of legal operation, and if you went to Loby’s and you didn’t see Simon, he had either just left or he was on his way in.
Leo didn’t have time to kill with any of Simon’s saggytitted surrogates tonight, and he wasn’t in the mood to fend off propositions from an end-of-the-line hooker or to make conversation with a stewed regular who smelled worse than the Ron-Da-Voo’s men’s room.
Fortunately Simon the Bartender was at his post, deadpanning and shaking the ice cubes in the pint glass of tap water he was always sipping from. He had to be over sixty, still beefy in the forearms, still handsome in a busted-up, old-guy kind of way. His wavy hair was mostly grey, but a touch of the brown it used to be was hanging on at the temples.
Instead of saying hello, he nodded at people as they walked in, to set the tone in case they were thinking he was the sort they could tell their troubles to. And if they were drunk or stupid or just plain bad at catching nonverbal drifts and they started in on him, he’d come right out and ask them why they thought he gave a shit.
The clientele was pretty much the same as Leo remembered, though the Cuban quotient had been watered down by tourists out for a slab of what was left of local color and slumming queers who got a thrill out of drinking in a real dive, not a chic, in-crowd place pretending to be a dive.
Leo told Simon he wanted a word and Simon signaled to his man Bruce, who got behind the bar and stood there, a bleary grin on his face.
A six-burner stove dominated the kitchen, its exposed, cobwebbed pipes connected to nothing. A doubledoored refrigerator hummed against one wall and Bruce’s cot was set up along another. What Leo needed, he told Simon the Bartender, was a piece.
Simon worked keys into a pair of padlocks securing a closet and opened the door. Leo spotted a mop, a bucket, and two brooms with their bristles worn to nubs. A pallet of cleanser was encased in shrinkwrap, and there was a stainless steel sink Simon hadn’t gotten around to installing. He reached into a bowling bag and pulled out a black pistol that had a dull, oily sheen.
He said, “Know how to work an automatic?”
Leo said he did, though he didn’t. How complicated could it be?
Simon the Bartender pulled back the slide. “Careful. It’s loaded.”
Leo closed one eye and brought the pistol level with his shoulder. “How much?”
“That’s a SIG Sauer,” Simon said. “P226, nine millimeter.”
“Right,” Leo said. He was thinking this baby would do a lot more than just leave a telegenic hole in JP Beaumond’s forehead.
“The FBI’s using these now, you know.”
Leo held the gun at his hip and made a High Noon quick draw. Probably take a big piece of that Beaumond bean right off. “How much?” he said again.
“Six hundred.”
“Six hundred,” Leo said. “That’s a lotta loochie.” He had about five hundred on him. He gave the SIG Sauer back to Simon.
“That is not the way you hand a man a loaded weapon,” Simon the Bartender said. “Barrel down, the way I gave it to you. I don’t need any fucking accidents tonight. Six hundred and I throw in an extra clip.”
“Can’t do it,” Leo said. “What else you got.”
“I got this,” Simon said, reaching into the bag. “Twenty-five caliber. A little short on stopping power, but you’re not hunting buffalo, right?”
A chunk of the handle’s knurled plastic grip was chipped off. “This’s no good,” Leo said. “It’s fucked up.”
“Don’t worry. It fires.”
“Who makes this one?”
“Phoenix Arms,” Simon said. “That’s your Model Raven.”
“I don’t know,” Leo said. The SIG Sauer looked so much more menacing.
“And I got rounds,” Simon the Bartender said. “About fifty rounds. I won’t need ’em.”
“Alright,” Leo told him. “What’s the price?”
“Everything? Tax included?”
Listen to him. Tax included.
“A hundred and fifty bucks.”
“Seventy-five,” Leo
Leo didn’t have time to kill with any of Simon’s saggytitted surrogates tonight, and he wasn’t in the mood to fend off propositions from an end-of-the-line hooker or to make conversation with a stewed regular who smelled worse than the Ron-Da-Voo’s men’s room.
Fortunately Simon the Bartender was at his post, deadpanning and shaking the ice cubes in the pint glass of tap water he was always sipping from. He had to be over sixty, still beefy in the forearms, still handsome in a busted-up, old-guy kind of way. His wavy hair was mostly grey, but a touch of the brown it used to be was hanging on at the temples.
Instead of saying hello, he nodded at people as they walked in, to set the tone in case they were thinking he was the sort they could tell their troubles to. And if they were drunk or stupid or just plain bad at catching nonverbal drifts and they started in on him, he’d come right out and ask them why they thought he gave a shit.
The clientele was pretty much the same as Leo remembered, though the Cuban quotient had been watered down by tourists out for a slab of what was left of local color and slumming queers who got a thrill out of drinking in a real dive, not a chic, in-crowd place pretending to be a dive.
Leo told Simon he wanted a word and Simon signaled to his man Bruce, who got behind the bar and stood there, a bleary grin on his face.
A six-burner stove dominated the kitchen, its exposed, cobwebbed pipes connected to nothing. A doubledoored refrigerator hummed against one wall and Bruce’s cot was set up along another. What Leo needed, he told Simon the Bartender, was a piece.
Simon worked keys into a pair of padlocks securing a closet and opened the door. Leo spotted a mop, a bucket, and two brooms with their bristles worn to nubs. A pallet of cleanser was encased in shrinkwrap, and there was a stainless steel sink Simon hadn’t gotten around to installing. He reached into a bowling bag and pulled out a black pistol that had a dull, oily sheen.
He said, “Know how to work an automatic?”
Leo said he did, though he didn’t. How complicated could it be?
Simon the Bartender pulled back the slide. “Careful. It’s loaded.”
Leo closed one eye and brought the pistol level with his shoulder. “How much?”
“That’s a SIG Sauer,” Simon said. “P226, nine millimeter.”
“Right,” Leo said. He was thinking this baby would do a lot more than just leave a telegenic hole in JP Beaumond’s forehead.
“The FBI’s using these now, you know.”
Leo held the gun at his hip and made a High Noon quick draw. Probably take a big piece of that Beaumond bean right off. “How much?” he said again.
“Six hundred.”
“Six hundred,” Leo said. “That’s a lotta loochie.” He had about five hundred on him. He gave the SIG Sauer back to Simon.
“That is not the way you hand a man a loaded weapon,” Simon the Bartender said. “Barrel down, the way I gave it to you. I don’t need any fucking accidents tonight. Six hundred and I throw in an extra clip.”
“Can’t do it,” Leo said. “What else you got.”
“I got this,” Simon said, reaching into the bag. “Twenty-five caliber. A little short on stopping power, but you’re not hunting buffalo, right?”
A chunk of the handle’s knurled plastic grip was chipped off. “This’s no good,” Leo said. “It’s fucked up.”
“Don’t worry. It fires.”
“Who makes this one?”
“Phoenix Arms,” Simon said. “That’s your Model Raven.”
“I don’t know,” Leo said. The SIG Sauer looked so much more menacing.
“And I got rounds,” Simon the Bartender said. “About fifty rounds. I won’t need ’em.”
“Alright,” Leo told him. “What’s the price?”
“Everything? Tax included?”
Listen to him. Tax included.
“A hundred and fifty bucks.”
“Seventy-five,” Leo
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