of him is a Ruger MK II .22LR semi-automatic stainless-steel pistol. Few guns are as well made as this one. It’ll cost him a fortune, but it’ll be well worth it. Light, trustworthy, he’s never heard of one of these jamming. It has one feature that makes it the king of close-range shooting: the chamber is mounted on a system of springs that dampens the recoil from the detonation. The long barrel considerably reduces the report from this notably quiet pistol. To miss with this you’d have to be a real moron.
Seems you got yourself a good gig. You could say that. How much? Don’t you want to try it? Don’t need to, how much? Three grand, which includes one hundred hollow-pointed bullets. I’ve got two thousand. I guess you’re out of luck. Don’t fuck with me, how much will you give it to me for? Listen, you’re not going to find anything like this anywhere else, but if I don’t sell it to you today, I’ll sell it tomorrow. How much? Not a peso less than two thousand eight. Okay, but on one condition. What? For the same price you drive my getaway car. Okay, who’re you going to hit? A super. Do I know him? Bow-wow. Not Perro? Yup. In that case, not a peso less than three grand.
A few blocks from there, on Viamonte past Leandro Alem, Miranda is sitting and waiting for Bangs and Dandy at one of the tables in the back of El Navegante. He orders a bottle of Gancia wine and a plate of olives. He sees them enter: Dandy’s fatter and Bangs is more nervous than ever. They join him at the table. Anybody seeing
the three of them would think they were co-workers out on a dinner date. They order pork loin with chips a la provenzal , red wine and soda water. Dandy digs in, Bangs talks non-stop. Miranda observes: the crow’s feet, the reading glasses, the slow reaction time, the unsteady hands, the hearing loss, the liver spots and that look of only slightly haughty resignation. Bangs speaks now with a lisp – his tongue is dual-tasking, making sure his dentures don’t pop out. Dandy’s movements are a lot less precise; he looks depressed, dispirited. The etchings time has left on his friends’ faces are merely a reflection of the same on his own. He looks at the three of them in the mirror on the wall and asks himself: I’m going to rob a bank with these buffoons? The prospect does not inspire much confidence; on the other hand, he doesn’t like the young ones. Those hoods are way too crazy, they snort a lot of blow, they want everything yesterday, they’re greedy and strung out, they turn violent at the slightest excuse, and at the drop of a hat they’ll stab you in the back or betray you without the least little qualm. He prefers old-school crooks, those who live by a code of honour, who aren’t going to turn you in or sell you out for a couple of pesos. People with experience, who’ve been inside and know
One-Eyed’s formidable laugh finishes up in a hacking cough that turns his one eye red; he pounds himself on the chest to quell it.
Man, you are nuts. What do you need? A twenty-two long. Good timing, I’ve got a jewel. What is it? It’s not cheap. Show me. Wait here.
One-Eyed Giardina stands up, tells the woman to keep Horacio company and leaves. She sits down, lights a cigarette and stares at him while she fiddles with a box of matches. Horacio can’t remember if he’s seen her before or if she just reminds him of somebody else, but he knows that what he has in front of him is the ruins of a woman who once was beautiful. She still has some of a beautiful woman’s gestures, something her appearance can’t completely cancel out. Ten minutes later Giardina returns carrying a gun wrapped in a flannel cloth. The woman, clearly obeying rules long since established,
immediately gets up and leaves. One-Eyed places the package on the table and lights a cigarette, motioning to Horacio to unwrap it. He slowly folds back the flannel. One-Eyed was telling the truth: there in front of him is a Ruger MK II .22LR semi-automatic stainless-steel pistol. Few guns are as well made as this one. It’ll cost him a fortune, but it’ll be well worth it. Light, trustworthy, he’s never heard of one of these jamming. It has one feature that makes it the king of close-range shooting: the chamber is mounted on a system of springs that dampens the recoil from the detonation. The long barrel considerably reduces the report from this notably quiet pistol. To miss with this you’d have to be a real moron.
Seems you got yourself a good gig. You could say that. How much? Don’t you want to try it? Don’t need to, how much? Three grand, which includes one hundred hollow-pointed bullets. I’ve got two thousand. I guess you’re out of luck. Don’t fuck with me, how much will you give it to me for? Listen, you’re not going to find anything like this anywhere else, but if I don’t sell it to you today, I’ll sell it tomorrow. How much? Not a peso less than two thousand eight. Okay, but on one condition. What? For the same price you drive my getaway car. Okay, who’re you going to hit? A super. Do I know him? Bow-wow. Not Perro? Yup. In that case, not a peso less than three grand.
A few blocks from there, on Viamonte past Leandro Alem, Miranda is sitting and waiting for Bangs and Dandy at one of the tables in the back of El Navegante. He orders a bottle of Gancia wine and a plate of olives. He sees them enter: Dandy’s fatter and Bangs is more nervous than ever. They join him at the table. Anybody seeing
the three of them would think they were co-workers out on a dinner date. They order pork loin with chips a la provenzal , red wine and soda water. Dandy digs in, Bangs talks non-stop. Miranda observes: the crow’s feet, the reading glasses, the slow reaction time, the unsteady hands, the hearing loss, the liver spots and that look of only slightly haughty resignation. Bangs speaks now with a lisp – his tongue is dual-tasking, making sure his dentures don’t pop out. Dandy’s movements are a lot less precise; he looks depressed, dispirited. The etchings time has left on his friends’ faces are merely a reflection of the same on his own. He looks at the three of them in the mirror on the wall and asks himself: I’m going to rob a bank with these buffoons? The prospect does not inspire much confidence; on the other hand, he doesn’t like the young ones. Those hoods are way too crazy, they snort a lot of blow, they want everything yesterday, they’re greedy and strung out, they turn violent at the slightest excuse, and at the drop of a hat they’ll stab you in the back or betray you without the least little qualm. He prefers old-school crooks, those who live by a code of honour, who aren’t going to turn you in or sell you out for a couple of pesos. People with experience, who’ve been inside and know
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