The Silver Gun

by L. A. Chandlar

  It looked like they were going to go in the other direction, but as I softly alighted on the ground, the last one in line saw me, and I suddenly realized. . . they were hunting me. A light glinted in that third hunter’s eye as they and their horrible guns turned toward me and started a slow, deliberate procession toward me. I ran.

  Then everything started to swim with confusion. Flashes and images drifted in and out: a girl in a yellow sweater, Roarke’s face, which quickly morphed into my mystery man’s face, then the oily man who was laughing at me as he pushed me onto the train tracks. I was falling. As I turned and looked at him one last time, in midair before I hit the tracks, he slowly pulled out the silver gun. His lips came close to the gun, and I expected the hush gesture, but this time he kissed it. His black eyes locked with mine as he steadily leveled the barrel at me, put his finger on the trigger, and pulled.

  “Lane! Lane! Wake up!” said Mr. Kirkland, shaking me roughly.

  “What? Stop that!” I said irritably.

  “Hmph. You were making quite a fuss. You sure you’re all right?” He eyed me doubtfully. None of that sincere, worried about you look on his face from a few days ago when he carried me up all the stairs. Just a look that said, Shake it off, Missy. The dream started coming back to me, and I was actually quite relieved that someone had woken me up at that particular moment.

  “Uh, thanks, Mr. Kirkland. Sorry I bothered you. Just having a bad dream.”

  “Yep, that was pretty obvious,” he said, and slumped into the chair opposite me, folding his long legs and putting his clasped hands across one knee. I must have looked surprised that he took a seat, because he went on to say, “Ah, well, I don’t mean to bother you, either, but . . . do you mind if I have a seat?”

  I straightened my face and said, “Oh, sure! Please.” Knowing he was a man of mission, I waited for him to talk.

  He looked around like maybe he was thinking of what to say or gathering the courage to say something specific. Then he looked right at me and said something completely unexpected. “Do you want to talk about your dream?”

  “My dream. You want to talk about my dream?”

  “Well . . . only if you do. Seems to me, Lane, that you’ve been through a lot in your life and an extra helping of trouble these past weeks.”

  “So, Aunt Evelyn has kept you abreast of the situation. The man in the shadows?” He nodded. “The threat against Fio?” Nodded again. “Roxy?” He nodded yet again. “She certainly has been thorough,” I mumbled.

  “Yes, she has.” Oh, he heard that. “She doesn’t keep me in the dark about much. What I want to know from you is two things. First, what’s the deal with the silver gun?”

  My eyes must have bugged out, because I had never, ever told anyone about that dream before. I shook my head. “How could you possibly know about that dream?”

  “I heard you just now as you were waking up. You said, ‘He’s got the gun—the silver gun.’”

  “Oh, well, I guess that explains it,” I said, mildly annoyed. “I was dreaming that the man who pushed me onto the train tracks pulled a silver gun out of his coat.”

  “Did it have a red scroll on the handle?”

  “How did you know that?”

  His eyes shifted side to side. “Oh, you said something about something red . . . a scroll . . . while you were dreaming.”

  “Hmm,” I said, not too sure about the complete veracity of his statement.

  “Have you had a dream about that gun before? Because you said, ‘He’s got the gun.’” He bent further forward, intently watching me.

  “All right. Yes, Mr. Kirkland,” I said resignedly. “I’ve had dreams about it ever since I can remember. I always wonder if I saw it at the movies when I was younger and it stuck with me,” I said, trying to laugh just a bit, trying to make that suggestion a possibility. But I already knew that there was no fiction to this gun. The detail I could conjure of the curving lines of the sharp, bloodred scrollwork was effortless and crisp. I swear I could almost feel the weight of the gun in my hand. No, I now had proof that the silver gun existed, and at some point I had seen it up close, probably held it. What could possibly be the connection between me and that gunman?

  “Lane?” he asked, after I’d been silent for a few moments.

  “The guy who pushed me onto the train tracks had that exact gun.”

  Mr. Kirkland had been drumming his fingers thoughtfully on the arm of the chair, but in that instant, he froze.

  “Lane,” he said, suddenly urgent, leaning closer to me, almost face-to-face. “You have to be absolutely sure. What exactly did the gun look like? Don’t confuse it with your dreams. What did the man’s gun look like?”

  I told him every detail I remembered. But why the urgent interest? He was carefully mulling over all this as I scrutinized him closely, trying to figure out what was behind his questions. His gaze locked onto mine, and a wall came down behind those light blue eyes, blocking my prying gaze.

  “Lane?” he asked, in a tone that made it sound like he’d come to a decision. “I don’t believe in coincidences. We’ll keep watch. We’ll figure it out.” He had clearly decided not to let me in on what he was really thinking and was covering it over with the fatherly statements of, It’ll be fine, don’t worry about it. “Now I have to go get dinner started. Making spaghetti, not as good as Fio’s surely, but still good.”

  He stood up, with his long legs making snapping noises as his knees straightened out. I had not one single idea how old that man was. One minute his bones were snapping and crackling, the next he was carrying me up four flights of stairs with the ease of a prizefighter.

  I smiled at him, letting him think I didn’t see behind his subterfuge. “Thanks, Mr. Kirkland. Sounds great. Perfect.” And then he was off to his domain.

  I sat in wonderment trying to figure out what had happened for us to have turned a corner of openness. That was, by far, the longest and most interesting conversation we had ever had together. And it was good. He was hiding things, but I was okay with that for now. I was hiding things, too.

  Suddenly, Mr. Kirkland came bounding in with his rain gear on and said, “Hey, Lane! The sauce is simmering on the stove, the bread is in the oven, the salad is in the refrigerator. I have to go out for a while; why don’t you and Evelyn have dinner whenever you like? I’m not sure exactly when I’ll be back.” And before I could answer, he bounded out the door.

  Later that evening, Aunt Evelyn and I were enjoying our dinner in the cozy kitchen. The storm hadn’t let up yet, and the kitchen was delightfully warm and homey, the kind of room that invited you to come in and stay a while. The spaghetti sauce was excellent; Fio would have been proud.

  Just as we were finishing up, we heard a commotion on the back porch off the kitchen and laundry room. There was a clatter and pounding on the steps up to the back door, then Mr. Kirkland’s voice. But what was he doing? The only description I can give it is that he was crooning softly . . . to something. Well, as softly as he could get with his gruff voice. And in he came with a large bundle held securely in his arms: a big, floppy, furry . . . puppy.

  Aunt Evelyn knocked over her glass.

  CHAPTER 6

  If you don’t have a dog—at least one—there is not necessarily anything wrong with you, but there may be something wrong with your life.

  —ML

  Mr. Kirkland was proud as any proud papa could be. In his arms was an extremely large puppy that was gnawing on anything he could get his teeth on, which, at the moment, was Mr. Kirkland’s collar. He had big puppy paws and legs that the rest of his body had yet to grow into. He was about five or six months old and already had to be fifty pounds. He was a wiggling mass of happy-go-lucky German shepherd puppy.

  I dove over to the pup. I was a sucker for dogs, well, most animals, that is. He was soft, and his black muzzle, big brown eyes, and perky ears drew me like a magnet. Mr. Kirkland and I looked at each other. Then, as a team with the puppy, all three of us looked at Au
nt Evelyn with goofy grins on our faces like little boys saying, Can we keep it?

  She groaned.

  We named him Ripley. We petted him, brushed him, and gave him something to eat. Aunt Evelyn sat at the table just shaking her head with a bemused smile on her face. She loved animals, but she’d never had a dog of her own before.

  “What were you thinking, Kirk?” she asked Mr. Kirkland, with a resigned look on her face. “Why a puppy, and why right this second? In the rain?”

  “Well, you see, a friend of mine at the Humane Society told me a group of gorgeous shepherd pups had been dropped off, and they had one left. I figured that with everything that’s been going on lately, it couldn’t hurt to have a little more protection around here.”

  Ripley chose that particular moment to spy his tail, cock his head to one side, and go dashing around in circles trying to catch the tantalizing bait.

  “Mm hm,” said Aunt Evelyn skeptically.

  The next morning came with bright sunshine, a fresh, clean scent in the air, and . . . a puppy barking. Breakfast was a do-it-yourself affair, as Mr. Kirkland was fully occupied with Ripley. I have to say, he had never looked happier. Evelyn smiled and winked at me.

  I heard the unmistakable, obnoxious five honks from Fio’s car, saved just for me. Lucky me. I kissed everyone, including Ripley, good-bye and headed out to the car. I waved at Ray, the driver, and jumped in the back. My knee still had some pretty bruises that were turning a lovely puce, but I felt great, and I was anxious to get back to work. Plus, Fio had promised that we would talk more about the case.

  Fiorello, who knew that anger was behind my tears at the train station, also knew that I abhorred people making a fuss over me. So, as I slid into the backseat, we chitchatted about the day and then started right in on our normal routine of him dictating instructions. What was conspicuously missing from this agenda was my time with him going over the case. And there was a strange fifteen-minute slot first thing in the morning that had been blocked off.

  He ran out of steam and looked up, way up, as we were passing under the early morning shadow of the Empire State Building. He smiled to himself and muttered something about getting to the top again soon.

  It really was remarkable. I’ll never forget the race six years ago, in 1930, between the Chrysler Building and the Empire State Building to be the tallest in the world. It looked like the Chrysler building was surely going to win out at seventy-seven stories. And it did. For about three months. Until the Empire State Building was topped with the final tower and spire.

  Almost every day we’d go down to Fifth Avenue to watch in awe as the behemoth was being erected. The men would walk and dance and sing along those dizzyingly high metal beams. The riveters had their own rhythms and dances. It was hard to tear your eyes away from them as they’d toss red-hot rivets to each other, sometimes seventy-five feet away. But those buildings were more important than that. Because on one horrible fall day in ’29, the lively sounds of the Jackhammers, drills and riveters from the construction happening all over the city suddenly ceased. Leaving only an eerie silence floating through the streets. It was like something had died. The construction of these two spectacular buildings reminded all of us that we could still build and dream.

  I turned a glaring eye to Fio. “All right. So. Fio. What’s with the small talk and no morning meeting? You promised we’d have a little chat about the case.”

  He raised an eyebrow. “The case, Lane?”

  “Ehhh . . . yeah. The case. You know, the developments of the past couple weeks.”

  He looked at me with a pitying, sardonic smile. “You read too many books, Lane.”

  “Yes, I do. But that doesn’t change anything. What’s going on with the schedule this morning?”

  He looked shifty. His eyes started darting about, and he looked out the window again. I could tell he was trying to scrounge up something to distract me. “Fiiiooooo?” I said, in my best out with it voice.

  “Well . . . we have a meeting, as usual,” he said, still not looking me in the eye.

  “With whom?”

  “Well, it’s just someone in the office,” he said, and then pretended to suddenly have a very consuming issue with the cuff of his suit coat. Well, if it was that difficult for him to spill it, then I was just going to wait. I was not about to force it out of him.

  Turns out, I should have put forth the effort. We walked into the office, and lo and behold, Roxy was sitting quite comfortably at my desk. At. MY. Desk.

  She smiled up sweetly at me, and I pursed my lips and raised my eyebrows. “Why, hello, Roxy. Helping out, are we?”

  “Ahhh, yes. Yes, I have been, just while you were gone. Here you are, Mr. LaGuardia, the notes you requested about the legislature regarding the new parks,” she said as she handed him quite a hefty pack of papers.

  “Thanks, Roxy! That was really efficient, very quick of you,” he said, a little too enthusiastically. He regarded me, with my lips still pursed, and backed up a step. I cocked my head at him and smiled, trying unsuccessfully to make it look like I wasn’t baring my teeth at him.

  “Thanks, Roxy, for helping out while I was gone,” I said, which I really did mean. I wasn’t vain enough to think the whole office would come to a standstill without me. But Roxy? What was wrong with Val? I thought my bad morning meeting had ended, but apparently it had just begun.

  “Uh, Roxy, let’s have that meeting you requested with Lane right now. Let’s go into my office,” said Fio. A meeting with Roxy? Well . . . how nice.

  Roxy and I pulled up chairs to Fio’s desk. He sat down behind his, adjusting some papers and rubbing the space between his eyes with a thumb and forefinger as if, perhaps, he was catching the headache that I was enduring at the moment.

  “All right, Roxy. Did you have something you wanted to tell us?” he asked, turning his attention to her and clasping both hands on his desk.

  I turned to look at her and, with a bit of satisfaction, saw a bead of sweat appear on her brow. But she took a deep breath and boldly said, “Well . . . I’ve been thinking about everything that’s been going on lately with Lane and the fact that she’s attracted such deviant attention from some kind of bad character . . . and I’ve been wondering if maybe she should work from home or maybe work in a different department.”

  And the penny dropped. That little, scheming, devious . . . She was after my job. At the very least, she was finally figuring out a way to get me out of the way. That was the only way to do it, too, I’ll give her that: play on Fio’s concern about my welfare. All the words I would have said came tumbling out at once, effectively choking me, I was so livid.

  Luckily, Fiorello came to my rescue. He had shot me a wary glance that bespoke his concern that I might possibly be about to throttle her. I was deeply considering it, especially when Fio took a quick look out the window and she winked at me.

  He started in at a rapid pace. “Well, Roxy, dear, I appreciate your concern for Lane. I really do. But I think that would be taking things a bit too far.” Her shoulders slightly slumped, and she pouted in defeat. She looked at me and rolled her eyes when Fio looked down at his paper. I winked at her.

  “Is that all you wanted to convey, Roxy?” asked Fio, looking up at us with an oblivious smile, as he had mentally checked this meeting off his list and moved on.

  “Well, yes. I guess it is. Thanks for letting me meet with you. I’ll get back to work.”

  After she closed the door and I heard her footsteps walk away, I said, “What was that all about?”

  “Lane! Not so loud! The office is used to hearing me bellow, but not you,” he said while shifting a little farther away in his chair and pulling on one ear.

  “Sorry,” I said, in a much more mellifluous voice. “It’s just that she always gets under my skin. I’ll work on it.”

  “Oh, she means well, Lane. Besides, she types like lightning!” he said, with a happy pat to the papers she’d just handed him. Oh, brother. I rubbed my temples,
my headache not abating one iota. He’d changed gears to work mode like a flick of a switch, as usual, so I went out to my desk.

  There was a pink card from Val waiting for me, saying welcome back and that she was treating me to lunch, which helped ease the headache just a bit.

  From that point on, a few weeks passed in relative peace. Valerie and I worked hard, we went out to lunch, she had a couple more dates with Pete. I saw Roarke frequently, as he was consistently in Room 9, the famous press room, covering Fiorello’s escapades. We’d had a drink and got caught up with each other. The blonde from Copioli’s didn’t take, but that wasn’t a surprise. Roarke was a lone wolf at heart, always seeking the next big story. Roxy and Lizzie remained their irritating selves. You’d never have known that Lizzie and I had a long, pleasant chat that one day.

  The weather was gorgeous as we pulled into the true summer. I loved summer in New York City: deep blue skies; the beach; street fairs that sprinkled the city with greasy food, stalls of jewelry, fun music, and brightly colored scarves every weekend. The whole city was outside, eating at the cafés, walking along the water, and exploring Central Park. The energy was palpable, festive.

  One sultry day at work, we were not working at our best as the heat became intense. Despite my efforts to keep my black fan spinning air directly at me, I could feel my hair getting curly in the humidity and sweat trickling down my back. Roarke came in to see a few friends and get some updates for an article he was working on about Fio’s Summer of the Pools. Ten were to be opened in ten weeks, along with many new modern parks and playgrounds. Fio believed that if you cared for families, the city would grow. He even made his dream come true and opened the High School of Music and Art. He’d enjoyed music his whole life. He was quite the trumpet player, and he even led a few orchestras in the city as guest conductor. He knew firsthand the profound effect art had on a person and on society.