It was a one-room office with a wooden railing across at midpoint to create the illusion that the area behind it was a private office, the area in front, a reception-and-waiting room. Klee was alone at his cluttered desk at the rear of the office. He was very short and very fat with wire-framed spectacles and lifeless black hair. The front of his suit was littered with cigarette ashes. He had a surprisingly shy smile and a fond sensual way of handling guns.
It had often occurred to his customers that Klee was a setup to be robbed. Go in to buy a gun, buy it, turn it around and hold Klee up, then walk out. Klee would think twice before squawking to the law. But most of Klee’s customers liked him, admired his merchandise, and trusted his discretion, so they chose other targets instead.
Besides, there was a story: One time, a young hotshot had decided to hold Klee up, but he’d talked about it too much and the word had got back to Klee. The kid made a call, and when he came in to get the gun Klee gave it to him. He checked it. It was loaded, so he turned it around and told Klee to get his hands up. Instead, Klee reached for another gun. The hotshot hadn’t intended to kill him, but it looked as though he’d have to, so he pulled the trigger and the gun blew up in his hand, mangling it badly. Klee had laughed and asked if the hotshot wanted him to call the Police Rescue Squad? The hotshot stuffed his ruined hand into his coat pocket and ran out. Klee never heard of him again. Nobody else ever tried to hold him up.
Klee waved from the desk, calling, “Come on in! Handy, it’s you! I thought I recognized the voice, but I couldn’t quite place it.”
“How you doing, Amos?”
“Not bad, not bad. Got a nice one for you, Handy, a real nice one.” He glanced over at Parker. “I’m sorry,” he said. “Do I know you?”
“It’s Parker, Amos,” Handy said. He was grinning. “He had his face done over.”
“Well, I’ll be! I’d never recognize you.” His smile faded. “You wanted two guns? I’m sorry, I didn’t catch it, Handy. You should have said, ‘My partner and I,’ or something like that.”
“I’ve already got a gun,” Parker told him. “I got it down south. I didn’t know I’d be coming through here.”
“Oh, that’s all right. You’ll buy from me again.”
“Sure.”
Klee struggled up from his desk now, showing himself to be even shorter and fatter than he’d looked while sitting down. He turned towards the old iron safe in the corner. “I suppose you’re in a hurry.”
Handy said, “The elevator operator’s in a hurry.”
“He’s getting worse every day, that old man. One of these days, he’ll refuse to run the elevator at all, and maybe thenthey’ll fire him. Maybe.”
Klee smiled over his shoulder at them, then crouched down in front of the safe to work the combination. His chubby fingers spun the dial back and forth, he pushed the handle down, and the safe opened. He removed a flat wooden box, of the kind jewellers keep particularly precious necklaces in, and brought it over to the desk.
“A real nice piece,” he said, opening the box. “Iver Johnson, model 66, snub. She’ll take .38 S & W or Colt New Police, five shots. The rear sight has been removed, and she’s got new plastic grips.”
He took the revolver from the box the box was lined with green velvet and held it tenderly in his hands. His hands and the gun were short and stubby. His hands fondled the gun as he walked about it. “You see the rounded front sight? Won’t catch in your pocket like the Cadet. They call this one the Trailsman. Nice and small, handy for pocket or purse, like they say.” He giggled, and reluctantly handed the gun over to Handy.
Handy looked it over. “This the best you got?”
“For the price, for the size, yes. In a revolver. Now, if you want an automatic, I’ve got a nice Starfire .380, seven shots. She’s not quite as small as this, but, of course, thinner.”
“What do you want for this one?”
“Seventy.”
“And the automatic?”
“Eighty.”
“This one’s okay.”
“She’s a very nice little revolver, she really is.” Klee closed the safe, leaving the box out. “I’ve sold her twice before, and never any complaints.”
“That’s good. You’ve got ammunition?”
“Of course.” Klee went back to his desk, sat down, and opened the bottom right-hand drawer. He took a small box of cartridges out and set it on the desk.
Handy didn’t bother to load the revolver. He stowed it away inside his hunting jacket, put the box of cartridges in his pants pocket, and started to pay Klee for the gun.
But Parker objected. “No. I’m financing this one, remember?”
“Oh. Sure.”
Parker counted the money out on to Klee’s desk.
Klee watched, smiling, and then said, “Remember now, I’ll buy her back when you’re done with her. Half-price. Thirty-five dollars, if you want to bring her back.”
“If we get the chance,” Handy promised.
“That’s good, that’s good. And you, too, Parker. I’ll take yours off your hands when you’re finished with it. What is it?”
“Smith & Wesson, .38, short barrel.”
