Hey There (You with the Gun in Your Hand)

Fifty-three

There was a knock at the door about ten minutes later. I opened it, thinking it was Jerry.

“What’d you forget-”

It wasn’t Jerry. It was two men with guns.

“Eddie Gianelli?” one of the men asked.

“You know that already, or you wouldn’t be here,” I said, with a calm that surprised even me.

I said they had guns, I didn’t say the weapons were in their hands. No, one had a gun on his belt, the other in a shoulder holster. They stood with their hands on their hips, so that the weapons were displayed.

“Are you Eddie Gianelli?” the older one asked. He had about ten years on his partner. He stood up straight, the younger one slouched. Sometimes I think that’s the definition of experience.

“The man asked you a question,” the young one said, “twice. Don’t you think it would be polite to answer him?”

“You’re probably right,” I said. I looked at the older one. Forties, I thought, like me. “Yes, I’m Eddie Gianelli.”

“The one they call ‘Eddie G’?”

“Well, I don’t know who ‘they’ are, but yes, that’s a nickname of mine.”

“Well, Eddie G,” the older one said, “somebody wants to see you.”

“Who?”

“A very important man.”

“The President of the United States?”

“More important than him.”

“Who’s more important than the President?”

Neither one answered.

I tried to judge them by their clothes, the way Jerry had done earlier with the other three. These two had decent suits and shoes, and thin ties. I gave up after that.

“What do I call you?”

“Call him Number Two,” the older man said, “and me Number One.”

“Why are you Number One?” the younger one asked.

The older one looked at him.

“Because I’m not dumb enough to ask a question like that.”

“He’s right,” I said to Number Two. “That was a dumb question.”

He came out of his slouch and asked, “You callin’ me dumb?”

I looked at Number One, who shrugged wearily.

“Are you comin’?” he asked.

“What’s my alternative?”

“We bring you.”

“How far are we goin’?” I asked.

“Not far.”

“Am I comin’ back?”

“No reason to think otherwise.”

For some reason I believed him. These actually were messenger boys, not hit men.

“Well,” I asked, “when do we go?”

“Now,” Number One said, “but first … you wouldn’t be carrying a gun, would you?”

There was no point in lying, since they’d probably search me no matter what I said.

“As a matter of fact.” I raised my hands and indicated my right jacket pocket.

Number One stepped forward and fished the.38 out.

“I’d like to get that back when we’re done.”

“Don’t see why not,” he said, tucking the gun into his belt. “Shall we go?”