this meant was that, more than ever before, Jerome Burnel needed to have diamonds available for his stores, and sometimes at short notice, which, in real terms, translated as ‘right now’. On that particular evening, the one that changed everything, he was carrying $120,000 worth of them in a specially designed pocket in his jacket. He also carried a briefcase, but it was a decoy, and contained only rhinestones and cubic zirconia packed in clear sleeves for show. In the event of a robbery – which, so far, had never arisen, praise Jesus and all the saints – he would simply hand over the case without objection, and hope that the thieves were smart enough not to compound theft with murder.
Only recently had Burnel started carrying a weapon, after a couple of guys he knew had been targeted and robbed, one so violently that he now had a plate in his head and could only talk out of the left side of his mouth. The pistol made Burnel feel more ill at ease than any quantity of diamonds secreted about his person. He hated the weight and shape of it. He was always uncomfortable carrying it in the holster on his belt, even though the little Ruger weighed less than a pound and could pretty much fit in the palm of his hand. He had practiced drawing it from its leather holster in front of the bathroom mirror, but it made him feel slightly ridiculous, as though he were playing at being a gunfighter. At first, the gun had fit too snugly in the holster, which he’d chosen because the dealer said that leather was better for concealed carry. Unfortunately, a concealed weapon wouldn’t be much use to him if he couldn’t get it out of the holster, but Owen Larraby, who knew about guns, told him to wet the holster, put the gun in a Ziploc bag, and place the bagged gun in the holster overnight. That had helped some, but Burnel had still been forced to buy some Mitch Rosen Leather Lightning in order to loosen the sheath enough for an easy draw.
All of which assumed that, if the worst happened, Burnel would have time to arm himself, and then be able to shoot any prospective thief, neither of which seemed very likely to him. He just couldn’t see himself killing another man, not even to save a pouch of diamonds. He’d paid a couple of visits to the local range to gain the minimum proficiency required for his permit, but he’d felt uncomfortable with some of the company he was keeping. He wasn’t a gun nut, and there were men – and two women – beside him on the first visit with enough weapons to take on Islamic State. Later, when he returned with the Ruger, he told the guy in charge why he’d bought the revolver, and the guy had shuffled him off to the edge of the range, and brought the silhouette target right up close.
‘Just get used to firing at the shape of a man,’ was the advice Burnel received. ‘Aim for the torso. Nothing fancy.’
Burnel had fired and reloaded, fired and reloaded, until his ears rang, the grip of the gun was slick with sweat, and the center of the man-shaped target was torn apart. He hadn’t removed the gun from its holster since, not even to clean it. It sat on his belt and dug into his belly. He hadn’t told his wife about it. He couldn’t have said why, except that he had an inkling of how Norah would respond to the sight of him with a gun on his belt. There would be laughter: maybe not the mocking kind, for he had long ago learned to identify her varying tones of disapproval and strained amusement at her husband’s ways, but simply a spontaneous reaction to the improbability of what she was seeing. He was, he had come to realize, a disappointment to his wife in so many ways, just as she was a disappointment to him.
That was one of the reasons why, when the gas station appeared before him, he decided to pull in for a coffee. He was less than an hour from Portland, and home, and didn’t even particularly need a coffee or a rest stop, but increasingly he was happier alone than he was in his own
Only recently had Burnel started carrying a weapon, after a couple of guys he knew had been targeted and robbed, one so violently that he now had a plate in his head and could only talk out of the left side of his mouth. The pistol made Burnel feel more ill at ease than any quantity of diamonds secreted about his person. He hated the weight and shape of it. He was always uncomfortable carrying it in the holster on his belt, even though the little Ruger weighed less than a pound and could pretty much fit in the palm of his hand. He had practiced drawing it from its leather holster in front of the bathroom mirror, but it made him feel slightly ridiculous, as though he were playing at being a gunfighter. At first, the gun had fit too snugly in the holster, which he’d chosen because the dealer said that leather was better for concealed carry. Unfortunately, a concealed weapon wouldn’t be much use to him if he couldn’t get it out of the holster, but Owen Larraby, who knew about guns, told him to wet the holster, put the gun in a Ziploc bag, and place the bagged gun in the holster overnight. That had helped some, but Burnel had still been forced to buy some Mitch Rosen Leather Lightning in order to loosen the sheath enough for an easy draw.
All of which assumed that, if the worst happened, Burnel would have time to arm himself, and then be able to shoot any prospective thief, neither of which seemed very likely to him. He just couldn’t see himself killing another man, not even to save a pouch of diamonds. He’d paid a couple of visits to the local range to gain the minimum proficiency required for his permit, but he’d felt uncomfortable with some of the company he was keeping. He wasn’t a gun nut, and there were men – and two women – beside him on the first visit with enough weapons to take on Islamic State. Later, when he returned with the Ruger, he told the guy in charge why he’d bought the revolver, and the guy had shuffled him off to the edge of the range, and brought the silhouette target right up close.
‘Just get used to firing at the shape of a man,’ was the advice Burnel received. ‘Aim for the torso. Nothing fancy.’
Burnel had fired and reloaded, fired and reloaded, until his ears rang, the grip of the gun was slick with sweat, and the center of the man-shaped target was torn apart. He hadn’t removed the gun from its holster since, not even to clean it. It sat on his belt and dug into his belly. He hadn’t told his wife about it. He couldn’t have said why, except that he had an inkling of how Norah would respond to the sight of him with a gun on his belt. There would be laughter: maybe not the mocking kind, for he had long ago learned to identify her varying tones of disapproval and strained amusement at her husband’s ways, but simply a spontaneous reaction to the improbability of what she was seeing. He was, he had come to realize, a disappointment to his wife in so many ways, just as she was a disappointment to him.
That was one of the reasons why, when the gas station appeared before him, he decided to pull in for a coffee. He was less than an hour from Portland, and home, and didn’t even particularly need a coffee or a rest stop, but increasingly he was happier alone than he was in his own
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