suck my dick.”
“It might do it,” Haskel said, “but this baby sucks your dick, you won’t like it. Shit, colored fella—”
“Leonard.”
“—you was expectin’ illegal cold guns to come at Kmart prices?”
“We were hoping,” Leonard said. “I don’t suppose that price includes ammunition?”
“It don’t, but I’ll throw in a box of shells.”
“Two boxes of shells, and shave a hundred dollars off and you got a deal,” Leonard said.
“Sold,” Haskel said, and put the shotgun on the table and picked up a rifle. It was one of two. “My design. You want to cowboy, you get to cowboy.” Haskel tossed the gun to me and I caught it.
It was a Winchester-style rifle, mid-length, with a loop cock and two barrels, over and under. “Unique,” I said.
“Yeah,” Haskel said. “I call it the Haskel ’cause I made the sonofabitch myself. Got a general Winchester design, and I put that loop cock in there ’cause it’s easy and fast to handle. I always liked the old
I turned the rifle over in my hands. I may not like them, but I know a good one when I see it.
Haskel said, “That baby holds twelve .44 cartridges, and underneath it has a shotgun shell. It’s activated by that second trigger. It clicks back once, then sets, and you click it again. It’s a twenty-gauge. It hasn’t got the room-cleaning power of that Remington, but you get one man in your sight, let loose on him, and he’ll be cool in the summer and cold in the winter.
“The top barrel is accurate, and it’ll shoot a goodly distance. More than that middle-measure barrel will lead you to believe.”
Haskel picked up the other rifle of the same design and tossed it to Leonard. “I’ll even throw in a box of shells per rifle,” Haskel said.
“Yeah,” Leonard said, “but how much are the rifles?”
“A thousand apiece.”
“Shit,” Leonard said. “Maybe we ought to get a powder horn and a ramrod and a Hawking reproduction.”
“I’ve got ’em,” Haskel said. “Look, you take both, I’ll make ’em eight hundred apiece. I’m actually selling these bastards at discount prices.”
“Seven hundred apiece,” Leonard said.
“Seven-fifty,” Haskel said.
“Oh, all right,” Leonard said, but you got to throw in one of those pistols.”
Haskel looked down at the table. He had brought out three handguns. He picked up one of the snub-nose .38s and weighed it in his hands as if he could tell its worth that way.
“All right,” he said. “But no shells with it.”
“How much are the shells?” Leonard asked.
“Sixty dollars.”
“For a box of .38s?”
“For twenty shells. They’re all dum-dums.”
“No thanks,” Leonard said. “Plain ole .38s will do. We want to be prepared, but we’re not trying to take on the Republican Guard.”
“All right. Anything else?”
“Shit, Leonard,” I said. “We don’t need all this stuff. Lose the shotgun and one of the rifles.”
“You never know,” Leonard said. “Give us three handguns, provided they aren’t a thousand a pop and my balls on a platter.”
“You can keep your balls,” Haskel said, “but the pistols, they’re seven-fifty apiece.”
“Jesus,” Leonard said. “You have these cut out of you, or what? That’s dear.”
“Take ’em all, get a discount.”
“How much?”
“Fifty dollars.”
“Fifty dollars! Jesus Christ, you’re really giving us the Jesse James.”
“These prices are bargain-basement, man.”
“Whose basement?”
“All right, I’ll cut you a hundred on the deal. Throw in a box of shells.”
Leonard sighed. He looked at me. I said, “I tell you, we don’t need all this stuff. I’m a man of peace.”
“Yeah,” Leonard said, “but they might not be.”
“You got you a little something planned,” Haskel said. “A job.”
