BELLS JANGLED and the shop clerk jerked out of his chair and away from the television like an arthritic marionette.
“Five minutes before closing,” he muttered. “Every day, five minutes before closing. Probably some gol-danged welfare baby from some gol-danged holler trying to pawn his momma’s gol-danged shotgun what ain’t worth a Confederate dollar to buy some gol-danged crystal meth.”
The old clerk limped out of the back room. Two men stood in the middle of the shop, one tall and blonde in a rumpled tuxedo, the other in a strange light blue suit.
“Can I help you?”
“Show me your guns,” said Duke Nichego. “Do you have shotguns?”
“Yessir,” said the clerk. He laid a glossy shotgun on the counter. “This here is an almost new Remington twelve-gauge. Available in pump or auto.”
“Very good.” Nichego picked up the gun and pulled back the breech to examine the chamber. “You have rifles?”
“What caliber you need?”
“The highest. Much stopping power.”
The clerk leaned his cane against the counter and reached on his toes to a long rifle on the wall. The weapon had been painted in mottled green and brown.
“This is a thirty caliber magnum rifle with a twenty-power sight. It’ll stop anything in these hills. You two in Kentucky for some hunting?”
The Duke nodded. “You could say that. We flew to Ohio to meet some friends, but after we arrived at the airport, we discovered they’d dropped in somewhere around here.”
“Well, I hope you have good luck with the deer. I can sell a permit, too, if you need that.”
“It is not necessary. Show me that .45 long slide with laser sighting.”
The clerk took a massive silver revolver from the glass case and placed it on the counter. “I may close early today.”
“And finally,” said Nichego, “Phased plasma rifle in the 40-watt range.”
The clerk shook his head. “You think you’re the first young pup to quote that movie? I probably hear that three times a week. The worst thing this country has ever had to put up with is James Cameron and his gol-danged movies on the gol-danged USA Network.”
“Hand warmers?”
The clerk searched the shelves behind him for the chemical warmers. When he turned around, Nichego was pushing a shell into the breech of the Remington shotgun.
“You can’t do that!”
“Wrong,” said Nichego, and fired the gun into the clerk’s chest.