“Do you see that man over there?” she whispered. “The one with the windbreaker and black hat pretending to read the newspaper?”
“What about him?”
“He’s been looking at me.”
I checked him out as we chugged along the canal. He seemed like an ordinary guy reading a paper. I watched the other passengers. Either everyone looked suspicious—or I was just getting Hitchcocky. Out of the corner of my eye I caught the guy with the black hat steal another glimpse at Antonia.
“You see that?” she said.“He just did it again.”
I immediately understood the look.“He’s checking you out.”
“That’s it? That’s why he’s looking at me?”
“Yeah. He digs you.”
“Digs me,” she snorted. “Nobody says ‘digs.’ Not since the sixties. Where did you grow up, in a commune?”
“Almost. Berkeley, California.”
The ferry docked. As we made our way off, I pushed past the guy with the windbreaker, giving him a little shove with my shoulder. I couldn’t help it.
We caught the bus for the short ride to the parking lot. My pulse began to race as we approached the car. The second we got there, I tore open the package.
“Guns?” Antonia gasped.
“Guns,” I repeated, feeling excitement mixed with confusion.
There were two Sig Sauer P-229s, my gun of choice, and a Miami Classic woven double shoulder holster with extra ammunition. Beneath them was a purple, velvet-covered case and a brown box. I opened the case first. It held an extremely small handgun. It was light, but substantial—super-modern-looking, mostly handle. I checked out the barrel.
“What
“The tiniest bore I’ve ever seen,” I told her, astonished. “Looks like it shoots mini BBs.”
I opened the box. On top was a three-inch-long piece of rubber cut from a motorcycle inner tube. Under the tube was a word-processed note. Antonia grabbed it and read:
“You are holding a prototype microchip-driven automatic weapon. The magazine contains two hundred exploding pellets. The gun defaults to single shot. Press the button on the side of the trigger guard once and it will switch to semi. Press it again and it will go to full auto. The rubber forearm band will serve as a holster.”
“That’s it?” I asked after a second.“Nothing else? No name?”
“Nothing. What do you think?”
My mind was clicking like a card spinning in a bicycle spoke. Then it stopped on the only reasonable explanation:
I cursed myself again for raking his coals. I made a mental note never to put Archie in any compromising situation again.
Antonia listened intently as I explained.
I waited for her to say, “That’s crazy,” or “Your friend must benuts,” but she didn’t. She said, “Well, don’t just stand there, put them on.”
I loaded the guns, slipped the rubber inner tube over my wrist, and snugged the mini into it. I put on the double holster, then my jacket. With my sleeve unbuttoned I could reach right up and draw the weapon. I felt a sense of power and gratitude.
“Now let’s get out of here,” Antonia said, tossing me the car keys. “I’ve got some translating to do.”
“Where’s the best place for two people to be inconspicuous?”
She thought for a moment. “Milan. It’s close. It’s big. I know my way around. Milan doesn’t care. Do you have money? I only have a little.”
“We’re covered,” I said, getting behind the wheel, firing up the old heap. “Point me to Milan.”
Antonia directed me to the A4 and we settled in for the three-hour trip. It was a sunny spring day, cool enough to keep the windows closed so we could talk.
“So,” I said, my eyes on the horizon. “I told you about me; tell me something about you. You’re American.”
“What’d you tell me, that you used to live in Berkeley? Not exactly in-depth coverage. But I know plenty about you. You were going to ditch me.”
“Well I didn’t.”
“But you wanted to.”
My skin started to crawl. “Can’t you start translating now? Oh, I forgot. You get carsick.”
“And your glibness is a dodge, a protective device.”
“No,
“There you go again,” she said. “Being glib.”
