The crowd was 90% men, most of them carrying. You’d think there’d be strict regulations about bringing in ammo for fear of a disagreement that ended in a shooting, but in fact the opposite seemed to be true. When everyone was armed, people tended to stay on their best behavior.
The remaining 10% of the crowd consisted of young girls in bathing suits—the promised Babes. They strutted around in high heels, passing out vendor fliers and presentation schedules.
In the background, some speaker droned on about the velocity, energy, and stopping-power differences between .40 S&W and .357 Sig rounds, and since I was planning on going with the .357, I gave him partial attention as I weaved through the throng of armed men. Using a vendor map supplied by one of the Babes, I located the booth I was looking for—Theel Firearms. After three minutes of walking, and two more checks of the map, I arrived at my destination.
Except it wasn’t manned by the cute guy from last year. It was manned by another cute guy, several years my junior.
And by “several years” I meant “at least ten, maybe fifteen.” But he had a strong chin, the rugged good looks of a cigarette model, and kind eyes. He also wore a uniform with a patch across the heart in the shape of a badge. It read, “DEPUTY OF THE SHERIFF’S OFFICE – LA PLATA COUNTY, COLORADO.”
He was in discussion with another cop, a portly Sheriff in green khakis with a tan shirt. Name badge read D. EISENHOWER. This man was bald, and had a round, doughy face.
“I’ve never been asked that before,” said the cute guy. “All rounds fired at a human being are going to cause some bleeding. I don’t know which ones would cause the least amount.”
“I’d go with a steel jacket, use fewer grains for a lower velocity,” I chimed in. “The round exits the body with minimal target damage, minimal expansion.”
They both looked my way.
The cute one had no name tag.
“The lady is right,” he said, giving me a fast wink. “We don’t carry anything like that, but if you load your own, I could set you up with some equipment.”
D. Eisenhower grunted, hitched up his pants, and walked off without another word.
“Odd fella. More than a passing resemblance to that Pillsbury mascot.”
“I’m looking for Chester,” I said.
“Chester’s not here today. I’m his little brother, Clayton. Call me Clay.”
He didn’t offer his hand, but his smile was inviting, and he leaned over the table just a bit to get closer.
“Hi, Clay. I’m looking for an HK P2000.”
“Replacement carry, Detective?”
“Lieutenant,” I corrected. “Yes. My team is giving me shit for my current carry.”
“And what would that be?”
“Detective Special.”
He nodded. “Colt. A classic. May I see it?”
I tugged the revolver out of my shoulder holster. Clay had correctly deduced I was a cop because we were the only ones allowed to carry concealed. Since I was in plainclothes, he had incorrectly assumed I was a detective. But then, I could forgive the assumption—I liked to think I looked too young to be a Lieutenant. I released the cylinder, spilled the bullets into my hand, and gave him the weapon.
His eyes narrowed with focus as he studied it.
“I see a lot of use, but this is in great shape. I like a woman who takes care of her weapon.”
“I admire the same thing in a man,” I said.
“Nice butt.”
“Thanks. I work out.”
His smile widened. “I meant the grip. Older guns, the wood sometimes cracks. You looking to sell this? I’d make you a good deal.”
“No, thanks. Do you have the P2000?”
“Sure do.”
He handed my gun back, and while I reloaded and holstered it, he ducked under his table and took out a metal gun box. When he flipped open the top, I was staring down at an HK with a spare clip, each nestled in foam.
Clay removed it, did a customary check of the slide to confirm it was empty, and handed it over. “Chambered for .357 Sig rounds.”
I noticed a thin sheen of oil on the piece. “Brand new?”
“A virgin,” he said.
“I like mine with a little experience.”
“We could work something out. My other brother, Remy, is taking over in a few minutes. If you’d like, we can go to the range at Porter’s next door. Try before you buy.” His eyes flicked down to my hands. Checking for a wedding ring, maybe?
“That would be great, Clay. Thanks.”
“I didn’t get your name, Lieutenant…?”
“Daniels. Jack Daniels. Call me Jack.”
His eyes lit up. “Your reputation precedes you, Jack. Even as far west as Colorado. I watched that TV show based on you. You’re much better looking than that chubby actress, if I may say so.”
“You may. And you just did.”
It felt good to flirt with a cute guy, especially since my current romantic interest had been treating me so icily I could see his breath when he spoke.
“Here comes my bro, Remy. Remington, this is Jack Daniels.”
Remy nodded at me. He looked even younger than Clay, though not nearly as cute.
“Chester, Clayton, and Remington?” I said.
“Dad said he wanted a ton of kids,” Remy said, shrugging.
“Remy, I’m going to take Jack and Alice to the range, see if she’s interested in buying our P2000.”
“Alice?” I asked.
Clay smiled, and from under the table removed the biggest revolver I’d ever seen. It was nickel-plated and had RAGING BULL engraved on the barrel.
“This is Alice. A Taurus .454 Casull.” He beamed like he was watching his son score a winning touchdown.
“You named your gun Alice?” I asked.
“Sure,” he said, putting his hand on the table and vaulting over it. “Haven’t you named your Colt?”
“No.”
“Well, let’s see how she fires,” Clay said, winking and cocking out his arm for me to take. “Maybe we’ll think of something.”
Mr. K
The man known in law enforcement circles as Mr. K walked past the attractive woman and the cop she was flirting with, and approached a booth occupied by Morrell’s Edges. Morrell was an older man, sturdy, his red cheeks separated by a black mustache, known to be one of the finest custom knife makers in the country, if not the world.
Mr. K had come to pick up a custom piece, something that he needed for his line of work. He made a living committing very bad deeds for very bad people for very good money. Often, those very bad things involved detail work.
Try cutting off someone’s eyelids with an over-the-counter pocket knife, for example. Or slicing off their fingernails with a serrated folder. Fulfilling special orders like that required a precision device, and Morrell was the man to see about such cutlery.
Already at the table stood a familiar, pudgy gentleman with distasteful armpit stains.
The pudgy man was arguing with Morrell.
“I’m telling you, it was a custom piece. I saw it maybe ten years ago. Guy said it came from you. Most beautiful knife I’d ever seen. Handle made of ivory. Long, heavy blade, also had some serration. Could shave the skin off a newborn child, if you know what I’m saying.”
