Free The Devil Knows You're Dead by Lawrence Block

brought the coffee, out of those large unflinching gray eyes, was almost as intimidating. She
had
lost weight, and I wasn’t sure it was an improvement. She looked older than the last time I’d seen her.
    Her hair was part of it. It was completely gray now. It had been liberally salted with gray when I first met her, and never seemed to get any grayer. Now there were no dark hairs visible, and that coupled with the weight loss added years to her appearance.
    She asked if the coffee was all right.
    “It’s fine,” I said. “Aren’t you having any?”
    “I haven’t been drinking much coffee lately,” she said. Then she said, “Oh, what the hell. Why not?” She disappeared into the kitchen and came back with a cup of her own. “It is good,” she said. “I’d almost forgotten how much I like the stuff.”
    “What have you been doing, trying to switch to decaf?”
    “I pretty much got away from coffee altogether,” she said. “But let’s not have one of those deadly AA conversations about all the things we don’t do anymore. What’s that story about the old guy in the Salvation Army band? ‘Yes, brothers and sisters, I used to drink, I used to smoke, I used to gamble, I used to go with wild, wild women, and now all I do is beat this goddamn drum.’ ” She took another sip of coffee and set the cup down. “Bring me up to date, Matthew. What have you been doing?”
    “Beating my goddamn drum. Doing a little day work for a big agency. Working when I get a client, coasting when I don’t. Going to meetings. Hanging out. Keeping company with Elaine.”
    “That’s going well, then? I’m glad. She seemed very nice. Matthew, I told you I wanted to ask a favor.”
    “Yes.”
    “So I’ll just come right out and ask it. I was wondering if you could get me a gun.”
    “A gun.”
    “There’s so much crime these days,” she said levelly. “You can’t pick up the paper without seeing something awful on every page. It used to be that people were safe in decent neighborhoods, but now it doesn’t seem to matter where you are or what time of day it is. The incident last week, with the young publisher. Right in your neighborhood, wasn’t it?”
    “Just a couple of blocks away.”
    “Terrible,” she said.
    “Why do you want a gun, Jan?”
    “For protection, of course.”
    “Of course.”
    “I don’t really know anything about them,” she said thoughtfully. “Of course I would want a handgun, but there are different styles and sizes, aren’t there? I wouldn’t know what kind to pick.”
    “You need a permit to own a gun in this city,” I said.
    “Aren’t they difficult to get?”
    “Very difficult. About the best way is to join a gun club and take a course, and in return for a fairly stiff fee they’ll help you fill out an application and steer you through the whole process. The training’s not a bad idea, actually, but the entire procedure takes a while and it’s not cheap.”
    “I see.”
    “If you went that route you could probably get a permit entitling you to maintain a handgun on the premises, and to transport it in a locked case to and from a firing range. That’s sufficient if you want protection from burglars, but you wouldn’t be able to tuck the gun in your purse for protection on the street. For that you’d need a carry permit, and they’re very slow to pass those out nowadays. If you had a store and routinely carried large sums of cash to the bank, then you might qualify. But you’re a sculptor and live and work in the same location. I knew a goldsmith years ago who was able to get a carry permit because he frequently transported quantities of precious metals, but you couldn’t claim that without paperwork to back it up.”
    “Clay and bronze don’t cut it, huh?”
    “I’m afraid not.”
    “Actually,” she said, “I wouldn’t need to carry the gun. Anyway, I’m not all that concerned about the legality of it.”
    “Oh?”
    “I don’t want to go through a lot