TWELVE

To get an actual gun, he had to make a few calls to a few people. But even something as easy as this needed some time. A few hours if you knew the guy well…he held the receiver by his ear, tense, practically covered in a coat of sweat. It rang for a long time, and then a rough voice with a southern accent answered. "Yeah?"

"Hey, Beanie, this is Mr. Jackass-who-kept-stealing-stuff-and-damaging-them-for-no-reason. I'm calling on behalf of Mr. I'm-so-sorry-for-stealing-and-driving-and-wrecking-your-cars and Mrs. I-need-a-favour."

"I know you. You that crazy fella who keep wrecking them cars o' mine. Yeeeaaah, I remember. You were the worst driver I ever saw."

"There's no need for…name calling."

"Whatcha want, boy?"

"…I need a gun, a really good gun. This time, one that actually works would be nice."

"Well, ain't that predictable. What makes you think I'll help you? Last time I checked, you slept with my daughter."

"Oh yeah. I'm sorry about that."

"And my wife."

"I feel very…err…cornered."

"Well, boy. I forgave you for that…so why don't you come here and I'll give you a gun."

"Really?"

"Yeah. After I shoot you with it you bastard! Don't you dare come back here because I swear to god, I will shove an apple down your throat and my oddly large foot up your sorry ass! You fu---"

Spence hung up. Exhaled a breath and placed the receiver back in its place. "Wow."

It was a few hours later that day when he walked two blocks north of the apartment and into the coffee shop. And it had also been a few hours later since he last looked up. He sat alone at a chrome table, looking at an old and faded photograph, an espresso untouched at his elbow. He shut his eyes shoved the photograph back in his shirt pocket. He swallowed the coffee in one mouthful and stood up from his seat. It was exactly seven one when he arrived outside the building.

He leaned on the lamp post, eyes flicking left and right through his aviator sunglasses, ahead and behind, always returning to the revolving door. Spence saw her through the glass, in the lobby. He saw the hair, the dress, the flash of her legs as she skipped sideways to the exit. He wondered if she had been waiting for him up on her floor. Kathryn pushed the door and spilled out on to the street and he walked towards her. She was carrying the suitcase as she skipped through a shaft of sun, her hair lighting up like a halo. Five yards from him, she smiled brightly. "Hey Angie." she stretched out her arms and he did the same, smiling.

"Hey boo-boo!" he said, embracing her and then kissing her on the cheek.

She laughed. "You still do that?"

"You still call me Angie?"

"Good point." He smiled and put an arm around her, and they walked back to the apartment.

They exchanged information about each other's day and neither fully listened. Kathryn was sure that Spence's eyes were closed behind the sunglasses and that he was half asleep, bored, leaning on her as she walked them home. And Spence was sure that although Kathryn agreed to the gun-hunting idea, she wasn't happy about it. Particularly about the whole Plan B thing. "Why'd he reject you?" Kathryn asked curiously and suspiciously as they entered the front door. "He…uh…well…" he ran a hand down his hair and laughed nervously. "…we had disagreements about things I used to do to him………and other people."

"Okay. So what the hell is this infamous 'Plan B' of yours?"

"You'll see. Plan B's gonna be a piece of cake."

"Oh, Angie." She groaned. "Last time you said that you crashed my Ferrari. My expensive Ferrari. My very expensive Ferrari. My very expensive, beautiful Ferrari. My very expensive, beautiful, shiny, fast--"

"Dully noted, Katy."

"So Plan B?" Kathryn asked.

"Plan B."

I don't know about you…but I'd really hate to be a part of Plan B.

Kip Rexrode had lived his whole life in a clapboard building sandwiched between crumbling two-storey brick structures that may have been factories or warehouses before they were abandoned decades ago. Kip's house had a filthy window on the left and an entrance in the centre and a roll-up door standing open on the right revealing a narrow garage area. There was an old truck squeezed in the space, with a faded coat of red emphasizing the life of its owner. But he was happy with his life. It was routine and nothing had ever changed. And he would do anything to keep it that way. Kip lived alone ever since his father died of lung cancer and his mother ran away with another man, but he preferred it that way. Then, there was the wife. And the kid. And the whole drugs thing. And the whole, 'keep reading this fanfic' thing.

Late that night, he sat down with company in his basement, underneath the trapdoor beyond the counter of his little shop he had to earn money. Little but enough money. Weekly, at a particular day, he and his friends would play poker just to earn a little extra. But playing and talking to people of the outside world wasn't just about the money, it was also to the fact that he debated each and every night whether he was still alive or what. Seemed like he was.

"Bless each and every one of your bosses for the high pay they give you…" Kip laughed merrily, claiming his money and grinning mischievously. "…the high pay you hand me on a silver platter."

There was the sound of the familiar bell and the sound of footsteps creaking through the wooden floor above them. Kip sighed wearily and threw the cash back on the table, easing off his chair. "Hold on." he called up the hole, and he turned back to the others, "I ain't leaving me money with you guys. Last time I did, half of it magically went missing so git up there." The five guys groaned and there was the sound of screeching as chairs were pushed back. Kip smiled to himself and called up the hole once again as he tramped up the narrow staircase, "Here I come." his middle-aged voice suspended somewhere between surprise and bad tempter. The voice of a man not expecting callers. Behind him, he could hear feet scraping on the cement cellar.

His head appeared at floor level, then his shoulders, then his torso, as he came on up the ladder. Kip was a bulky figure and had great difficulty climbing out of the hole. He was dressed in faded olive fatigues and he had greasy grey hair, a ragged grey beard, a fleshy face and small blue eyes. He came out on hands and knees and stood up, dusting his hands on his pants. The visitor was a pretty good-looking guy that looked about in his thirties. Spiky hair. Brown eyes. Wearing worn out levis, and a dull but calm grey sleeve shirt. Whatever they called it. He wore this necklace with a real bullet in it. The guy had a kind of wild aura about him and at first glance, he looked like he was from the outback or something. Like that movie…what was it called again? Crocodile Dundee or something. But there was also this calm feeling. Gentle. Grace. Patience…sounded like Jesus to Kip.

"Well, hello stranger." Kip said and behind him, another head and shoulders appeared. And another. And another. And another. And goddamit, finally, this is the last one. Five men stamped up the ladder from the cellar. Each one of them straightened and paused and looked hard at the stranger and then stepped away to the line of chairs. Kip's pals were big men, fleshy, tattooed and dressed in the similar clothing. They sat with big arms crossed against big stomach. The stranger looked straight ahead at Kip, he didn't seem worried at all. In fact, two of the men were pretty damn worried about him 'kicking Kip's ass' because to them, the guy looked pretty wild.

"Honey, what are we doing here?" came a soft female voice. Kip looked toward the door and saw a beautiful young woman enter. She wore a powder blue silk dress and a pleasant looking straw hat. "Well howdy, ma'am." Kip greeted and the woman tipped her hat at his direction in response, her arm wrapped around his. Didn't surprise Kip much. Good looking guy plus good looking girl equals 'Kip feels very bad and wishes he could be that guy'. "You Rexrode?" the stranger asked. Kip shrugged and then nodded. There was no recognition in Kip's eyes and the stranger glanced at the line of men on their chairs. He snickered, and Kip was sure that the worried two upgraded to the frightened two. 'Sides, the guy looked dangerous. "What do you want?" Kip asked. The stranger looked back at him, smiling this time, "You got a Steyr GB, Rexrode?"

Kip smiled, real amusement in the set of his jaw and the light in his eyes. "Against the law for me to sell you one, boy. Against the law for you to be running around with one, too." he said in mocking singsong way, more like a confession that he had them and sold them. There was a patronizing undercurrent in the tone that said I've got something you really want and I'm not giving it to you. There was no caution in Kip's voice. No suspicion that the stranger was really a cop. No, the guy seemed relaxed. As if there was nothing to be afraid of. Like he was familiar with these kind of people. "What law?" said the pretty lady next to him, laughing in disbelief. Kip shrugged, shoving his hands down his pocket, "Well, miss. They're mighty expensive."

"Compared to what? A private plane?" she asked again. Kip started to babble, looking at his pals for support but they turned away, talking among themselves. Kip wasn't sure about the two of 'em, and with two answers, just eight words, she had him adrift, thinking she could be anything from a billionaire's wife intending to inherit early, to a wife aiming to survive a messy love triangle. She kept looking at him as if she didn't take any bullshit from anybody, like she had to get her own way. And he was standing there, like a bomb ready to go off at any moment. They got Kip doubting whether they were cops or not but no…the guy didn't look like a cop. More like a crazy son of a bitch. Yeah, that suits real well. "Steyr GB?" Kip repeated. "You want the proper piece? Austrian piece? What about a silencer?"

"Whatever," the stranger said in a disgusted, impatient tone, like he was the guy who dealt with the trivial details. Kip clicked his fingers and one of the heavy men reluctantly peeled off from the line of chairs and dropped down the hole. He came back up a long moment later with a black cylinder wrapped in paper that gun oil had turned transparent. Kip shrugged again, "How does three thousand and fifty bucks sound to you?"

"Sounds like a scam." the stranger said.

Kip was at a loss for words. He scratched his head once again. The other guys were terrified of the heavy men that they fainted. Well, some did. Others ran away. But this one…this one was different in many ways that it really ticked some of the men off. "Well--" Kip started but he was cut off by the stranger. "Let me see it," he said. Kip shrugged then nodded, wiping the tube on his pants. Handed it over. For Kip, it really felt like handing over his baby or something. The stranger took the gun and clicked the tube in place. It wasn't like in the movies. He used the light fast pressure and a half-turn and it clicked on like a lens fits a camera. The lady peered over his shoulder and smiled at the gun. The stranger examined the gun, "Huh. The silencer improves the balance. Ninety-nine times in a hundred, a handgun gets fired high because the recoil flips the muzzle upward. The weight of the silencer was going to counteract that likelihood and a silencer works by dispersing the blast of gas relatively slowly, which weakens the recoil in the first place," the stranger looked up at Kip, who looked absolutely stunned, "Does it work real good?"

"'Course it does, stranger," Kip said proudly, "Genuine factory piece can't go wrong."

The guy who had brought it upstairs was back on his chair. Five guys, sic chairs. One extra one for Kip. "So, three thousand and fifty?" Kip said again as he watched the stranger examine the gun. "There's no safety catch on this thing." The stranger said suddenly, "The first pull needs a pressure of fourteen pounds on the trigger, which is judged to be enough to avoid an accidental discharge if the gun is dropped." The lady looked at her companion with surprise. Kip smiled at the man, "You know a lot about guns, don't you?" he asked, laughing.

The stranger laughed with him, "Yeah." then, he flicked his hand left and pulled the fourteen pounds. The gun fired and the empty chair blew apart. The sound was loud. Even with the silencer. Not like in the movies. It's not a little cough. Not a polite little spit. It's like taking the thickest phone book there is and raising it way over your head and smashing it down on a desk with all your strength. Not a quiet sound but quieter than it could be. Kip's friends were frozen with shock. Shredded vinyl and dirty horsehair stuffing were floating in the air and Kip was staring, motionless. The stranger hit him hard, left handed in the stomach and kicked his feet away and dumped him on the floor.

All at once, the heavy men started running out, running for some guns, or even running at him. The stranger raised the gun and fired again. The same loud blast. The floorboards splintered at one guy's feet. He fired again. And again. And again. And again…Dust and wood splinters were bursting upward. The noise of the repeated shots were crushing. There was the strong smell of burned powder and hot steel wool inside the suppressor. "You know, that's a really stupid thing to do." the stranger said. The men blinked sweat from their eyes. "Downstairs…now." Nobody moved. The stranger fired at one of the guys. The guy screwed his eyes shut and then, BAM! He opened his eyes once again. Nothing. No bullet wound. The bullet had crashed into the wall where his head had been a few moments ago. "Run…"

The men fought and crowded to the hatch. Crashed and tumbled through. The stranger cocked his head towards the trapdoor and the lady dropped the door closed on them and dragged the counter over the top of it. Kip was up on his hands and knees and the stranger kicked him over on his back and kept on kicking him until he had scrambled all the way backward and his head was jammed up hard against the displaced counter. The stranger put a foot on Kip's chest and pushed him back down. He grinned mischievously, taking out a badge.

"Hello, my name is Fuck you."