Alfred Hitchcock’s Mystery Magazine. Vol. 8, No. 7, July 1963

New Gun by Arthur Kaplan

A gun with a crooked bark can provide an explosive situation especially for a trigger man.

Breaking in a new gun can be tricky. I mean getting the feel of it, learning its quirks, how it weighs in your hand, whether it bucks or whether the grip sweats excessively — you’d be surprised how each gun sweats differently — and even picking out a good name for it. It’s hard, let me tell you.

You get the gun, a stub end .38 Special, all oily and untried, from Maxey who’s been supplying your guns ever since you ran away from home. It lies, a stranger, uneven in your pocket and then lumped in your shoulder holster. You go to the club that night and, just thinking about it, miss an easy chance to place the seven ball in a side pocket, to your extreme embarrassment. You apologize all the way around. You sit out for the rest of the night and go home about two, tired, but in bed you leave on the light and examine the gun once again and tell yourself you’ll have to try it a couple of times, get to know it before you use it.

But it doesn’t work out that way because at six the phone rings and Harry Dupont — which is really a code name for three people who are in charge of operations in your end of town — calls.

“Melvin?”

“Yeah,” you say, not recognizing the voice but knowing the tone. “Yeah, this is Melvin.”

“At the Greek’s, this afternoon.” And the receiver is hung up quickly.

You know what the call means and you pick up the gun again and wipe it once more with an old silk handkerchief and peer down the barrel into the light, then you take out a box of shells and load it for the first time. You get a feeling you can’t describe and only then you can go back to sleep.

You wake at noon, breakfast, and it’s as if you’re plugged in, your skin tingles so. Your appointment’s for 3:30 — all appointments with Harry Dupont are for 3:30. It’s a well run organization. There are men involved who’ve attended Harvard Business School, those up and outs whom you never meet but only guess about or hear mentioned in whispers, sitting in Chicago, New York, Vegas and Washington, in big offices, behind respectable businesses, men ostensibly occupied in the manufacture of paint, or soft goods, and in labor unions, with IBM machines at their disposal, which sort of makes you proud to be a part of it.

You shower at two — there’s something almost religious about a shower then — and you’re tense while waiting for the arm deodorant to dry. You shave carefully, then dress, and all the while you’re thinking about the gun. Some of the others you’ve owned you called Princess, and Buck, Van Doren, and General Dynamics. And you look at it lying there quiet on the night table. Picasso? No. Jackie? No. Zsa Zsa? You try that on every new weapon you get. Charley, in honor of a buddy, Charley Abeloff, doing time in the Federal Penitentiary in San Quentin? Maybe. Charley. Sounds good. You’ll think about it.

It’s 2:45 then. You pick your tie, take two handkerchiefs in case you need to cover your face, put on a hat, look in the mirror once more and you’re off.

The Greek’s is Natie Goldstein’s apartment near the river. You park several blocks away and check to see if anyone’s trailing you. No one. You move inconspicuously, like anyone else on an afternoon walk. A big dame wearing a silk polka dot blouse comes your way. Too big. Another dame; too old, A blonde holding one kid in each hand; too old. Still another; also old. And you’re at Goldstein’s apartment house.

You take the elevator to the seventh floor, make sure no one’s looking, then walk down one flight. Again you make sure you’re alone before you reach up and press a button on the top of the door frame; the reach makes the gun rub up against your armpit — it’s still a stranger.

There’s a movement behind the door and you know someone’s examining you and unconsciously you straighten your posture. The door opens and you walk in, leave your hat on a tree in the foyer, pat your hair down. In the big room you nod a hello and of the four men there only two nod back. This is business, no time for ceremony. You sit, without another word, in the empty chair and a little fat guy whom you’ve never seen before comes out of the bedroom.

“This is your mark,” he says without introduction and shoves an enlarged photo at you. You take the photo and everyone’s eyes are on you, which makes you feel good; you’re an important cog in this machine. You study the photo and try to look serious but it’s times like this that something inside of you wants to giggle or burst out laughing, you don’t know what it is, you’ve had it ever since you were a kid, and when you think you can’t fight it any longer you take out a handkerchief and wipe your lips. That sends it away.

“His name,” the little fat guy says, “Is Tzimick. Capital T-z-i-m-i-c-k. He lives at 3708 Hurley Road.”

You take out your pad and make a note.

The little fat guy snaps his fingers and someone puts out the lights and someone else turns on the slide projector. “Tzimick’s house is between Argyle and Hooten Boulevards. It’s a community of small houses built after the war on medium-sized plots. It’s a middle-middle class neighborhood.” A map flashes on the screen and the little guy uses a pointer as he speaks. “There’s a supermarket here. Hurley Road is one way toward Hooten. Now, this is the house.” He’s using a clicker now and a color slide of a contemporary split-level, painted pink and gray, is flashed on. Definitely not your kind of place.

“Now,” he goes on. “There’s a lawn in front of the house, as you can see, but most of the plot’s in the rear, which narrows your target area. Tzimick likes to garden and he’ll be in front of the house fifteen minutes after he returns from his office, which should be about four-thirty. The weather tomorrow will be fair and mild.” Nothing about who this Tzimick is, what he has done, why the organization wants to get rid of him; it’s one of the drawbacks to the profession, I mean being left in the dark so much. And again the little fat guy clicks his clicker.

A movie projector is turned on next. There are shots of the corners of Hurley and Argyle, of Hurley and Hooten, of the supermarket and of the traffic light, the neighboring houses. It’s a disappointing film. Whoever shot it should have used a filter and the editing leaves a lot to be desired; where the cameraman could have used zoom shots, he didn’t, and where no zoom is indicated, he did. It’s the first time you’ve known the organization to turn out a sloppy job. You cross your legs and the gun, which you’ve forgotten, jabs you in the ribs and you straighten up again.

“Run that over again, slow,” you say to make an impression and this time you’re convinced that the camera work was done by an amateur. When it’s over the lights are flicked on.

“Neil, here,” the little fat guy goes on, pointing to a thin, blonde man in a grey striped shirt sitting next to one of the lamps, “will be your driver. Neil,” he says, turning to him, “do a couple of dry runs to get the feel of it. While Melvin’s checking the mark you time the light. We clocked it at twenty seconds but make sure. When it turns green, count to twelve. Then you, Melvin, fire, and Neil’ll take off. You’ll catch the light just beginning to turn red. Any questions?”

“How am I sure that Tzimick’ll be working in the front of the house?” you ask.

The fat guy looks pleased and smiles. “Good question,” he says. “I’m glad you asked it. Because he has his vegetable garden behind the house and it’s too early for vegetables. This time of year he’s pruning bushes.”

There are no other questions. Everyone gets up and the fat guy hands you a stack of bills in a rubber band. You count them and there are five hundred in old bills, just half your fee, like the contract calls for. You nod, place the money in your jacket and your hand brushes the gun. You walk over to Neil who has also just finished counting and you shake hands, being very business-like.

“I heard about you,” you say to Neil. “I heard about that time the carburetor flooded in front of the bank.”

Neil smiles modestly. “I know your reputation, too, and I want you to know it’ll be a pleasure working with you.” Then the smile disappears and he’s all business. “Leave your car in the municipal parking lot on Pearl. Here’s a dime for the meter. Walk to the RKO Theatre where the Arthur Miller picture will be playing and be there exactly at four.”

You nod.

Neil holds out his wrist, looks at his watch and you do the same. “Four twenty... two.”

You say, “Right,” and set your watch.

You shake Neil’s hand once again and one of the men who hadn’t said a word accompanies you to the door, opens it, looks up and down the corridor, and lets you out. You climb to the seventh floor and take the elevator there. You’re too busy thinking of tomorrow to notice anyone in the. street.

You take in a movie that afternoon to relax you and that night you eat well, oysters, steak, potatoes, big salad, milk and dessert; it’ll be your last big meal before the job. You stay away from the club, go home and read a little. You pick up the gun from time to time, palm it, examine it, then put it back. You would like to fire it just once before the job, but that’s out. When you’re fixing your bedroom window for the night you notice the car outside; someone inside is smoking a cigarette. You smile. What an organization! You’re asleep by midnight.

The next morning you loll in bed until eleven, eat a breakfast of juice, bacon-and-eggs, English muffins, butter and lots of jam and milk — all energy foods. You leave the dishes in the sink and, still in your pajamas and robe, you relax in the living room, like you always do before a job, and listen to a stack of Sinatra records. Good old Frankie. Hey, you think, maybe you’ll call the gun Frankie? You pick it up and palm it again. Not a bad idea. You doze on the sofa for a while, and try to think of nothing until the alarm goes off at two.

From then on it’s all business. You shower and shave, put on lots of deodorant and brush your teeth vigorously. You dress carefully, pick out just the right tie, one that’ll go well with the job — you’d be surprised how you can tell when it’s wrong. You buckle on the holster, pat the gun a few times and say, “OK, baby, do your stuff,” get into a jacket and hat.

The car outside trails you all the way to the parking lot, then takes off. You know someone’ll be watching the front of the RKO Theatre, which gives you confidence. You’ve got more than an hour on the meter but you put the dime in anyway. It’s five minutes to four. You walk to the RKO, look at your watch and just at four Neil, in a blue car, pulls up and you climb in and shake hands.

“Nice day for a job,” you say as Neil turns into traffic.

“Couldn’t be better,” he answers, not taking his eyes from the windshield.

After a few minutes, just to make conversation, you say, “What do you think of the Common Market, Neil?” Anything to keep your mind from tensing up.

“Well,” Neil answers still not taking his eyes from the road. “I think it’s a great idea, but a lot will depend upon the French. Did you read Lippman’s column on it?”

You say yes even though it’s a lie. Neil has a point. You make up your mind to see more of him. He’s someone you can talk to.

You’re at Hurley Road then, driving north and there’s no more time for conversation. You unbutton your jacket and release the safety strap and you’ve all but decided to call it Charley; it’ll be a fitting tribute to a nice guy. Before you know it Neil says, “Argyle Boulevard,” and he slows down and moves to the left. It’s exactly 4:30. You watch Neil light one of those filter cigarettes and you wonder if he has any information on this cancer business — you make a mental note to ask him after everything’s over.

Just like the fat guy says, Tzimick is in the front garden clipping bushes. The sun’s just right, to your left — they really can plan things. Tzimick’s bending over so you can’t see his face. Should be easy, you tell yourself. Neil, timing the light, says, “Twelve,” and picks up speed.

“Everything all right?” Neil asks as you turn the block.

“Couldn’t be better,” you say, taking the gun out of the holster and placing it in your lap.

“If everything’s OK with you I don’t think we need another dry run,” Neil says.

“OK with me,” you answer.

“I mean it’s up to you,” Neil says. “I don’t want to pressure you. You think you want another dry run, I’m ready.”

“I’m all right,” you say. Gee what a swell guy.

You turn the corner and are back on Hurley Road. Traffic is still sparse. Neil cuts easily to the left. You jerk the brim of your hat down and Neil pulls up noiselessly in front of the house, counting. You place the gun on the window frame to steady it — it doesn’t sweat at all, you notice happily. There’s no one on the sidewalk, Tzimick’s back is toward you, Neil is saying, “eight, nine,” you aim, “ten, eleven, twelve,” and you fire.

The noise is loud and there’s the usual stink of powder but the damn gun jerks up and to the right, the slug hitting into a bale of peat moss. Neil says, “Merde!” and the car leaps forward. You fire again, trying to compensate for the pull, but Tzimick has fallen on his belly and you don’t even see where the second slug goes. Neil is still cursing and the car is racing toward the intersection trying to make the light when suddenly a milk truck pulls out of a driveway and Neil has to swerve to the right. There’s a thud and he’s slammed into a parked car.

There’s a siren and screech somewhere behind you and you’re just about to make a run for it when you look up and there’s a cop with a frayed cuff holding a pistol.

“Drop the gun,” he snarls.

Out of the corner of your eye you see that Neil has already got his hands up and you drop the miserable gun as if it has the plague.

When you meet Charley. Abeloff the first time in the exercise yard you introduce him to Neil.

“Neil says that he isn’t impressed with the Peace Corps idea,” you add just to start conversion.

“Hell!” Charley, who’s a Democrat, answers. “If they’d’ve listened to Harry Truman in the first place there wouldn’t be any commies left.”

“That’s sheer nonsense,” Neil says, “If...”

But just then the bell sounds for marching back to cell block, and you’re convinced it’ll be some ten years.