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Authors: John Ramsey Miller
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kids.”
“I see. Then there ain’t nothin’ else to say.”
“I wanted to say—”
“Listen, Pauly. Don’t get all teary-eyed like your mama used to. I’ll watch your place. You go on down there and take care of your business without a worry. Not that you ever did much worryin’ on my account. Old man with no one to leave the enterprise to. Go on. But I want your word that when that rat bastard is cold, you’llcome home and bring those kids for a visit. Might be one of them might want to run this place. Never know.”
“Never know.” Paul smiled. “I don’t imagine they want anything to do with me.”
There was another period when the two men were lost in their individual thoughts. Then Aaron stood up. “I want you to take something with you.” He started out into the store, came back five minutes later with a narrow walnut box about three feet long and a small cardboard one. He placed them on the table.
The old man removed the masking tape to free the flaps. He opened the cardboard box and pulled out a black leather shoulder-holster rig. The holster and the belting were hand-tooled in ivy leaves. Paul stared at it without comment. The gun was a Colt Combat Commander with stag grips.
“Remember this?” Aaron asked.
“Yes. I wasn’t sure what happened to it.”
“DEA sent it after you got here. I didn’t know if you’d ever want it back.”
“Thank you.”
“For what?”
“For not selling it.” He stared at the old man for a few seconds before his mouth turned up at the corners.
“Think I wasn’t tempted. Rig like this is worth six or seven hundred to the right fool.”
Paul picked up the weapon and looked at it. He dropped the magazine and inspected the chamber.
“It’s clean!” the old man said defensively.
Aaron turned his attention to the wooden box. He removed a nail from an ancient hasp and slid the top back, revealing a burgundy velvet-lined interior. He lifted a long black cane from inside and handed it to Paul.
“I remember this. Haven’t seen it since I was a kid.”
Paul couldn’t believe the heft of it. The hand grip was L-shaped and made of hand-carved ivory. The base of the cane was black and shone like dark glass all the way to the fancy filigree sterling tip.
“Take it with you,” Aaron said.
“It’s even more magnificent than I remembered,” Paul said. “Must weigh ten pounds. You reckon I’m that cripple, do you?”
“It’s weighty for a reason, and you don’t have to be cripple to need it. Look at the tip.”
Paul admired the cane. The handle told the story, in bas relief, of a gunfight, with one man standing tall and the other falling wounded. Paul flipped the cane and looked at the tip, where carved silver circled a black hole.
Aaron took the cane from Paul and twisted the handle. It opened, exposing a breech. He dropped in a brass shell and closed the breech. Then he raised the cane and pointed at a large wooden beam, and there was a deafening explosion. Paul stood and put his finger on the new hole in the wood.
“This old cane has an interesting history,” Aaron said. “Can’t recall exactly what it was, but it had to do with a gambler. Made by a famous gunsmith from a design the gambler worked out in a dream or some such. Had the handle carved in Frisco by a Chinese artist in 1880. Rod is ebony from Africa, covers a rifle barrel. Silver tip’s from Mexican mines. I traded some stuff for this cane fifty years ago. In time of dire straits it’ll give you the answer to one final prayer.”
“I never knew it fired.”
“No reason to tell you before. Forty-four forties are expensive rounds, so don’t waste ’em. Open the breech and load it. A half twist back on the handle sets the pin and drops the trigger. I’m giving you six shells, and I just hope it don’t blow up on you.”
“I’ll be careful.”
“Don’t shoot your fool foot off.”
“I won’t keep it loaded.”
“Of course you’ll keep it loaded! What the
“I see. Then there ain’t nothin’ else to say.”
“I wanted to say—”
“Listen, Pauly. Don’t get all teary-eyed like your mama used to. I’ll watch your place. You go on down there and take care of your business without a worry. Not that you ever did much worryin’ on my account. Old man with no one to leave the enterprise to. Go on. But I want your word that when that rat bastard is cold, you’llcome home and bring those kids for a visit. Might be one of them might want to run this place. Never know.”
“Never know.” Paul smiled. “I don’t imagine they want anything to do with me.”
There was another period when the two men were lost in their individual thoughts. Then Aaron stood up. “I want you to take something with you.” He started out into the store, came back five minutes later with a narrow walnut box about three feet long and a small cardboard one. He placed them on the table.
The old man removed the masking tape to free the flaps. He opened the cardboard box and pulled out a black leather shoulder-holster rig. The holster and the belting were hand-tooled in ivy leaves. Paul stared at it without comment. The gun was a Colt Combat Commander with stag grips.
“Remember this?” Aaron asked.
“Yes. I wasn’t sure what happened to it.”
“DEA sent it after you got here. I didn’t know if you’d ever want it back.”
“Thank you.”
“For what?”
“For not selling it.” He stared at the old man for a few seconds before his mouth turned up at the corners.
“Think I wasn’t tempted. Rig like this is worth six or seven hundred to the right fool.”
Paul picked up the weapon and looked at it. He dropped the magazine and inspected the chamber.
“It’s clean!” the old man said defensively.
Aaron turned his attention to the wooden box. He removed a nail from an ancient hasp and slid the top back, revealing a burgundy velvet-lined interior. He lifted a long black cane from inside and handed it to Paul.
“I remember this. Haven’t seen it since I was a kid.”
Paul couldn’t believe the heft of it. The hand grip was L-shaped and made of hand-carved ivory. The base of the cane was black and shone like dark glass all the way to the fancy filigree sterling tip.
“Take it with you,” Aaron said.
“It’s even more magnificent than I remembered,” Paul said. “Must weigh ten pounds. You reckon I’m that cripple, do you?”
“It’s weighty for a reason, and you don’t have to be cripple to need it. Look at the tip.”
Paul admired the cane. The handle told the story, in bas relief, of a gunfight, with one man standing tall and the other falling wounded. Paul flipped the cane and looked at the tip, where carved silver circled a black hole.
Aaron took the cane from Paul and twisted the handle. It opened, exposing a breech. He dropped in a brass shell and closed the breech. Then he raised the cane and pointed at a large wooden beam, and there was a deafening explosion. Paul stood and put his finger on the new hole in the wood.
“This old cane has an interesting history,” Aaron said. “Can’t recall exactly what it was, but it had to do with a gambler. Made by a famous gunsmith from a design the gambler worked out in a dream or some such. Had the handle carved in Frisco by a Chinese artist in 1880. Rod is ebony from Africa, covers a rifle barrel. Silver tip’s from Mexican mines. I traded some stuff for this cane fifty years ago. In time of dire straits it’ll give you the answer to one final prayer.”
“I never knew it fired.”
“No reason to tell you before. Forty-four forties are expensive rounds, so don’t waste ’em. Open the breech and load it. A half twist back on the handle sets the pin and drops the trigger. I’m giving you six shells, and I just hope it don’t blow up on you.”
“I’ll be careful.”
“Don’t shoot your fool foot off.”
“I won’t keep it loaded.”
“Of course you’ll keep it loaded! What the
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