“Ever consider gold?”
A weird suggestion. “Like a gold bar?”
“Bullion coins. Like Krugerrands. Gold closed yesterday at three eighty-five an ounce. You could convert all three hundred bills in that bag into seventy-five or so Krugers. Easy to hide and they don’t burn.”
Jack shook his head. “Like I said, I’m not looking to invest it.”
“Invest, schmest. If you keep the bills, you’re investing also.”
“In what?”
“In the fiscal responsibility of the politicians who run your government.”
“I don’t think I like the sound of that.”
Abe picked up the knife. Was that a third bagel sandwich he was making? Yes, it was.
“You shouldn’t. Any investment is a bet. Hold onto cash and you’re betting the government will rein in inflation and control deficit spending.”
“I might be better off in a casino down in AC.”
“Bullion coins are portable, anonymous, and liquid. If you can hold onto gold, expect fluctuating value in the short run, but, as inflation continues, expect a steady rise over the long run. Hold onto paper and inflation will steadily sink its value.”
“I’ll have to think about this.”
“Thinking is good. What? You’re done eating?”
2
Jack left the Isher Sports Shop with the intention of heading straight home and stashing his cash. He was supposed to meet Julio in an hour or so and didn’t want to be lugging all this money around.
He was just turning away when a sixtyish guy in a yellow windbreaker and plaid pants hurried up and pulled open the door to Abe’s shop. The bell attached tinkled as he rushed in.
Jack wondered what the hurry was, then realized this was the first customer he’d ever seen in the Isher Sports Shop. He followed him back inside to see what was all the hurry.
“Got any golf balls?” the man said as he approached the counter.
Abe didn’t look up. “Some,” he said around a mouthful of bagel.
“Where would I find them?”
Still not looking up, Abe waved toward his left. “Over there.”
“Where over there?”
“Somewhere.”
“Could you be a little more precise?”
Finally he looked up. “I should know where every little thing is?”
“Isn’t this your store?”
“Who else’s would it be?”
“Well, then…?” After a raised-eyebrow / and-your-point-is? look from Abe, the guy threw his hands in the air and trudged off in the indicated direction. “Fine! I’ll find them myself.”
He disappeared behind one of the high, disordered shelves. Grumbling and rattling soon emanated from the far side.
“You really don’t know where they are?” Jack said in a low voice.
“You’re back?”
“Yeah, I’m back.”
Abe shrugged. “I’m not even sure I have any.”
“Want me to help him?”
“Why? You know where they are?”
“Well, no, but–”
“Then stay put already.”
A few minutes later the guy returned, red-faced as he blew dust off a twelve-pack of Titleists.
“What the hell are golf balls doing under a badminton net? And what are these – antiques?”
“Yes, antiques,” Abe said as he held out his hand. “Fifty dollars, please.”
“What?” The guy got even redder. “You’ve got to be kidding!”
“Like you said – antiques.”
Now the guy was speaking though his teeth. “If I wasn’t going to be late for a foursome, I’d–”
“Plus tax,” Abe added.
The guy looked ready to explode as he reached for his wallet. “There’s got to be a law against this.” He pulled out a credit card.
“Cash only.”
He violently shoved the card back into its slot and pulled out three twenties.
As Abe hit some keys on an old fashioned steel cash register and made change, he said, “Why for you should want to chase a little ball around? Don’t you have better things to do?”
“It relaxes me.”
“You don’t look relaxed.”
His red complexion deepened. “That’s because I–” He shook himself. “Never mind.”
“Read a book already,” Abe said, handing him his change. “You’ll relax and maybe learn something.”
The guy said nothing as he grabbed his change and pointed to his dusty purchase. “Got a bag for that?”
Abe shrugged. “Bag, schmag. Who needs a bag? Not me. I should carry something I don’t need?”
The guy snatched up his golf balls and stormed away, shouting, “This is the worst goddamn service I’ve ever–” He made a choking sound. “In the world! Hell will freeze over before I ever come back. I’m telling everyone I know to avoid this place like the plague!”
The door slammed behind him, cutting off further clichés.
“Have a nice day,” Abe said and took another bite of his bagel.
Jack stared at him, dumbfounded. He’d just witnessed customer relations from hell. What was Abe trying do, drive customers away? He –
And then wheels turned and gears started meshing in his head. Bits and pieces of seemingly unrelated data – occurrences, comments, and knowing looks – collided and clung, allowing a realization to take form.
Jack stepped back to the counter and slapped his hand on the scarred surface. “I need some ammo.”
Abe concentrated on his bagel. “So? I need a watch battery. This is conversation?”
“To load the Ruger you sold me.”
Now Abe looked up, his expression neutral, his voice flat. “Go lock the door.”
Jack hesitated – this was not the expected denial – then did as Abe said. When he returned to the counter, Abe was already on his way to a rear corner. Jack followed. Abe unlocked what looked like a storage closet but turned out to be an empty space. He pushed on the rear wall which swung away on hinges, then flipped a light switch and started down a narrow stone staircase. Words flickered to neon life on the staircase ceiling.
FINE WEAPONS
THE RIGHT TO BUY WEAPONS
IS THE RIGHT TO BE FREE
Something familiar about that.
They passed it, reached bottom…
…and stepped into an armory.
Jack froze on the threshold, gaping. Light from the overhead incandescents glinted off racks of pistols and rifles and other instruments of destruction like switchblades, clubs, swords, brass knuckles, and miscellaneous firearms from derringers to bazookas.
It all made sense now.
The scene upstairs had demonstrated the impossibility of Abe selling enough sporting equipment to pay even the rent, let alone put food on the table. Add to that the quick arrival of the Ruger, the offhanded comments from Bertel and the Mikulskis, and it all made sense.
He closed his gaping mouth and found his voice. “Your real business.”
“You’re surprised?” Abe said as he stepped over to a wall cabinet and opened the doors.
“Well, yeah.”
“You’re offended?”
A man he knew and trusted had just revealed that he was a gunrunner. The term had such an evil sound. But no way Abe was evil. Was he offended? He searched his feelings and couldn’t come up with any disgust or revulsion. Offended? Not at all…
“More like fascinated. Did Mister Rosen know about this?”
“My dear uncle? Of course.”
Jack closed his eyes… the neon words in the stairwell were a quote… and the store was called the Isher Sports Shop.
“A. E. van Vogt!” he blurted.
Abe glanced at him. “You’ve read him?”
“Used to belong to the Science Fiction Book Club. The Weapon Shops of Isher is a classic.”
“I’m glad you get it. Hardly anyone else does.” He held up three boxes of ammo. “One three-f
ifty-seven Mag and two thirty-eight specials for target practice – good enough?”
That should hold him for a while. “Sure.”
“I’m adding a nylon SOB holster as well.”
“Son of a bitch?”
“Small of the back.”
“Cool. Can I look around?”
“I should stop you? Look already.”
Jack wandered the aisles.
“Who do you sell to?”
“Individuals. No bulk sales. Some want one gun for protection. Some want one of everything – it’s like porn for them. And like a porn shop, I stock some novelty items.”
“Like?”
“M-fifteen, AK-forty-seven, grenade launcher – fun stuff.”
Jack had to ask: “Um, you ever worry that one of the guns you sell will kill an innocent person?”
Abe shook his head. “If I sold cars I should worry whether my customer is a drunk and will run down a lady pushing a baby across a street?”
“But a car – and I’m just playing devil’s advocate here – a car isn’t designed to make holes in things.”
Abe gave him a hard look. “You read the papers or listen to the TV or the mayor, you’re told over and over there are too many guns on the street. They like to parade around the latest shooting victim of the crack wars and say we – some nerve they’ve got saying ‘we’ – must pass more laws to control this deadly plague.”
“Well, you can see their point: You can’t shoot somebody if you haven’t got a gun.”
“But you can stab them. Should we have knife control laws too? And we can crush their skulls with a Louisville Slugger. Should we have baseball bat control laws as well?"
Jack held up his hands. “Okay, I get it.”
“Do you?” Abe said, approaching. “Do you really? How many guns in the US?”
“I have no idea.”
“Most people don’t. Well, it averages out to one per person. One in four own a gun, and gun owners average four apiece. The new census is expected to show the population now at around a quarter billion. That means there’s two hundred fifty million guns in the US. You want to talk gun violence? Okay, let’s talk about how many of those quarter-billion guns were not involved in violence yesterday. Or the day before. Or the day before that. There’s no gun problem. There’s a media problem and a politician problem, but there’s no gun problem.”
His intensity was a little intimidating. Jack noticed a sudden lack of Yiddishisms but decided not to mention it.
Obviously he’d touched a nerve. Might be a good idea to change the subject. He glanced to his left and saw an array of semiautomatic pistols.
“Ooh, pretty.” No lie. He was starting to understand the guns-as-porn concept. “I-want-I-want-I-want!”
Abe paused, shifting gears. “Which?”
“All.”
“More lessons you should take before you go semi. The care and feeding is more complicated. More moving parts.”
“I don’t know if Bertel is up for that. I think I’ve been crossed off his list of favorite people.”
“I can show you breakdown and cleaning. But get comfortable with your Ruger first.” He placed the ammo on a counter – smoother and cleaner than the one upstairs. “You pay for these down here.”
As Jack counted out the money, Abe slipped the boxes into a plastic Gristedes bag.
“Should I feel special?”
Abe gave him a quizzical look. “Nu?”
“I mean, I’m getting a bag.”
“No bags upstairs, always bags down here. I should let you walk out my front door carrying live ammo for all to see?”
3
After leaving Abe’s, Jack returned to his place and stowed the money and ammo behind another section of molding. Gold coins would probably weigh more, but they’d take up less space… and they wouldn’t burn. At least he wasn’t living over a restaurant or anything like that, but he didn’t know how many of his neighbors smoked in bed. A fire… that would put him back to square one financially. No, behind square one, because he’d lose all the savings he brought with him.
He gave in to an urge to call Cristin. They’d had no contact since Tuesday and he wondered if they were still on for tomorrow night. He stepped out into the hall and dialed her number on the pay phone. She wasn’t home so he left a kind of pointless message on her answering machine saying he’d call her back to firm up Sunday. Well, if nothing else, it would act as a reminder.
He’d thought he could live without a phone, but an answering machine might make life easier.
Okay…he had the rest of the day ahead of him to check out Julio’s sister’s nemesis. Julio had offered to take him by Neil Zalesky’s place in the Bronx.
They met outside The Spot where Julio stood sipping his coffee from one of those blue-and-white paper cups that all real New York delis seemed to use – with the Greek urn on the side and “We Are Happy to Serve You” in red. Last night he’d been all gung-ho about accompanying Jack this morning, now he didn’t seem so sure.
He wore snug jeans and a tight black T-shirt that showed off his bulging pecs. Obviously he worked out. He’d topped it off with an unzipped bright red jacket of some satiny fabric. Jack would have loved to see Sharks stitched across the back, but no…
Jack sniffed the air. “No cologne?”
Julio made a face. “You ain’t gonna start, are you, meng. I get enough of that from Lou and Barney.”
“Just making an observation.”
“Too early for a scent. Ain’t gonna see no chicks, anyway. And no matter what you guys say, chicks love scents.”
Some guys were born with peacock in them. Jack supposed it was natural. The male cardinal was bright red, the female dull gray. The male peacock had all the feathers. That gene had missed Jack. Maybe it had never been in the cards anyway. The only time he’d ever seen his father stand in front of a mirror was to shave, comb his hair, or tie a tie. At least Dad wore suits. Jack tended to wear the first thing his hand touched when he reached into the closet.
Julio had peacock in his blood. The thin, carefully trimmed mustache, the work he put in on his body, the way he dressed. Maybe his height had something to do with it, but here was a guy who strutted his stuff for the ladies. Jack didn’t know how successful he was, but if he failed, it wouldn’t be for lack of trying. For his cologne, maybe, but not for lack of effort.
Jack said, “We need a car.”
“Ain’t got a car.”
“Neither do I, but I figured we could borrow one.”
Julio frowned. “Borrow? No one’s got a car here, meng.”
Jack gestured to the long row of cars parked along the curb in front of The Spot, a solid line broken only by spaces left for fire hydrants. “What do you call these?”
“They’re decorations. We locals got subways, we got buses, we got feet.”
“Yeah, but if Zalesky’s got a car, we need to follow him.”
He still had his Harley garaged downtown. It could carry them, but that was too exposed.
“Shoulda told me last night. I coulda asked around.”
Jack shook his head. “Not what I want. Our ride’s got to have no connection to you or me.”
“We gonna rent one?”
“No. Renting would make a connection. I meant steal one.”
Julio made another face, more dubious than the first. “Steal? How?”
“Figured we could hot-wire one.”
Dubious morphed to incredulous. “You know how to hot-wire a car?”
He used to. He’d done it back in high school when he felt like a joyride. But he’d only wired old cars where he could hide his handiwork afterward and return the car to the spot he’d found it. No one had ever caught on.
Cars were tougher now, and he was out of practice.
“I was depending on you for that.”
Julio choked on his coffee. “Me? Hey, meng, why you asking me? Because I’m Puerto Rican?”
Jack hadn’t expected this.
“Well, no, I just–”
“Yeah, I know what you just. You just assume the PR knows how to steal a car, is that how it is?”
“Hey, listen–”
“No, you answer me, meng. Is that how it is?”
“So you’re telling me you do not know how to hot-wire a car.”
“Course I do. But you shouldn’t just assume, know what I’m sayin’?”
“All right, all right. I–”
Julio grinned and backhanded Jack across his upper arm. “Gotcha!”
Jack shook his head and smiled. “Bastard. So, we gonna do it?”
“Sure.”
“What’s the first step?”
“We get a flat-head screwdriver and a hammer and find the oldest car we can that ain’t locked.”
“Why old? I might want something flashy.”
“You want flash, I’ll flash you my ass. We want old because they got less safety shit on them. If you’re lucky, you just hammer the screwdriver into the keyhole, give it a twist, and she start up.”
Jack shook his head. “Not looking to screw up anybody’s car.”
“What, you got like ethics ’bout boostin’ a car? You kiddin’ me?”
“Just want to borrow it, is all.”
“Then we need some tools.”
Julio knew a mom-and-pop hardware store around the corner. He bought rubber cleaning gloves – pink, because that was the only color available in the cheap brand – a wire cutter/stripper, and a Phillips screwdriver. Then they walked down the block, Jack on the street side, Julio on the sidewalk, testing door handles. They found a 1984 Plymouth Reliant coupe with an unlocked passenger door. This had been a new car when Jack had been hot-wiring. It might have come off the assembly line some sort of blue but that had faded to a dull gray trimmed with rust.
Julio slid over behind the wheel and motioned to Jack. “Get in. I’ll show you how it’s done.”
He knew how it was done, but he’d never done it in daylight. He looked around, suddenly feeling exposed.
“Right out here in public?”
“It’s still early on a Saturday. People are asleep, like I should be. Get your ass in here. The whole thing is looking like you belong here. Do that and nobody give you a second look.”
As Jack slid in and slammed the door, the smell hit him. By all appearances, the owner was a cigar smoker and a sloppy eater. Spilled drinks stained the seats, petrified French fries dotted the floor. It smelled like he’d been smoking rotten food. No wonder he’d left the door unlocked. Who’d want this rolling landfill? On the other hand, maybe he was hoping it would be stolen.