Cuba’s gone and I’m in the dream world, America, opposite an elderly man in an unnamed hamlet outside a mountain town in Colorado and Dad’s dead and Ricky’s gay and Mom’s got pre-Alzheimer’s and I haven’t spoken to Lizzy or Esme or Uncle Arturo for a decade.
“Well,” the man says. “What can I do ye for?”
“Pardon?”
“What can I do ye for?”
“I have come about your advertisement in the newspaper.”
“What ad?”
“For the guns.”
“I can detect by your accent that you ain’t from around these parts.”
“No.”
His eyes twinkle. “Well, I have to tell you, ma’am, that in general this here thing with the knife and the handcuffs is not how you’re supposed to respond to a small ad in the newspaper.”
“I need the handgun,” I tell him.
He nods, scratches his nose. “Why is that? If you don’t mind me asking,” he says.
“I need it for protection and I don’t have enough money to buy one downtown.”
He clears his throat. “Ok. Just let me get this straight. You think someone’s trying to harm you and you want to get a gun to protect yourself, but you don’t have much money, so you thought you’d break into my house and steal one of my weapons?”
“Yes.”
He thinks for a second and nods. “Well, ma’am, if you’re willing to take a risk like that then I reckon you’re in a heap of trouble, all right.”
I nod in agreement.
“I got two daughters myself. Both in California.”
“Hmmm.”
“Two daughters, four grandchildren. All girls. Not a boy among them. Don’t get me wrong. I ain’t complaining. Thank the Lord they is all healthy.”
“Mister, uh…”
“Oh, you can call me Jonesy, everyone pretty much calls me Jonesy. And I won’t take it as a sign of disrespect if you don’t want to tell me your name considering the circumstances.”
“Thank you, sir,” I say.
A pause and then a look of cunning. “Well now, missy, how much money you got?” he asks.
“About ninety dollars.”
“Ninety bucks? My oh my. You’re right about that. That ain’t a whole lot of nothing these days. Well, I know you’ve kind of got me over a barrel here, but I’d be very reluctant to part with that brand-new Smith & Wesson nine-millimeter for less than a hundred dollars, no matter how I come to it, but I’ve got some older models you might wanna use for personal protection. Good guns. Stop any ex-boyfriend, ex-husband, that kind of thing. Stop a bull elephant if you was close enough. Lessen you is set on the M and P.”
“I don’t care what the gun is as long as it works.”
He smiles. “Yup, that’s what I reckoned. Well, if you’ll open that red cupboard over there. The key is on top of the TV.”
I find the key and open the cupboard. Half a dozen hunting rifles and a drawer full of revolvers and semiautomatic pistols. Many more guns than he needs for personal protection. Obviously a dealer or a collector of some kind.
I look back to check that he’s still sitting. He hasn’t stirred.
“Ok. You want an M and P? Good choice, by the way. The new one is over on the left-hand side but I got one with a little bit of scoring on the handle, very similar gun, 1997, shoots real good, just under the-”
“I see it,” I say, pulling it out. Looks perfect, not heavy. The grip a little big for me, but not too unwieldy.
“You like it?” he asks.
“Yes.”
“Excellent, ninety bucks even for her and no questions asked. She’s a beaut, shot her myself behind the old homestead here. Fires pretty steady up to fifty feet.”
“I’ll take it.” To prove my honesty I remove four twenties and other bills from my pocket and hand them to him. He grins, showing a couple of missing teeth, the first American I’ve seen with that very Cuban look.
“Tell you what, let’s call it seventy. Can’t say fairer than that. That’s a good gun. Serial number filed-not by me, I don’t do that kind of thing. Not my line. Serial number’s gone but it wouldn’t be fair dealing if I didn’t tell you that in the Salt Lake City police department there’s a ballistics report saying that there handgun was used in an armed robbery. Smart cop might be able to trace it back. You shoot that ex-boyfriend of your’n and they’ll have you for armed robbery too. And of course, if you ever brought up my name I’d deny everything.”
“I understand.”
“Good, good. Well, we’re almost done here, I reckon.”
“We are done, thank you.”
“Don’t go running off now just yet. You and me got off to a rocky start, but ain’t that the way sometimes? We’re fast friends now.”
“I’ve got what I came for.”
“Wait a minute, you’re going to need something from me and I’m gonna need something from you.”
Suspicion makes me frown under the ski mask.
“What do I need from you?”
“Don’t you want some shells?”
For a second I don’t understand what he’s talking about. Why would I want shells?
“Ammo,” he clarifies.
“Yes, of course.”
“Fair trade, I’ll give you enough for a clip. Gratis. But you gotta remove these here handcuffs. There’s no way I can tell any of the neighbors around here to cut ’em off. Laugh themselves silly. And as for calling Sheriff Briggs, forget it.”
“What are you saying?” I ask him.
“Bottom drawer of the cupboard. Standard nine-millimeter rounds. I want you to load your clip and when you’re done, throw me that handcuff key. I’ll uncuff myself, you’ll take your gun. You go out the way you came in and we’ll say no more about it.”
“Sounds reasonable, as long as the ammo isn’t dud.”
“It’s good stuff. A-grade. Dry as a hornet’s nest.”
I find the ammo box and load eight rounds into the clip. The spring has a little more give than I would like but it’s not bad for an older weapon.
I throw him the handcuff key. He fumbles with it but eventually uncuffs himself. I take the cuffs and key and put them in my pocket.
“What now?” I wonder.
“There is no
He sits in his chair and picks up the beer can. He hits the remote and the TV comes to life.
I walk into the kitchen and slip out the back door and down the yard.
I’m half expecting a shotgun blast tearing up the air around me, but nothing happens.
I dart into the woods and take off the ski mask.
No one follows me on the road back to town and everything’s real smooth until Sheriff Briggs in his black Escalade pulls in beside me.
Bad judge of character-I didn’t figure the old man for someone who would call the cops.
Briggs leans out the window. “Aren’t you one of Esteban’s… Wait a minute, I know you. I got you myself, day before yesterday. What the hell are you doing down here?”
No, Mr. Jones isn’t a
Briggs handbrakes the car and takes off his aviator sunglasses.
