“Cool,” he said.
“Let’s go shopping.” I slid along in the now constant Bay-shore freeway traffic. There was a time when the run to the south bay would have taken twenty minutes. But that was long before the microchip mavens turned this whole end of the state into their own personal Mecca. Now Beemers and Saabs lined up to crawl up and down the bay.
Benny King worked out of a pawn shop on Broadway, just down the street from The California Hotel in the heart of Oakland. Stepping around the hookers trolling the sidewalk we moved under the three giant brass balls. The shop was crammed to the rafters with everything from tubas to baby strollers. A cage in the back held the real valuables. Guns and gold, the universal coin of the realm. A half foot of glass kept the clerk protected from his customers.
“Benny around?” I asked the middle-aged egg shaped man in a Grateful Dead tee shirt.
“That depends, dude,” the clerk said, picking a loose piece of tobacco from his lip. His fingers were stained yellow from the nicotine.
“Tell him Moses McGuire is here.” I dropped seven hundred dollar bills into the cash troth below the bulletproof glass.
“Sweet, I’ll check it out.” The clerk scooped up the greenbacks and disappeared past a steel door.
“You have some interesting friends,” Gregor said, looking around at the odd collection of junk piled high around us.
“Live long enough, and you accumulate all sorts of connections. Benny’s alright, as long as you don’t take his word on anything.”
After about ten minutes the clerk came and led us through the three locked doors into the back of the shop. The clutter was out front, all for show. The back room was clean and orderly with rifle racks lining the walls and glass cases filled with every imaginable handgun laid out on black velvet.
“Moses mother fucking McGuire, man, I thought you were dead.” Benny was a half Black, half Hawaiian, all huge man. The only sign of his aging was the white starting to show in his tight afro and scraggly beard. He had a FFL that allowed him to legally sell firearms. He also did business in straw purchases out of Texas, and took in hot guns off the street. He was connected to Chinese smugglers, Russian mobsters and crack dealers. He never took sides, and always made a profit. “Who’s the mug?” He nodded his head towards Gregor.
“Terror of the Eastern Block. Gregor, shake hands with a living legend.”
“Too young to be a partner,” Benny said, taking Gregor’s hand, searching his face. “You taking in trainees Moses?”
“No, he carries his own weight.”
“Bet he does.” Benny finally let go of Gregor’s hand and turned back to me. “Now what can I do you for, got a new shipment from Norinco, clean AK’s.”
“CZ75,” Gregor said.
“Washed if you got it,” I said.
“Sure, no problemo, got one out of Alabama just burned the numbers off. But CZ ain’t cheap. Sure you don’t want a Desert Eagle. Same gun, but knocked off in Israel.”
“CZ,” Gregor grunted.
“$450, ok with you Moses?”
“It catalogs for what? $370 and change, new.”
“How about I toss in four fifteen round pre-ban mags, round it up to five bills and call it a day.” Benny was grinning. He truly loved the haggle. Gregor had turned away and was inspecting a cut-down double-barreled 12 gauge. The wood stock had been filed into a pistol grip and the barrels were several inches shorter than the legal eighteen.
“Now that baby’s a real classic.” Benny pointed at the shotgun with pride. “Takes a man to keep that bitch from roaring out of your hands, but it will clean a street.”
“It’ll do the job.” Gregor looked from the gun up to me.
“The $700 I dropped on your boy. Both guns and you toss in two boxes of factory for both and two for my.45.”
“If you wanted to rob me why didn’t you wear a mask?”
“Rob you? Shit if I wanted to rob you you’d be on the floor face down and begging for your momma.”
“$750, and I toss in a shoulder strap for the sweeper.” I dropped a fifty on the counter before he could sweeten the deal and cost me another hundred. “Fine, as always, doing business with you Moses.” He dropped our purchases into a cheap canvas bag. “Come back any time.” He reached out shaking Gregor’s hand again.
“Better count your fingers.” I told Gregor. Grabbing the guns and ammo we hit the street. At a corner market I bought four Red Bulls and a potato. Gregor’s eye brow shot up, but as was his way he said nothing.
“Potato, vegetable with a million uses. Eat ‘em, make vodka and drink ‘em, shoved on the barrel of a.38 they make a passable silencer.” I told him, tossing the potato into my pocket.
From the window of my room in the dive we took turns watching the Coast and the Best Western through my field glasses. Around six thirty I brought in some Chinese and black coffee. What I wanted was a tall scotch, a fist full of whites and the love of a lying woman but my old ways were likely to get me killed right now. Evolve or die, those are the choices we are given, evolve or die.
Helen sounded worried when I called her. “Cass said she was just going for a walk, get some air, that was four hours ago. She still isn’t back Moses.”
“I’m sure it’s nothing, she’s a tough girl.”
“Bingo!” Gregor said.
“Look Helen, I have to go. Call me when she comes back.” I gave her the number at the Best Western and hung up. Out the window I could see a Cadillac double parked in front of the Barbary Coast.
“They went inside,” Gregor said. Fifteen minutes later the sweater boy, now in a tweed suit and the beef in sweats came out of the club. They got in the Cadillac, pulled a U-turn and parked in front of the Best Western. I could see the sweater boy go into the hotel and after a few minutes come out. They sat in the car, waiting.
“Let’s roll,” I said to Gregor. The nasty little cut-down shotgun hung on a leather strap under his trench coat. He dropped the CZ75 into his huge outside pocket. If this thing went sideways they were going to pay hard.
The fog was a light mist as I crossed the street moving up to the back of the Cadillac. Taking the potato, I crammed it into their tail pipe, pushing until it sealed it closed. I crept along below the window line then popped up into the driver’s window. The sweater boy’s eyes went wild, he started to reach into his jacket. Gregor tapped on the passenger window with the two barrels of his shotgun. The men in the car didn’t know who to look at. I burned holes into the sweater boy’s eyes, as his hand hovered in his jacket.
“Do you really want to do this here? Really? I’m here to make a deal. I’m tired of running and I just want to get the hell out of this thing. So if you and monkey boy over there want to calm down, take your hands off your piece and listen. I think we can all go home happy campers. But you want to play who’s got the bigger balls, well then someone’s going down. Odds are it ain’t me.”
“Do what the gentleman says,” a voice from the back said.
“You ain’t my boss Leo. I ain’t backing down ‘til his goon lowers that cannon.”
“I think you should kill him.” Leo sat in the back, his suit was perfect, he was dead calm.
“So do I, but I doubt it will solve my problem with your boss. Ok boys keep your hands wherever you want them, grab your dicks if it makes you feel better. I have a one-time offer. No negotiations, you want the girl, I want out. You be at the Cow Palace parking lot at midnight tonight with forty grand and a guarantee from your boss that I walk away. You do that and she’s all yours. You fuck me and I drop her off at the feds.”
“Fuck you dead man, you don’t give us terms, we tell you how it goes, who the fuck do you think you are?” sweater boy spat at me.