Your nine is anything that uses a .357 or a 9-millimeter cartridge."“
"I know what a nine is.”
Was a nine stopped Carella's father.
"So show me," Sonny said.
Part of the ritual here was who could out lip who. The price often rose or fell on who had the biggest mouth.
"Your nine did three hundred and two homicides in this city, last year alone," Nicholas said.
"Nobody's thinking of any homicide here.”
"Course not. Just thought you'd like to know. How much money are we talking here?”
"Money's no object.”
"I heard that tune before. Till I state the price.”
“State it.”
"I got nines ranging from seven hundred to a thou. Your uglies are more expensive. The Cobray M-11 and the Tee-9'll run you around twelve, fifteen hundred, depending. But you can't hide an ugly, cept under an overcoat, and you're not about to wear a coat in this heat, are you? Or did you plan to go hunting after it cools down a little?”
"/qi be needin the gun now.”
"So you want something you can tuck in your waistband or a holster, am I right?”
"Yes," Sonny said.
"But not one of your-junk guns, cost you a low of fifty, a high of two-fifty.”
"You talking your Raven and such?”
"Your Raven, your Jennings weapons, all the cheap Saturday-night specials.”
"I want a gun can do the job,”
"Your junk gun'll give you control but not much else.”
"Show me what you got in a nine.”
"Happy to," Nicholas said, and waddled over to a wall covered with half a dozen cabinet doors. "You got anything against Jew sT he asked.
"No more'n against any other man.”
"You got a quarrel with the state of IsraelT”
"None a'tall.”
"Cause I have some real fine Israeli nines, if you're interested. You ain't an Arab, are you?”
"Can't you tenT" Sonny said, and Nicholas chuckled.
"These are kosher weapons, man," he said, and threw open one of the cabinet doors. From one of the shelves, he picked up a pistol that looked like a Buck Rogers ray gun. "This is your Uzi nine," he said.
"Shorter and lighter version of the Uzi sub. Take it in your hand, man, go ahead.”
"Feels clunky," Sonny said.
"By comparison with your Beretta, yeah. I got the 1951 Model Her, you want to see it. But the piece you-re Ilt)ltllll lla Your Her don't even come close.”
"I just don't like the look of it," Sonny said. "You plan to fuck the gun or shoot it?”
“How much is it, anyway?”
"I can let you have this beautiful weapon for eleven hundred dollars, what do you say?”
"I say what else have you got?”
"I even mention the name, you goan wet your pants.”
"Try me?”
"The Desert Eagle.”
"I'm still dry," Sonny said.
"You crack me up," Nicholas said, chuckling again. He opened another cabinet door, and reached in for what looked to Sonny like a Colt .45 with a longer barrel. "Ten and a half inches long," Nicholas said, handing the gun to him. "Man, this is one fuckin burner.”
Sonny turned it over and over in his hands. "Check out the balance, man." Sonny hefted the gun.
"Weighs less than four pounds," Nicholas said. "Light, but one of the biggest motherfuckin semis there is.”
Sonny gripped the gun, held it at arm's length, sighting along the barrel.
"Comes in three popular calibers," Nicholas said. "The fifty fires a cartridge half an inch in diameter. That is one fuckin bone-cruncher, man.”
Sonny went "P-kuh, p-kuh, p-kuh," like a kid with a toy pistol.
You want to, you could knock down a elephant with that piece. If that's what you plan on hunting.”
Sonny turned the gun on Nicholas, and went "P-kuh, p-kuh, p-kuh”
again.
"Leaves an entry wound the size of a lemon," Nicholas said, "exit wound looks like a cantaloupe. You can mount this fuckin piece on a tank, it'd feel right at home.”
"What does the magazine hold?”
"Seven eight, or nine rounds, depending on the caliber. Your fifty holds seven. What do you think?”
“It's okay, I guess," Sonny said.
"Okay, my ass, it's a fuckin Lexus!”
“How much you asking for it?”
"I can let it go for fourteen large.”
"I can do better retail.”
"Okay, thirteen-fifty, but that's it.”
"Eleven," Sonny said.
"Twelve-fifty. And I'll throw in a box of fifties. Twenty rounds to a box, soft point or hollow point, take your choice.”
"Twelve and the ammo.”
"I'm losing money.”
"Take it or leave it," Sonny said.
"Cause I love you," Nicholas said, and the men shook hands on a done deal.
It was already ten minutes past midnight on Monday morning, the twenty-fourth day of August.
Teddy Carella was eating like a wolf.
Sitting opposite Carella at a table in a small Italian restaurant not far from one of the criminal courts buildings where they'd spent all morning, she could not stop eating. Nor could she stop talking about the trial. Carella sat watching her moving mouth and flying fingers, amazed by how she managed to combine a feeding frenzy with a continuous narrative stream, the fork in her right hand never skipping a beat while the fingers of her left hand sloppily signed the story of their day in court this morning, no small feat. I love that judge, Teddy signed.
"Me, too," Carella said, watching her flying fingers. Judge Pierson happened to have been brought up in Diamondback, right here in the big bad city. He'd escaped the ghetto by busting his ass in a white man's world, never currying favor or demanding sympathy, never once in his entire life playing the race card, something he suspected the district attorney was doing here in his courtroom today or such was the way Teddy had read the dynamics of what had happened this morning. Pierson had dismissed the charges, telling the plaintiff to drive more carefully in the future and actually suggesting that she might live longer if she quit being so darned angry, didn't she know stress was the primary contributing factor to heart attacks7 The D.A. got on his high horse and informed Judge Pierson that he planned to appeal, but Pierson just shook his head and said, "Go on, make a federal case of this one, counselor. Because we don't have any important causes to fight just now, do weT' Meaning "we" collectively, black people, we who have suffered, we who are still suffering, go make a federal case out of this petty grievance, was what Teddy thought she'd read in the judge's words, and saw in his eyes.
"We were lucky," Carella said.
I know.
"It could just as easily have gone the other way. I might have been bringing-you cigarettes in jail today." I don't smoke.
"Neither do I," he said. "Wanna go out sometime?”
Oh, sir, I'm married, she signed, and lowered her eyes like a virgin.
He wanted to scoop her into his arms that very moment, crowded restaurant or no, shower her face with kisses, tell her she was his moon and his stars and his very essence. Instead he observed her unobserved, her eyes still lowered, dark head bent over her plate, the delicate oval of her face, the generous mouth and long dark lashes, she raised her eyes and he melted in the dark-brown laser beam of her steady gaze.
She said nothing.
She could not speak, of course, but she could have signed. Instead, she remained essentially silent, her eyes saying all there was to say.
He reached across the table and covered her hand with his own. They were both grinning like high school sweethearts, which they'd never been. He was thinking he wished he didn't have to go meet Brown. She was thinking the same thing. He looked up at the clock. She did, too.
It was almost two. He signaled for the check. Teddy went off toward the ladies' room. The air conditioner thrummed a noisy accompaniment to the flirty swing of her skirt, the easy sway of her hips. He watched her until she was out of sight.