The Drawing of the Three

Jack Mort was an accountant, and this time there was no waiting; translation and answer came simultaneously.

'Three,' the gunslinger said. 'Three boxes.' He tapped the Fotergraff of the shells with one finger. One hundred and fifty rounds! Ye gods! What a mad storehouse of riches this world was!

The clerk wasn't moving.

'You don't have that many,' the gunslinger said. He felt no real surprise. It had been too good to be true. A dream.

'Oh, I got Winchester .45s I got .45s up the kazoo.' The clerk took another step to the left, a step closer to the cash register and the gun. If the guy was a nut, something the clerk expected to find out for sure any second now, he was soon going to be a nut with an extremely large hole in his midsection. 'I got .45 ammo up the old ying-yang. What I want to know, mister, is if you got the card.'

'Card?'

'A handgun permit with a photo. I can't sell you handgun ammo unless you can show me one. If you want to buy ammo without a P.C., you're gonna hafta go up to Westchester .'

The gunslinger stared at the man blankly. This was all gabble to him. He understood none of it. His Mortcypedia had some vague notion of what the man meant, but Mort's ideas were too vague to be trusted in this case. Mort had never owned a gun in his life. He did his nasty work in other ways.

The man sidled another step to the left without taking his eyes from his customer's face and the gunslinger thought: He's got a gun. He expects me to make trouble … or maybe he wants me to make trouble. Wants an excuse to shoot me.

Improvise.

He remembered the gunslingers sitting in their blue and white carriage down the street. Gunslingers, yes, peacekeepers, men charged with keeping the world from moving on. But these had looked—at least on a passing glance—to be nearly as soft and unobservant as everyone else in this world of lotus-eaters; just two men in uniforms and caps, slouched down in the seats of their carriage, drinking coffee. He might have misjudged. He hoped for all their sakes—that he had not.

'Oh! I understand,' the gunslinger said, and drew an apologetic smile on Jack Mort's face. 'I'm sorry. I guess I haven't kept track of how much the world has moved on—changed—since I last owned a gun.'

'No harm done,' the clerk said, relaxing minutely. Maybe the guy was all right. Or maybe he was pulling a gag.

'I wonder if I could look at that cleaning kit?' Roland pointed to a shelf behind the clerk.

'Sure.' The clerk turned to get it, and when he did, the gunslinger removed the wallet from Mort's inside jacket pocket. He did this with the flickering speed of a fast draw. The clerk's back was to him for less than four seconds, but when he turned back to Mort, the wallet was on the floor.

'It's a beaut,' the clerk said, smiling, having decided the guy was okay after all. Hell, he knew how lousy you felt when you made a horse's ass of yourself. He had done it in the Marines enough times. 'And you don't need a goddam permit to buy a cleaning kit, either. Ain't freedom wonderful?'

'Yes,' the gunslinger said seriously, and pretended to look closely at the cleaning kit, although a single glance was enough to show him that it was a shoddy thing in a shoddy box. While he looked, he carefully pushed Mort's wallet under the counter with his foot.

After a moment he pushed it back with a passable show of regret. 'I'm afraid I'll have to pass.'

'All right,' the clerk said, losing interest abruptly. Since the guy wasn't crazy and was obviously a looker, not a buyer, their relationship was at an end. Bullshit walks. 'Anything else?' His mouth asked while his eyes told blue-suit to get out.

'No, thank you.' The gunslinger walked out without a look back. Mort's wallet was deep under the counter. Roland had set out his own honeypot.

7

Officers Carl Delevan and George O'Mearah had finished their coffee and were about to move on when the man in the blue suit came out of Clements'—which both cops believed to be a powderhorn (police slang for a legal gunshop which sometimes sells guns to independent stick-up men with proven credentials and which does business, sometimes in bulk, to the Mafia), and approached their squad car.

He leaned down and looked in the passenger side window at O'Mearah. O'Mearah expected the guy to sound like a fruit—probably as fruity as his routine about the lavender handcuffths had suggested, but a pouf all the same. Guns aside, Clements' did a lively trade in handcuffs. These were legal in Manhattan , and most of the people buying them weren't amateur Houdinis (the cops didn't like it, but when had what the cops thought on any given subject ever changed things?). The buyers were homos with a little taste for s & m. But the man didn't sound like a fag at all. His voice was flat and expressionless, polite but somehow dead.

'The tradesman in there took my wallet,' he said.

'Who?' O'Mearah straightened up fast. They had been itching to bust Justin Clements for a year and a half. If it could be done, maybe the two of them could finally swap these bluesuits for detective's badges. Probably just a pipe-dream—this was too good to be true—but just the same …

'The tradesman. The—' A brief pause. 'The clerk.'

O'Mearah and Carl Delevan exchanged a glance.

'Black hair?' Delevan asked. 'On the stocky side?'

Again there was the briefest pause. 'Yes. His eyes were brown. Small scar under one of them.'

There was something about the guy … O'Mearah couldn't put his finger on it then, but remembered later on, when there weren't so many other things to think about. The chief of which, of course, was the simple fact that the gold detective's badge didn't matter; it turned out that just holding onto the jobs they had would be a pure brassy-ass miracle.

But years later there was a brief moment of epiphany when O'Mearah took his two sons to the Museum of Science in Boston . They had a machine there—a computer—that played tic-tac-toe, and unless you put your X in the middle square on your first move, the machine fucked you over every time. But there was always a pause as it checked its memory for all possible gambits. He and his boys had been fascinated. But there was something spooky about it … and then he remembered Blue-Suit. He remembered because Blue-Suit had had that some fucking habit. Talking to him had been like talking to a robot.

Delevan had no such feeling, but nine years later, when he took his own son (then eighteen and about to start college) to the movies one night, Delevan would rise unexpectedly to his feet about thirty minutes into the feature and scream, 'It's him! That's HIM! That's the guy in the fucking blue suit! The guy who was at Cle—'

Somebody would shout Down in front! but needn't have bothered; Delevan, seventy pounds overweight and a heavy smoker, would be struck by a fatal heart attack before the complainer even got to the second word. The man in the blue suit who approached their cruiser that day and told them about his stolen wallet didn't look like the star of the movie, but the dead delivery of words had been the same; so had been the somehow relentless yet graceful way he moved.

The movie, of course, had been The Terminator.

8

The cops exchanged a glance. The man Blue-Suit was talking about wasn't Clements, but almost as good: 'Fat Johnny' Holden, Clements' brother-in-law. But to have done something as totally dumb-ass as simply