else.”
Morgan took his outstretched hand in a soul shake.
“Took me a while, after you called,” Otis said, “but I think I got everything you want.”
“Solid.”
Otis came from behind the counter, went to the door and worked the two dead bolts, flipped the sign to CLOSED . “Come on back,” he said.
Morgan followed him behind the counter and into the rear of the store. Otis limped, a souvenir from an Aryan Brother who had stabbed him a half-dozen times with a bedspring shank. Two days later, Morgan had caught the Brother alone in a hallway off Five Wing and taken out both his eyes with a sharpened spoon.
It was overhot back here, smelled of metal, oil, and dust. A radiator clanked. Morgan saw the double-barrel sawed-off that hung on pegs just above the inside of the door, within easy reach. Knew it was loaded.
Otis stopped at a tall shelf of plumbing supplies, put his glasses on, peered up at the boxes there. He took one down marked SHUT-OFF VALVES , set it on a worktable.
“There you go,” he said.
Morgan opened it. Inside were five gray boxes of Winchester Super-X 9 mm shells, fifty rounds in each. Morgan thumbed one open, checked them.
“Early Christmas shopping?” Otis said.
“Something like that.”
“You wanted to see something small, too, in a hand carry?I just got a couple new pieces in. Russian, but they’re in good shape. I’d let them go cheap.”
“Junk.”
“Maybe, but they’ll go quick. Corner boys love that shit. None of them can shoot worth a damn anyway.”
“What else you have?”
Otis took a second box down, handed it over. Inside was a small black automatic wrapped in oilcloth.
“Walther PP,” Otis said. “German police gun. Nine millimeter, like your Beretta.”
Morgan took the gun out, ejected the empty clip. The slide action was smooth, the gun recently oiled. No traces of rust. He pushed the clip back in.
“Light,” he said.
“Get the job done.”
“It’s good.”
“Got something else you might want to look at. Had it for a while, made me think of you.”
He went to a shelf on the other side of the room, came back with a long, unmarked box, set it on the table. When he took the lid off, Morgan saw the short-barreled black-and-chrome Remington 12-gauge pump inside, resting on a bed of rags.
“Model 870,” Otis said. “You used to keep one of them back when you worked for Poot O’Neal, didn’t you? Around the time he got to warring with the Johnson brothers.”
“Sometimes.”
Morgan couldn’t resist. He took the shotgun out, looked it over, feeling its familiar weight. He worked the pump, checked that the breach was empty, saw where the serial number hadbeen filed off. After a moment, he shook his head, used a rag to wipe down where he’d touched it, put it back in the box.
“Not this time,” he said. “I’m good.”
He took the money roll out, peeled off four hundreds.
“Too much,” Otis said.
“It was a rush job.”
“Twist my arm.” He took the bills. “Let me give you something to put those in.”
He went out front, came back with a cheap canvas gym bag, set it on the table.
“Been hearing some things about you,” he said.
“Like what?”
“That you been going up against those boys from around the way. Took down a couple of their people.”
“What else you hear?”
“That they looking for you. I see you in here buying all this, makes me wonder what you got in mind. There’s a lot more of them than there are of you.”
“My warring days are over.”
“Don’t look like that to me.”
Morgan put the wrapped Walther and the ammunition boxes in the bag, zipped it shut.
“Let me ask you something,” he said.
“What?”
“You ever sell to those Three Paw boys?”
“Sometimes. Why?”
“Doesn’t matter.”
Morgan hefted the bag, put out his hand. Otis took it. They clinched, released.
“We go back a long way,” Otis said. “Thirty years at least.”
“ ’Bout that.”
“And you always one
Morgan took his outstretched hand in a soul shake.
“Took me a while, after you called,” Otis said, “but I think I got everything you want.”
“Solid.”
Otis came from behind the counter, went to the door and worked the two dead bolts, flipped the sign to CLOSED . “Come on back,” he said.
Morgan followed him behind the counter and into the rear of the store. Otis limped, a souvenir from an Aryan Brother who had stabbed him a half-dozen times with a bedspring shank. Two days later, Morgan had caught the Brother alone in a hallway off Five Wing and taken out both his eyes with a sharpened spoon.
It was overhot back here, smelled of metal, oil, and dust. A radiator clanked. Morgan saw the double-barrel sawed-off that hung on pegs just above the inside of the door, within easy reach. Knew it was loaded.
Otis stopped at a tall shelf of plumbing supplies, put his glasses on, peered up at the boxes there. He took one down marked SHUT-OFF VALVES , set it on a worktable.
“There you go,” he said.
Morgan opened it. Inside were five gray boxes of Winchester Super-X 9 mm shells, fifty rounds in each. Morgan thumbed one open, checked them.
“Early Christmas shopping?” Otis said.
“Something like that.”
“You wanted to see something small, too, in a hand carry?I just got a couple new pieces in. Russian, but they’re in good shape. I’d let them go cheap.”
“Junk.”
“Maybe, but they’ll go quick. Corner boys love that shit. None of them can shoot worth a damn anyway.”
“What else you have?”
Otis took a second box down, handed it over. Inside was a small black automatic wrapped in oilcloth.
“Walther PP,” Otis said. “German police gun. Nine millimeter, like your Beretta.”
Morgan took the gun out, ejected the empty clip. The slide action was smooth, the gun recently oiled. No traces of rust. He pushed the clip back in.
“Light,” he said.
“Get the job done.”
“It’s good.”
“Got something else you might want to look at. Had it for a while, made me think of you.”
He went to a shelf on the other side of the room, came back with a long, unmarked box, set it on the table. When he took the lid off, Morgan saw the short-barreled black-and-chrome Remington 12-gauge pump inside, resting on a bed of rags.
“Model 870,” Otis said. “You used to keep one of them back when you worked for Poot O’Neal, didn’t you? Around the time he got to warring with the Johnson brothers.”
“Sometimes.”
Morgan couldn’t resist. He took the shotgun out, looked it over, feeling its familiar weight. He worked the pump, checked that the breach was empty, saw where the serial number hadbeen filed off. After a moment, he shook his head, used a rag to wipe down where he’d touched it, put it back in the box.
“Not this time,” he said. “I’m good.”
He took the money roll out, peeled off four hundreds.
“Too much,” Otis said.
“It was a rush job.”
“Twist my arm.” He took the bills. “Let me give you something to put those in.”
He went out front, came back with a cheap canvas gym bag, set it on the table.
“Been hearing some things about you,” he said.
“Like what?”
“That you been going up against those boys from around the way. Took down a couple of their people.”
“What else you hear?”
“That they looking for you. I see you in here buying all this, makes me wonder what you got in mind. There’s a lot more of them than there are of you.”
“My warring days are over.”
“Don’t look like that to me.”
Morgan put the wrapped Walther and the ammunition boxes in the bag, zipped it shut.
“Let me ask you something,” he said.
“What?”
“You ever sell to those Three Paw boys?”
“Sometimes. Why?”
“Doesn’t matter.”
Morgan hefted the bag, put out his hand. Otis took it. They clinched, released.
“We go back a long way,” Otis said. “Thirty years at least.”
“ ’Bout that.”
“And you always one
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