Up in Smoke

by Charlene Weir

  The place was huge and empty except for the small, fit-looking man with sandy-gray hair seated at a desk behind the counter. A desk lamp shone down on the pieces of gray metal he was picking up and wiping lovingly with oil. A gun, she thought, taken apart to be cleaned. The loud clicking of her heels on the tile floor made her self-conscious. Nervously, she peered at the racks of rifles and glass-fronted cases of handguns lining the walls. Black, bluish-gray or silver, each one deadly, if used right.

  He put down his oily rag and came to the counter. “May I help you?”

  “Yes.” Her heart was beating so loud she thought he surely must hear it. “I’d like to buy a handgun.” Because that sounded sinister to her ears, she added. “For protection.”

  “Did you have anything in mind?”

  “A nine millimeter?”

  “That’s a pretty heavy gun. You might want to try a thirty-eight.” He bent down and took a small silver gun from a tray and placed it on the counter in front of her.

  It didn’t look very lethal. It didn’t even look real. It looked like a child’s toy. It was small with a short barrel. Her grandchild, if she’d been allowed to have a grandchild, might have played with something like this. She didn’t even know if Alice Ann’s baby had been a boy or a girl.

  “I’d like to see a nine millimeter, please.”

  He walked down the counter and retrieved another gun. He put that one in front of her. Oh, yes. This one was black and sleek and looked extremely lethal. She ran her fingertips along its length and was surprised at the warmth. She’d expected it to be cold and then realized the case lights shining down on it would give it warmth. She could feel herself growing stronger just knowing it would be in her pocket, or her purse.

  “I’ll take this one,” she said.

  “Do you know how to use it?”

  “I plan to take instructions.”

  He nodded. “I just need your signature and in fifteen days you can pick it up.”

  “Fifteen days?”

  “After that guy with Reagan got shot in the head, they passed this law.”

  “But what if I need it now?” The pathetic wail in her voice didn’t change his mind.

  “Sorry,” he said. “I’d help you if I could.”

  She’d better pull herself together or he’d remember her as some desperate crazy woman who tried to buy a gun. “Well,” she said. She gave him a smile that hurt her face and told him she’d be back. When she got back in her car, she felt like sobbing. Fifteen days was way too long. Jackson Garrett would be gone off somewhere by then. Who knows where he’d be. How could she get close enough to kill him, if she didn’t know where he was?

  Guns were available on the streets in any big city. She sighed. Hampstead wasn’t a big city. Kansas City was near enough to drive to, but it wasn’t all that big either. Kansas City, Missouri, was though and it was just across the river from Kansas City, Kansas. For a moment, she was excited, then she came to her senses. She wouldn’t know the right street corner, and she wouldn’t know the right person to ask. She couldn’t simply drive to the seediest area of town and go up to any sinister-looking character.

  That was apt to get her killed. She didn’t care if she was killed, but she didn’t want it to happen until she’d accomplished her mission. After that, she fully expected a police officer to shoot her. Depressed, she went home. The motel room was damp and chilly. She turned on the machine in the window that supplied both warm and cool air and stretched out on the bed. Just as she was drifting off she had a thought.

  Pawn shop. Maybe if she was really meek and pathetic and frightened by a man who was stalking her, somebody there would sell her a gun.

  She didn’t know if Hampstead even had a pawn shop, but if it didn’t, there must be plenty in Kansas City. She called the office and asked if they had a Kansas City, Missouri, phone book. The elderly woman in charge brought it to her and told her to bring it back when she was through. It was the only one they had. Em rifled through pages.

  All right. The Pawn and Shooters Palace.

  * * *

  Em drove to Kansas City, crossed the river into Missouri and tried to find the address. It took her a while, but she finally found it on the edge of town near fast food places, used car lots, and small eating places that probably served food poisoning with its meals. The Pawn and Shooters Palace was a narrow shop with a metal folding grate across the door, sandwiched between a tattoo parlor and a boarded-up beautician’s shop.

  She tried to see inside the pawn shop but the glass part of the door was so smudged and dirty it was difficult to see much of anything. A light was on inside, she could tell that much from the faint glow somewhere in the rear of the shop. A teenaged black kid sloped up behind her. Startled, she looked around at the dark deserted street.

  “Yo, lady, you going in or you growing roots?”

  She seemed unable to move.

  He lifted his upper lip to expose his teeth in a sneering smile and pushed around her to open the door and go in. After hesitating, dithering, she went in also. I hate dithering, she told herself.

  Inside, there was so much—she didn’t know what to call it, merchandise?—piled everywhere that the two narrow windows were blocked. The teenager had melted away somewhere in all the gloom and the clutter.

  “Help you?” The man sitting at a desk behind the counter rose and came toward her. He was short, barely five feet, and had some kind of disability that made it difficult for him to walk. He shuffled and didn’t put much weight on one foot.

  “I’d like a nine-millimeter handgun,” she said like she knew what she was talking about.

  “Let’s see what I have.” He showed her two that were exactly what she wanted. Sleek and deadly. She chose one. Then he went through the same thing about forms and a fifteen-day waiting period. She tried pleading, she tried crying, she tried offering money.

  “Can’t do it,” he said. “It’s the law.”

  “Law.” Her voice sounded sharp and disgusted, as though she’d stepped in something unpleasant. “I don’t think much of the law.”

  “I could say the same, but it won’t change anything.”

  Defeated, she left the alien claustrophobic place and walked back toward her car. Clouds scudded across the tiny sliver of moon, and the street light was far down the street. She didn’t realize she’d parked so far away. Why hadn’t she brought a flashlight?

  “Whatcha doin’, lady?” The whispered words raised the hairs on the back of her neck.

  She whirled, heart fluttering in her throat like a caged bird. The kid, the black teenager—African-American. She didn’t even want to think anything that might offend him. He wasn’t tall, only about her height, skinny, and dressed in baggy jeans and a black shirt. He seemed to jiggle constantly, like he was dancing to music nobody else heard. She’d been stupid to come here, even stupider to come after dark and wander around by herself. Now she was really frightened. Not of dying. She was going to die soon anyway, but frightened of dying before she accomplished what she needed to do.

  “Got somethin’ to sell?”

  “No, no,” she said, backing away.

  “You was there to buy sumthin then?”

  “Yes, I was. But—but—he didn’t have what I wanted, so I guess I’ll have to go elsewhere.”

  “Elsewhere, huh? What was you wantin’?”

  She swallowed.

  “You can tell me. We’re in the same kind of bidness, old Jed back there and me. You tell me, maybe I can help you.”

  “Oh, I really don’t think so, I must—”

  “Lady,” his tone all of a sudden got clipped and impatient. “I don’t have all night. What did you want?”

  She took a breath hoping it would help her words come out steady, not quavering like a scared old woman. If he was going to kill her, she couldn’t do anything about it. She couldn’t beat him up and she couldn’t outrun him, so what did it matter if she told him. She shouldn’t have come here. So stupid. I’m
sorry, Alice Ann. I can’t carry out this mission any better than I could protect my baby. “A gun,” she said, proud of herself when she heard her voice steady.

  “Little old bitch like you want a gun?”

  “That’s what I wanted, yes.”

  “You got money?”

  “No, no, not very much. If you’ll excuse me, I really must go now.”

  “How much you got?”

  “Hardly any. Please, excuse me. My—my friend is waiting for me, I mustn’t keep him. He gets so impatient.”

  “How much?” He grabbed her purse, scrabbled around inside and came out with her wallet.

  “Take it,” she said. “It’s yours. Take it.”

  With a wide grin, he snatched all the bills. “What kinda gun you want?”

  “Nine-millimeter.” She could hear the defeat in her tone.

  He sneered. “Any particular brand?”

  “Doesn’t matter.”

  He laughed. The whole time, he was jiggling, leaping and jumping around inside, keeping time to music only he could feel. “What’s yo address?”

  She rattled off the first thing that came to mind. It happened to be the address of her bank at home. He tossed the purse to her. She bent to pick it up and scuttled away like something that lived under a rock. With every step, she feared she’d feel a knife in her back and she’d drop without a sound. Then who would get justice for Alice Ann?

  She slid in her car, managed to get the key in the ignition and drove away. In the rearview mirror, she saw nothing but the dark deserted street. The boy had disappeared. Tears made everything so blurred she couldn’t see where she was going and she had to stop and get herself in control.

  When she finally got back to the motel, she couldn’t find her room key and had to ask the receptionist for another. Plainly irritated, the woman gave her a new key but it came with a lecture about being more careful.

  20

  Cass woke up stiff and cold Monday morning. Bad night, worse than she’d had in a long time. All night she’d sat in Aunt Jean’s rocker, revolver in her hand, rocking and listening to the creak of the floorboards. She fought the voice that urged her to end it, do it now, put the barrel in her mouth and pull the trigger. When she’d dozed off, her hand relaxed and the revolver had fallen in her lap. This time morning won. She woke with a start to gray light coming through the windows.

  All day, she carried the gun, put it on the sink in the bathroom when she took a shower, on the bedside table near the cuff-link box with the pinch of Ted and Laura’s ashes when she was dressed. In her pocket when she went out. She walked, up the street, along the storefronts, down to the river, stood and gazed at the water. She could simply step in. When it got dark, she made her way home.

  The dog rushed to her, making little glad cries of joy. Monty the cat complained loudly of neglect and hunger. She petted the cat, gave the dog a hug, and went to the desk. As she opened the bottom drawer, the remaining four bullets rolled with a dull metallic clink. She swung out the cylinder and removed the two she’d put in last night. Four more days until Halloween. She could wait. She put the revolver back in the drawer, then one at a time, lined the bullets up along the barrel. The shiny brass jackets caught the light from the lamp.

  The dog needed to go out desperately and Cass opened the kitchen door for her. When the dog came back in, she fed both the animals and changed clothes. Sometime today she must have fallen, her wool pants were muddy. She couldn’t settle, wandered through the house. Anxiety hovered just around the shadows of her mind, creeping forward, crawling back. And she was afraid. Of what? She didn’t know. What in God’s name was there to be afraid of? Nothing, except herself. It was late, she was tired. She tried to make herself comfortable in Jean’s wingback chair, the one placed for perfect television viewing. The dog flopped at her feet. It would let her know if anyone was outside. A tree branch tapped along a window like a finger trying to get her attention. The curtains were open. The window was black, revealing only her ghostly reflection. The dog hadn’t moved. It didn’t act like anyone was watching them, waiting outside for the right moment.

  “Waiting for what? No one’s out there!”

  She switched off the lamp so she wouldn’t be lit up like a stage. New locks, she’d get new locks on all the doors. Windows, too. Then she’d be safe. And the dog would bark. It might even protect her. She looked down at it. It looked back at her and swished its tail back and forth. Foolish to be worried about what would come at her from outside. It was from inside herself that danger would come.

  Getting up so abruptly, she startled the dog, she jerked the curtains closed. Dark. Comforting, safe, no one could see her. She took in deep breaths, right, now let it out slowly through your mouth, think of an empty beach with soft white sand, the surf whispering low—

  The exercises she’d been taught to slow her heartbeat and ward off a panic attack weren’t working. She was here all by herself with no drugs. Someone was outside creeping up to the door, waiting, listening—

  “This is stupid.”

  Opening the curtain, she stared out into the darkness. There was nothing there but a small crescent of moon. She dropped into the chair and determinedly picked up the book. Concentrate. Her heart hammered, her chest grew tight, a light buzz started in her head. Despair built into a sense of terrible disaster so close to doom she felt she would die.

  Nonsense. I won’t die. I’ve been through this a million times. I won’t die!

  “I am forty-six years old,” she said aloud to wash out the rising roar in her head. “I had a husband. Long after I gave up hope I had a child. I was in hell and I survived. I can survive this. My heart will not stop. I will not be shredded to a victim by a panic attack. No!”

  The buzzing in her mind made her dizzy, her head ached. She stumbled through the kitchen, fumbled with the lock on the door until she thought she would scream, got it open and fled out into the night. A rock tripped her and she nearly went sprawling. When she reached the circle of maple trees, she dropped, scooted her back against one and put her arms around her knees. Head down, she pulled in air, feebly trying to use visualization exercises to neutralize a hurricane.

  Finally, finally, the terror reached a peak and began the slow climb down the other side. Finally, sanity began to return, her heart began to slow, the dizziness receded and the buzzing in her mind faded. She didn’t die.

  Raising her head, she noticed the dog beside her. It licked her icy fingers. Each time you survive one of these attacks, you get stronger. That’s what the shrinks said. She wasn’t so sure. When one came, it was like an old friend and every fiber of her being urged her to accept the invitation, throw away rational thought and give in to total mindless panic. Run. Blindly. Anywhere. Because it promised the blessed relief of oblivion.

  When it was over, she was always tired, lethargic, feeling like she’d recovered from a bout of flu that had left her drained and weak. A breeze stirred the maple leaves. She strained to hear. It sounded almost—if she let her mind float—she could almost hear echoes of Laura’s laughter.

  After a long time—a minute? an hour? five hours?—she shivered and noticed how damp she was from sitting on the wet ground. She uncoiled herself, went back inside with the dog padding along beside her, peeled off her damp jeans, and pulled on a warm robe.

  Roaring with avenging fury, the dog scrambled to the door and a minute later the bell rang. Terror reached out and sent a rigid finger touching Cass’s heart. Not two attacks in one night! She shoved the dog out of the way and yanked open the door.

  “I hope I didn’t wake you.”

  “Bernie! What are you doing here?”

  He stepped inside and the dog nuzzled his hand, making little crooning sounds. “I came to bring you to the meeting.”

  He patted the dog’s sides and swung her head back and forth. “Hey, Carmen. Figured out I’m one of the good guys, have you?” The dog slathered him with exuberant kisses.

  “Carmen?” Cass sa
id.

  “When she whimpers like that she sounds like she’s singing. Everybody deserves a name. I figured I’d give you some help with it.”

  “She’s not mine,” Cass said.

  “Okay. So until she’s somebody else’s, you need something to call her.”

  Cass dropped it, she could see she wasn’t going to win. “What meeting? It’s bedtime.”

  “Yeah, it is. Remember, I told you when politicians work? We just got back from Omaha and something’s come up.” He went through the arched entryway into the dining room and picked up the roll of tape sitting on the stacked boxes ready for donation to the church rummage sale, that long day’s work emptying the attic and Aunt Jean’s closets still waiting. “Not all unpacked yet?”

  “That’s stuff I’m getting rid of. Look, Bernie. I’ve thought it over and I really don’t want to get involved in a political campaign. I’m not going to be around long enough to do you any good. I wish you all the best of luck, but I’m not interested. Find someone else.”

  “I don’t find people, I just do what I’m told. I was told to bring you.” He tipped his head and studied her face. “What else have you got to do?” he said gently.

  I have to hang on, she thought. Because she was losing them. She had grieved for Ted and Laura with a keening ache and echoing emptiness, a pain as sharp as pulling her arm through a coil of barbed wire. The pain wouldn’t go away. The staggering loss continued to hit her with ever-new disbelief and vacant despair. Every day for the last year, the pain of their loss waited in hiding to leap out and grab her by the throat, to choke the life from her. But now, far worse, the times and duration were growing less. Once, she could see them clearly, she had long conversations with Ted. She saw Laura’s smile and heard her laugh and heard her singing to Monty. Now there were only brief flashes, unmoving, frozen like old snapshots. She was losing them and she wouldn’t be able to live.