by Glen Kenner
Inside I grab a 20 ounce Dew and a cold ham sandwich. Sarah gets a Diet Dr Pepper. I remind her she doesn’t have to drink diet anymore. She tells me Diet DP tastes better. I tried Dr Pepper once at least a hundred years ago and it tasted like the chloroform and morphine cold syrups that kids back in New York would get hooked on. I guess it’s gotten better.
I pay and ask the guy where’s the public phone.
-Don’t have one. Haven’t had one in almost ten years.
Whoosh. That’s the sound of the world passing me by. I ask him if I can use the company phone. He says nope and starts checking out the old guy behind me, who kind of pushes me to the side.
-Five bucks?
-Make it quick.
He puts a dirty cordless phone on the counter and I put a five down to next to it.
I hand Sarah my soda and sandwich and dial the number on my forearm as we step back outside. Sarah unwraps my sandwich and takes a big bite just as the guy on the phone answers. I tell him where I got his number and he agrees to meet us in an alley two blocks north of the pawn shop in twenty minutes. I tell him perfect. He says cash only and hangs up. He sounds hung-over.
Sarah hands me back half a sandwich with a guilty smile on her face and she opens up my Mountain Dew and takes a swig and shrugs and takes another.
We take our time walking back toward the pawn shop. It’s a little cooler today, probably mid eighties but the air is heavy with humidity.
-What’s the weather like in September in Texas?
-Like this. But with the smell of cow shit. Still, Texas is beautiful. I miss it.
I think she’s running our conversation about paper trails and fingerprinting over and over in her head. Looking for a way around it. There isn’t a way. Being a First has tons of advantages in life, but putting down roots isn’t one of them.
-Hey, if you decide practicing the law isn’t your best option, because of all that stuff I said earlier, you can still make a huge difference. All of those nonprofits need wealthy people to keep them going. Eventually, as a First, you can be wealthy. Extremely wealthy.
-Yeah?
-Oh yeah.
-How come you’re not?
Well shit, I think, that’s kind of a low blow. I look over to see if she’s smiling but she’s not. Those mental wheels are turning and she’s trying to figure this all out.
-I actually was wealthy, at one time. Well, a lot of times. But in New York, I was really doing alright. Laissez faire capitalism is a hell of a system. The day I left, I had stock and property and cash worth just over eighteen million dollars.
-Whoa, seriously? Eighteen million then or now?
-Then. Now it would be worth hundreds of millions. I don’t know. Half a billion, maybe.
-So what happened?
-I got on a train to LA with less than a hundred dollars in my wallet and got off in St Louis on a whim. I never told anyone where I was going or where I ended up. I just left it all behind. I’ve been doing mostly handyman jobs ever since and taking whatever people could afford to pay me.
-But why did you leave New York? On the run?
-Something like that.
A raindrop hits my arm and then another on my cheek.
-Starting to rain. Was this in the forecast?
She looks up at the clouds.
-I don’t know. Without my phone, I don’t know anything.
We walk a little faster but the rain doesn’t pick up. It’s just a drop here and there, though it looks like it’s coming. Sarah points to the western sky and we see the edge of mottled gray clouds just noticeably rolling toward the city.
-I thought you don’t use guns.
-I don’t. This is for you.
-I don’t need a gun, John.
-I hope you don’t. But you don’t know how to fight. Not yet. Breaking bones is only going to get you so far, especially against a dozen mercenary Firsts. I want to you shoot every motherfucker you can in the head. If the bullets run out and anyone’s still standing, then you can start snapping necks.
-So, again, why didn’t we buy something in the pawn shop? He had two cases of guns and we didn’t even look at them.
-Doesn’t matter. I’m looking for something that he won’t have. Something a little more fool-proof.
We get to the pawn shop, pass it, and cut left into the alley and walk two blocks before turning left again in the back alley between two streets of brick homes. One and two car garages line the alley, most connected by wooden fences but also chain link. A few of the garages are open and dark inside. Trash litters the broken pavement and there’s a strong smell of rotten food that doesn’t seem to come from any particular garage.
Half a dozen garages up there’s a pickup truck with it’s bed facing us. A tall skinny guy in jeans, cowboy boots, and a cowboy hat steps out of the truck and faces us. He’s not wearing a shirt and his exposed pale skin seems to be randomly covered in poorly drawn tattoos. I appreciate a good tattoo as much as anyone but these are mostly faded black or blue inked numbers and initials and symbols that mean nothing to me, but I suppose something to him. There’s a 100% on his skinny bicep and a large 14 below it. There’s a rebel flag over his nearly hairless chest. He looks like the kind of guy that complains every February about not having a white history month.
Harvey Lowmeyer, I call out as we walk up. He raises his hand and walks around the front of the truck and opens the passenger door. A white and tan pit bull jumps down. Harvey fastens a leash to the dog and both of them walk around to the back of the truck where he hooks the leash to a metal ring in the bed. He offers me his hand and says with a plug of chewing tobacco in his cheek to call him Cowboy. The dog is looking at me and Sarah and panting. I can see his ribs. Then he sits down on his hind legs and lets his tongue hang out.
I step forward and shake Cowboy’s hand. He nods to Sarah without a word.
-Nice to meet you, Cowboy. Just call me John. What’s your pit’s name?
-Jimmy Earl. Weighs 65 pounds. Goddamn mean sumbitch, too.
-65 huh? Looks hungry to me.
-He’s a killer. He could rip your arm off faster than you could tug on your pecker.
-But I’m white. Why would he attack me?
I smile but Cowboy doesn’t.
-You never know.
Cowboy looks over at Sarah and then back to me and spits thick brown tobacco juice on the ground.
-We’ll try not to give him a reason. So we’re hoping you can help us out.
-How old are you two?
His voice is hoarse like someone who has been hitting the pipe for at least a few years. He faces me but his eyes keep darting to Sarah and then around the alley and into the dark open garage to our right.
-Cowboy, do you support the Second Amendment?
-Goddamn right I do.
-Where does it say how old a law-abiding American citizen needs to be to own a firearm in the Second Amendment?
He spits on the ground.
-Where you all from?
-Where you from?
-Not this shithole.
He spits again. No one says anything.
-Texas.
Sarah smiles.
-Where in Texas? I’m from Spring. Just outside of Houston.
-Not Spring. And not Houston.
Quiet again.
-Hey Cowboy. Do you have a problem selling to us?
He spits again and looks from me to Sarah and back to me.
-You got cash?
-Goddamn right I do.
-Stay right there.
He scratches the pit’s head and walks back to his truck, opens the door, and pulls out a camo sleeping bag rolled up and held tight in an army green strap. It looks a little bulky. Cowboy walks back and puts down the tailgate. A couple empty Natural Light cans fall out. Cowboy lays down the sleeping bag on the tailgate and unrolls it. Inside are several handguns and what look to me to be assault rifles. But I don’t know shit about guns.
-Who’s this for?
/> I cock my thumb over to Sarah.
-I don’t give a good goddamn if you use one of my guns to kill one of your own kind. But I’m not selling anything if it’s gonna be used by gangbangers to kill innocent folks.
Sarah’s smile vanishes. Cowboy has no idea how careful he should be right now.
-I’m not in a gang. I don’t know anybody in a gang. Why did you say that?
I take a small step forward.
-Cowboy, we’re getting off to a bad start here. We’re just two law-abiding American citizens who want to exercise our god-given right to protect ourselves and shoot up shit for fun. How about you show us what you’ve got there?
-Either of you ever even shot a gun?
Sarah says sure.
-Target shotguns. For skeet and trap. I once shot a Krieghoff K80. My dad’s Ruger AR-556 for deer. Mossberg 12 gauge for hogs. I bagged a 318 pound hog with a Wilson Combat SBR Tactical from a helicopter two years ago. That was a lot of fun. I’ve also owned Kel-Tec and Kimber Micro pistols for self-protection.
Cowboy stares at Sarah with his mouth open and then spits again and turns around to his guns.
I look at Sarah. Fuck. She just shrugs at me.
Cowboy starts pointing to the guns.
-I’ve got three Glocks. They’re reliable. They go for seven-fifty. Here’s a Smith and Wesson 38 Special. Almost brand new. That’s a steal at nine hundred.
He steps to the other side of the truck and points to the rifles.
-The AK-47s are thirteen hundred and these AR-15s are just eleven hundred.
He spits again and leans up against the open tailgate and rests one hand on the pit’s head.
-You all need to make up your mind quick. Looks like rain.
Are those good prices I ask out loud to no one in particular.
Cowboy spits.
-They’re the prices.
-The rifles are semi-automatic, right?
-Yup. Plenty of firepower for whatever you two are mixed up in.
I feel a little bit more of my cool slip away, but I keep my shit together. I spit on the ground to show Cowboy I’ve got a dick too.
-What do you have that’s fully auto?
-Not a goddamn thing.
-No?
-No.
-I’ve got cash. Plenty of cash.
-I don’t care if you’ve got a solid gold cucumber. You can stick it and your cash right up your goddamn asshole.
I let out a small laugh and then spit. This is really making my mouth dry.
-Cowboy, help us out here. A guy like you, you’ve got more than this. You’re a smart guy. You’re not going to pull out the good stuff right away.
-This is it, you fucking gangbangers. You can buy something here or you can fuck off, either way I don’t care.
I raise my hands just a little.
-Whoa, it doesn’t have to go like this. Ok? This obviously isn’t the first time I’ve bought guns in a back alley. Ok? We’re all hot, including your pup, it’s about to rain, and we’ve got a big wad of cash. Let’s see what fully auto stuff you have. Ok?
Cowboy looks up and down the alley and spits.
-How much cash you got?
-Plenty.
-How do I know you’re not cops?
I pull out my wallet, which makes him step back, and hold it up and toss it to him.
-I live in a shitty part of town, in a shitty house, and own a pretty shitty handyman service. I think I’ve got some business cards in there.
He looks through my wallet and throws it back at me.
-John Smith? That’s not very creative.
-Not as creative as your pit’s name, true. Or Harvey Lowmeyer.
He looks at me and spits.
-Aren’t you just a clever goddamn student of history.
He turns to Sarah.
-How about you? Show me your ID.
-I don’t have one.
-Bullshit.
-I don’t. It was stolen last night. At a strip club.
I guess stolen at a strip club sounds better than left behind while jumping out of a sixth story hotel room.
-What strip club?
Rose’s, we both say at the same time.
-Rose’s? No shit? Rose’s Dance Club?
-The one and the same. In beautiful downtown Washington Park.
-Goddamn. When were you there?
I look at Sarah and back at Cowboy. He’s got a grin on his face. Time to work him. Find some common ground. Make him feel good about himself.
-Little after midnight to about three. When the A talent comes out.
-Fucking A it does.
-Don’t tell us you were there too?
-Sure as shit was. What song did Johnny dance to?
-She Works Hard For Her Money. Donna Summer.
-I’ll be goddamn. What was she dancing for? What did the DJ say?
-She was dancing for a friend in need.
I cock both thumbs back at my chest and ask him to guess who’s that friend?
-No shit?
-No shit.
-I gave her sixty dollars!
-How would you like to get it back?
-I’ll be goddamn. I’ll be sure as shit goddamn.
-So, something in a fully automatic?
-Show me you’re not wearing a wire.
-A wire? I just showed you my license. And we reminisced about good times at a strip club. Come on. I’m not a cop.
-Undercover cops have fake IDs and fake everything else. And they hang out at strip clubs more than anyone. Show me. Lift your shirt.
He spits and I lift my Willie Nelson shirt up to my chin and ask him if he’s happy.
Cowboy looks at Sarah and spits and says, you too little girl.
-Show me.
-What? I’m not wearing a wire.
-Show me. Lift up your dress, to your chin.
-The fuck I will.
-Sounds like something a cop wearing a wire would say.
-Seriously, Cowboy, she’s not a cop. She’s twenty years old and a second year law student at Wash U.
-Sounds like something a cop would say to protect another cop wearing a wire.
I turn my head to face Sarah standing a few feet away to my right.
-Just lift your dress and we’ll get what we came for. A bra and underwear is like a bikini. No big deal.
-Fuck no.
-Not just real quick?
She looks me in the eyes and says through clenched teeth, I’m not wearing a bra.
-What? Not one of those strapless jobs? Not that I was wondering-
-No, John. I threw it out at Goodwill. It was filthy and smelled. I thought I could get one tonight. I didn’t know I’d be proving I wasn’t a cop to some racist prick in a back alley.
-Hey, I haven’t said nothin’ about nobody’s race.
Sarah mutters yeah right. She keeps her eyes on Cowboy.
-John, let’s just get this over with and get out of here.
Cowboy takes a step back behind his dog and whips out a pistol from behind his back.
-Get this over with? Get just what over with?
He points the gun at my face from five feet away and I don’t see any trembling in his hand. I guess this isn’t his first rodeo.
-Fucking cops. Oh shit. Goddamn fucking cops.
Now I see some trembling. I raise my hands up shoulder high.
-Cowboy, deep breath here, ok? We’re not cops. And this is about to get messy. But it doesn’t have to.
-You’re fucking cops. This is entrapment. You’re making me do this. It’s your fault. Your goddamn fault.
-I’m not a cop!
Cowboy whips his head and gun toward Sarah. I don’t take my eyes off that gun but I can see on the edge of my vision that she’s lifted her dress up to her chin. Dark hair and brown face and then a thick smudge of red dress and then all brown down to her feet except a thin line of pink halfway. That’s what I see out of the corner of my eye. But I stay focused on Cowboy and that trembli
ng gun.
He gestures with the gun and tells Sarah to turn around. She must have done as he said. His gaze drifts down with his mouth still slightly open.
I bend at my waist and launch myself forward while yelling to get his attention. His head turns toward me and his upper body and extended arm and gun all follow a second behind. I watch his eyes look for my face where it was and then look down but by then it’s too late as I wrap my right hand tight around his gun hand and yank down and toward me while catching his throat in my left hand and pushing back. The gun goes off just once into the pavement before I rip his arm from his shoulder. We fly back several feet until we land on the pavement, Cowboy underneath me, his face starting to darken as he chokes on his crushed Adam’s apple, dark blood gushing from his shoulder were his arm used to be.
Pop! Pop pop! Pop pop pop pop!
My right shoulder suddenly whips backward just as I hear the sound of gunfire. The bullet spins me around and off of Cowboy and then another shot hits me high in the chest, shattering my collar bone. I look for Sarah and she’s still standing in the same place, dress now down, facing me, her expression a mix of confusion, fear, pain, and anger. Then she looks into the dark open garage to our right for a just a second before moving to the truck. That’s when I notice the blood. She’s been hit in the back of the neck and an inch thick chunk of flesh is missing. A quarter-sized hole in her right bicep is bleeding and a blood stain on her dress under her underarm is spreading. At the back of the truck, she grabs both sides of the open tailgate and wrenches it off of the pickup with a high-pitch squeal of metal on metal, causing the truck to rock back on it’s left tires and then on it’s right, spilling the guns and sleeping bag onto the ground. Just as she turns around toward the open garage and holds the tailgate up in front of her, more gunfire explodes out of the garage. It sounds like an automatic shotgun, not the handgun that already hit us. The gunfire slams into the tailgate and Sarah’s stride is slowed but not stopped. As she walks out of the dim daylight and into the darkness of the garage, I realize with a slow awareness that I’ve seen something like this before. A battlefield at the end of a day of killing, a woman moving slowly through the remaining soldiers, her body naked but slightly out of focus, hair as long as she is tall whipping around her head in the wind. Men come at her with outstretched bloody swords that never find their mark, her hands coming up so easily to their throats or their chests or bellies, her claws slicing off heads or pulling out hearts or fistfuls of guts. She looks at me while pulling a heart from a chest and as she bites into it, I realize that I know her. I know her.
