Colonel Rutherford's Colt by Lucius Shepard Page A

didn’t answer at first. Finally he said, “Naw . . . not really.”
    â€œWho’s Aaron?”
    He blinked at her. “The hero.”
    â€œIn your story? You didn’t tell me about him.”
    â€œLater,” he said. “Okay?”
    She gave his shoulder a shake. “C’mon, Jimmy! Don’t hold out on me!”
    He licked his lips, blinked, and wiped his mouth with the back of a hand. Sleepily, speaking in phrases at first, but then with greater energy, curving the sentences into fancy shapes, he told her a little about Aaron, then returned to an earlier portion of the narrative that concerned Susan’s intensifiying involvement with Luis and her increasing frustration with the colonel. Rita thought how strange it was that Jimmy’s daddy had been able to pound dents into his brain in just such a way so as to cause him to go groping around in life most of the time—business-sharp, but otherwise dim as a firefly, except when it came to making his stories. They arose from a place inside him she couldn’t see or touch, and it was this mystery, she believed, its resonance with her and not the stories themselves, that inspired the parts she sometimes played and let her become her own incarnation, a story unto herself. She pictured a waterfall in his head, splashing down onto rocks amid a pine forest, amazing creatures materializing from the roiled-up water and vanishing, silver wolves and cave men and private eyes and flashily dressed women. . . . and she felt the story of Colonel Rutherford’s Colt charging a battery inside her, sending forth a voltage that was disintegrating the drab curtain of ordinary concerns that muffled her spirit, liberating it to act. She had a premonition that this story might take them both right to the edge.
    Jimmy’s voice trailed off and he turned his head away. His breathing grew slow and regular. Rita watched a commercial for an Internet service that featured groups of shiny young folk, one of every race except her own, all made ecstatic by their access to endless quantities of porn and merchandise. Then she settled on her side next to Jimmy. His eyelids were fluttery with dreams. She touched her lips to his cheek, and he whispered too low to hear. Probably dreaming about the story. Often when he fucked her she wasn’t sure whether he’d gotten lost in a story and was doing someone named Charlotte or Marie . . . or Susan. She wondered what it was like, having stories in your head. It was hard enough pretending to be yourself, sifting through all the garbage floating in your mind and finding the thoughts that mattered, that streamed up pure from the place you streamed up from. She leaned over him, kissed his mouth. Inhaled his sweet warm smell. An easy stirring in her gut caused her to think about waking him. She recalled a time in Oregon City when she climbed on board the Jimmy train an hour before opening and hadn’t jumped off until half past six. She just couldn’t get enough of the crazy bastard. And when he was working on a story, he couldn’t get enough of her. Like his dick was connected to the part of his brain did the telling. It would be fun, she thought. If the Colt was going to sell, they didn’t need a good day. But she let the notion slide. She dug the remote from a fold in the blanket, aimed it at the TV, and changed channels.
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    Sunday afternoon was slow for everyone. The big spenders generally waited until the last day to buy, and most of the sensible shoppers had come and gone, leaving gawkers and curiosity seekers and shoplifters to turtle along the aisles, causing the dealers to view with suspicion every roomy jacket and purse. No one ever tried to steal from the Guy Guns tables, because the weapons were under lock and key; but Rita liked spying out shoplifters at the adjacent tables, so Jimmy let her handle the business and sat off to the side