Near Miss

Chapter 14

Matilda’s carry license turned up, hand-delivered, two days later, and Stone took her downtown to a gun store frequented by cops.

“This is a wonderland of mayhem,” she said, looking around at the showcases and wall display of weapons.

“You need to choose only one,” Stone said, leading her to a showcase. “Let me see your hand.”

She spread her fingers.

“Not unusually long,” he said. “Let’s try gripping this one.” He pointed at a Sig Sauer .380. A salesman unlocked the case, cleared the weapon, and handed it to her.

She held it in front of her and look down the barrel. “It’s a nice size,” she said, “but it’s a little too heavy.”

Stone turned to the salesman. “Do you have a Colt Government .380?”

“Colt doesn’t make it anymore, but I’ve got a couple of nice used ones.” He went to another case and came back with two small pistols, which were, to the eye, like miniature Colt Model 1911 .45s. One was nickel-plated.

“The other one,” she said, pointing at the blued pistol. The salesman cleared it and handed it to her; she hefted it in her hand and pointed it at a target across the room. “Perfect.”

Stone paid for the weapon and a box of cartridges, the salesman put it in a box, and they left. Back at his house, they went down to his one-lane shooting station in the basement, and she fired some rounds. Soon, she was hitting the paper outline of a man in the chest, with a nice grouping.

Stone showed her how to disassemble the weapon and clean it. “Must be done every time you fire it.” He wiped it clean with a cloth and dropped it into the zippered leather envelope that the pistol had come in. “Okay. You’re officially dangerous.”

They went back upstairs, where he gave her the license, and she tucked it into her purse.

“Always carry it,” Stone said.

Fred knocked and entered the room. “I delivered the pistol to the address indicated, and the doorman signed for it,” he said, handing Matilda a receipt.

“Hang on to that,” Stone said. “Now, if Trench uses the pistol in a crime, you can prove you were not in possession of it.”

“I thought Ms. Matilda might like to see this,” Fred said, handing her a catalog. It was full of holsters and other carry items.

“You can strap it to your thigh or hide it in your Thunderwear,” Stone said, pointing at the item.

“Thunderwear,” she said. “I like the name.”

“Or you can hide it in this bra, although yours is already pretty fully packed. There are various handbags designed to conceal the gun, too.”

“I’ll decide later,” she said, putting the catalog in her handbag.

“Now, having done all that, I have to give you a stern lecture,” Stone said.

“I’ll brace myself.”

“Now that you are fully licensed and armed, there’s something you must never do.”

“What is that?”

“Never shoot anybody.”

“What? What’s the gun for then?”

“To keep you from having to shoot anybody.”

“I don’t understand.”

“If you shoot someone, even if you don’t kill him, your life will change forever, and not for the good.”

“How so?”

“You will find yourself suddenly surrounded by policemen and technicians, all trying to prove you have broken the law.”

“Even if I haven’t?”

“That’s how they prove that you haven’t broken the law,” Stone said, “by trying and failing to prove that you have. Your name will appear in a nationwide computer database of people who have been investigated for a weapons charge, and sometimes they forget to mention that you were innocent of any crime. Every time someone is shot with a weapon of your caliber, your name will be printed out on a list of people who own one, and you will be investigated all over again. They will confiscate your pistol and test it against the available evidence, and you will be without it for weeks, perhaps months. Then the legal stuff will begin.”

“What legal stuff?”

“The person you shot will sue you for grievous bodily harm, and the costs of being sued will mount rapidly — again, never mind that you have done no wrong. There will be lawyers out there who find you a tempting target. Even if you win your case, everyone will know that you were charged, and they will forget that you were innocent. Are you getting the picture?”

“Never shoot anybody,” she said, solemnly.

“Engrave that on your frontal lobe.”