“Yes, dear, this is a knife maker’s booth,” Mr. K said. “That’s an interesting choice in footwear.”
“They’re called Crocs. They’re new. I got one of the first pairs.” She smiled sweetly at him. “Do you have a car? Because I’m looking to get over to Chicago, and I need a ride.”
“Sorry,” Mr. K said. Something about the girl struck him as odd, and he made it a habit never to give people rides. Not since picking up Donaldson, all those years ago.
“I’ve got a car,” Donaldson offered.
The girl dismissed him with a quick grimace. “I bet,” she said, and then walked away, lugging a guitar case with her.
Mr. K managed to hide his smile, and then Morrell reappeared with a chamois cloth. He set it on the table and carefully unwrapped it.
At first glance, the object appeared to be just a knife handle, sans blade. But a closer inspection revealed something that resembled an ice pick.
This was no ordinary ice pick, however. It was an ice pick that had been sharpened down to the width of a single sheet of paper.
“May I?” Mr. K asked.
“Please.”
He lifted it, feeling the weight, admiring the craftsmanship. On an angle, the blade glinted under the artificial tent lights. Straight on, the blade practically disappeared.
“It’s the sharpest thing I’ve ever made,” Morrell said, a hint of pride creeping into his voice. “You could cut the wings off a mosquito as it flew at you.”
“You do beautiful work,” breathed Mr. K.
“Be careful sharpening it. Only use a razor strop with the finest grit. If you take care of it, you should have years of use.”
“I intend to.”
“Can I see it?” Donaldson asked.
“Sorry, but I’m afraid I have to be going.” Mr. K carefully wrapped up the treasure, and slipped it into his inner blazer pocket. “Good to see you again, Donaldson.”
He walked away without getting a parting goodbye. Instead, the fat man began to cajole Morrell, demanding to get a knife like Mr. K had just picked up.
Mr. K hadn’t been lying. He did have someplace to be.
Porter’s Guns and Ammo.
One of the very bad people Mr. K worked for had asked him to pay Mr. Porter a visit to convince him to pay a marker. That wasn’t until tomorrow, though. But Mr. K wanted to be the first on the scene, because apparently his employer had also sent another man to talk to Porter.
Whoever got there first and put in the scare got the commission.
Normally, Mr. K avoided taking open contracts, because he disliked competition. But he’d been planning on coming to this show anyway to pick up the blade from Morrell, so this was a chance to get the knife for free.
He slipped through the crowd, humming tunelessly to himself, musing on what Mr. Dovolanni had said could be done to the mark.
“No permanent damage. We want him to pay up.”
Mr. K smiled, his lips tight, and wondered if filleting Porter’s penis counted as permanent.
Javier
The man browsing next to him at Table #137 handed six hundred-dollar bills to the gun dealer, who took the money, shook his hand, and said, “Kiernan it was great to meet you. You’re gonna love the Nineteen. Best all-around weapon Glock makes.”
“I can’t wait to shoot it.”
Jav studied Kiernan out of the corner of his eye, found it oddly amusing that with his black hair and strong, chiseled features, the man resembled a gringo version of himself.
The dealer slid the plastic gun case into a bag and handed it across the table.
“Hope to see you again.”
“You have a nice selection of Glocks,” Javier said to the dealer when Kiernan had left, running his finger over the surfaces of the pistols, each resting on a plastic case, a thin, metal cord running through all the trigger guards to prevent theft.
“It’s all I carry.”
Jav smiled. “It’s all I shoot.”
“Looking for anything in particular?”
“Yeah, but I’m not seeing it here. It’s the Glock 36. Slimline is the trademark I believe.”
The vendor smiled. He looked like the antithesis of every other dealer Javier had laid eyes on today. He was fit, or at least within a hundred pounds of his ideal body weight. No facial hair. And he wore a Spandex biking suit that had been autographed over the crotch by Lance Armstrong. He’d put an exclamation point on the ensemble with a handsome Swastika button pinned to his collar.
The vendor said, “Oh, a connoisseur. I don’t display everything.” He ducked down behind the table and reemerged again with another black, plastic case.
He opened it.
Jav looked in, smiled. Would’ve been like seeing his long lost friend, Emilio, again, if he hadn’t cut Emilio into four pieces and burned his traitorous ass into a pound of ash in a rusted-out oildrum. He’d mixed the ash into a gallon of lukewarm water and made Emilio’s widow drink it before he shot her between the eyes. “This…I’ve been looking for this.”
“Glock only started producing this model four years ago. It sold out early. Only one point one three inches in width. Secure grip design. Shoots a half dozen forty-five caliber ACP rounds.”
“You mean with the factory clip,” Javier said.
The vendor flashed an oblique grin. “Yes, a factory clip.”
“But you have non-factory clips.”
“I could probably scrounge one up.”
“May I?” Jav gestured to the firearm.
The spandexed bicycle-Nazi-gun freak said, “By all means.”
It took Javier approximately five seconds to field-strip the weapon. He checked the spring, sited down the barrel, and gave it a quick sniff for gun oil. Everything looked perfect.
Javier hadn’t heard the man move up behind him. Just sensed him and turned suddenly and there he was—good-looking black man, roughly his age, smiling at him through a pair of coffee-brown eyes.
“Well done, soldier.”
“What makes you think I’m a soldier?” Jav asked.
“Because it takes one to know one. Reassemble it.”
“Excuse me?”
“Put the Glock back together.”
“Why?”
“Because I can do it faster.”
Jav smiled, felt a spurt of adrenaline rush through him. This guy was pushing him into a game.
“You believe that you can beat five seconds.”
“Hell yes, son.”
“I’m not your son.”
“Relax, my man.”
Nothing made Javier more angry than being told to relax. Felt like a nuclear bomb detonating in the pit of his stomach, but all he did was flash a thousand-watt smile.
He took his time putting the pistol back together, and when it was reassembled, set it back on its plastic case.
His self-appointed opponent stepped up to the table and cut his eyes at the vendor. “You saw my man field-strip this motherfucker?”
“Yep.”
“You can judge if I beat his time.”
“I think so.”
The black man glanced at Javier. “Watch and learn, son. Count me down from five, Spandex.”
Javier registered a moment’s hesitation in the vendor, sensed that being told to do something by this young black man has stiffened his racist bristles.
But he started counting anyway.
“Five…four…three…”
The man cracked his neck and placed his hands palm down on the table.
“Two…one.”
Javier had seen fast hands during his stint with the Special Air Mobile Force Group, but nothing to rival this. It was a single, flawless movement, like choreography, and then the Glock 36 lay in four pieces—slide, recoil spring, barrel, and grip.
Javier couldn’t help shaking his head. “Damn.”
“Maybe three seconds?” the vendor said.
“Impressive,” Jav said. “You military?”
“Force Recon. Isaiah, by the way.” The man offered his hand and Jav shook it.
“Javier.”
Isaiah reassembled the firearm. “Maybe we’ll run into each other at the range some time. Have ourselves a little shootout.”
Javier said, “Competitive much?”