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Gun

Allan Onik

    Thatcher pulled the bag off the man’s head. With his mouth duct taped shut and his limbs duct taped to the chair, the man’s blood shot eyes rolled around the room.
    “The QSZ 92,” Thatcher held up the gun. “Made in China. 9mm caliber. 9x19 parabellum cartridge. Weight with empty magazine: 24 ounce. Muzzle velocity 1,148 ft%s. Fifteen round box for the magazine. 165ft range of effective fire.” Thatcher ripped the tape off the man’s mouth and shoved the barrel in, then pulled the trigger. Brain splattered on the cement wall behind him.
    “Whoa,” Baldric stepped back and adjusted his tie, “Did I need to see the demo?”
    “Wait here a sec.” Thatcher walked out of the warehouse and came back dragging another man with both hands. The man’s head was bagged and he was thrashing. Thatcher kicked him in the gut, then pulled another handgun out of an inside pocket in his suit coat and cocked the hammer. “Take a look at this baby,” Thatcher said. “The FN Barracuda. Made in Belgium. Caliber .357. Cartridge type .38 special. Weight with empty cylinder 37 ounces. Overall length 8.3 inches. Cylinder capacity 6 rounds.” Thatcher emptied all six rounds into the man’s chest. He whimpered and the thrashing slowed, then stopped.
    “Tsk tsk. Bad mood today?” Baldric shoved the carcass with his foot.
    “I want to show you something,” Thatcher said. He kneeled down and connected two power cords. A light flicked on in a distant end of the warehouse. Another man with a bagged head was squirming, tied to a pipe against the wall. Thatcher produced a pistol from his foot holster. “This ones the grand daddy of my toys. Knock your panties off and you’ll swallow your teeth like Starburst. The Desert Eagle Mark XIX. Made in the USA. .50 caliber. Weight with empty mag 4.39 pounds. Ten inch barrel. Magazine capacity 7 rounds. Range of effective fire 218 yards.” When Thatcher shot the gun his arm recoiled. After the seven shots he put it back and disconnected the cords.
    “You got some explaining to do,” Baldric said. He was a tall and lanky man with a blue blazer and tanned complexion. His shadow cast a long draw in the dimness.
    Thatcher was suited and pale. “You have to appreciate a good gun. It’s a work of art. Like Picasso—with more of a bang. Everyone’s different, I have a collection pinned to my wall. Been collecting ever since I started doin hits for Malcony. Been doin this since you were a rug rat.”

    “Fucking static. I told him to tape the bug under his balls.” The van outside was becoming hot and stuffy. The agent sipped some cold wanton soup.
    “You never told me which of the pinheads we were tracking,” The other agent said.
    “Simple. We got a mole and vet. The vet’s Thatcher Russo. Top ranked hit man for the Gambinos. Takes out Malcony Simm’s trash.”
    “And the Mole?”
    “Baldric Dawson. With the fam for 10 years. RICO flip. Actually he’s just a driver.”
    “Fuckin’ a. Just witnessed the executioner’s block.”

    “There’s somethin else I wanted to show you,” Thatcher said. He reached into his outside suit pocket. “The Browning Baby. Small. Caliber .25. Barrel length 2.1 inches. Weight with empty magazine 9.7 ounces. Good for the close and quick ones.” Thatcher stepped forward and ripped a white wire from Baldrick’s inside suit pocket. He grabbed Baldrick by the throat and pressed the pistol to his temple. “Short and sweet,” he said.
    “You got me. You know how it works with the feds these days.”
    Thatcher pulled the trigger. The gun clicked but no shot.
    “Oops,” Baldric said, “didn’t check the magazine?” He lifted his arm out and dropped six bullets on the floor. He pulled a long buoy knife from his pant pocket. “Always hated those things. Never trusted em. Now this, this is a weapon!”

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