A puff of white powder flew into his face.
He coughed and shook his head. It figured; Joey had been lying.
Idly, Peter opened up the sugar canister beside it and found himself staring down at a 9-millimeter semiautomatic.
It was a Glock 17--probably the same one Mr. Weatherhall had carried as a policeman. Peter knew this because he knew about guns--he'd grown up with them. But there was a difference between a hunting rifle or a shotgun and this neat and compact weapon. His father said that anyone who wasn't in active law enforcement and kept a handgun was an idiot; it was more likely to do damage than protect you. The problem with a handgun was that the muzzle was so short that you forgot about holding it away from you for safety's sake; aiming was as simple and nonchalant as pointing your finger.
Peter touched it. Cold; smooth. Mesmerizing. He brushed