Sixkill

37

We were quiet, listening to the rain fall. The scent of her perfume lingered.

“Good-looking,” Z said.

“Except for the eyes,” I said.

“Eyes looked kind of hard and empty,” Z said.

“They did,” I said.

“Hard to imagine bopping her,” Z said.

“Scary,” I said.

“She look at me with those eyes,” Z said, “might not be able to get it up, you know?”

“I bet I could do it,” I said.

“Brave man,” Z said.

“Intrepid,” I said. “You in?”

“In,” he said.

“Hard to plan something like this,” I said. “Basically we go ahead and do what we do and assume if something comes up we can handle it.”

“I stay by you,” Z said.

“This isn’t,” I said, “something either of us can do drunk.”

Z nodded.

I got up and went to the closet and unlocked it. I took a Colt Python revolver, in its holster, off the top shelf, and a box of .357 shells. I walked back and put the gun and the bullets on my desk.

“Same gun you’ve fired at the range,” I said. “Six-inch barrel. Six rounds in the cylinder. As you may recall, it’s not brain surgery. Aim for the middle of the mass. Squeeze the trigger.”

Z frowned.

“Could you write that out for me?” he said.

“If I thought you could read,” I said.

Z got up and put the gun on his belt.

“How come I don’t get one of those fancy semiautos like they all have in the movies?” he said.

“Revolver’s simpler,” I said. “Fewer moving parts.”

“What you got?” Z said.

“Thirty-eight,” I said. “Two-inch barrel.”

“How come you don’t get something bigger.”

“I got something bigger, but the .38 is lighter to carry, and up close it works fine,” I said. “Generally I don’t need to pick people off as they ride along the ridgeline.”

Z nodded.

“The .357 is kinda heavy,” he said.

“Especially when it’s loaded,” I said.

“Wouldn’t want to wear it empty,” Z said.

“Good thinking,” I said.

“You think she’s serious?” Z said.

“Yes.”

“You think some people gonna try and pound on you?”

“Yes.”

“So there might be some fighting,” Z said.

“Might,” I said.

Z nodded.

“Good,” he said.