Free In Plain Sight by Mike Knowles Page B

behind me, only an army surplus store. Something about the Ottawa Army Surplus registered in my mind. I had heard the name before from people in my line of work. I turned around and walked into the store.
    An old bell announced my arrival, but there was no one around to notice. I walked the aisles looking at the peacoats and heavy work boots until I heard the shuffle of old feet. A grizzled man came out of the back room to meet me. He was the age that had no age. He could have been seventy as easily as he could have been ninety. Under a worn blue vest, he wore a faded red plaid flannel shirt and green pants pulled up to just below his nipples. Black suspenders locked the pants in place just in case they tried to make a break for it. The guy was too old to be working. He had to be some kind of serious broke to be behind a counter at his age. I knew I was in the right place; money would get me anything I needed. I just hoped the old man had the kind of anything I wanted.
    â€œSorry ’bout that, son. I was in the crapper.”
    â€œI understand,” I said.
    â€œHell you do, boy! At my age, nature calls all the fucking time. Haven’t been fishing with my buddies in years ’cause I have to piss so much. It’s not natural.”
    I said nothing.
    â€œWhachoo need?”
    â€œI’m looking for holsters,” I said.
    â€œFor what?”
    â€œTwo guns. A Glock and a small Smith and Wesson revolver.”
    â€œWhere you want to carry these guns?”
    â€œI need a shoulder rig for the Smith and Wesson, and a belt holster for the Glock.”
    â€œWho told you to come here?”
    I didn’t know the old man, or how far he crossed into the wrong side of the law, so asking about holsters was a good way to feel him out. His demand of a reference told me that I had asked the right guy. I played along. “Friend of a friend,” I said.
    The old man grumbled and walked through the doorway to the back room. When he turned, I caught sight of a hard hump under the back of his vest. Below the hump was another bump — one much more deadly.
    The old man came back a minute later with several shoulder rigs, a belt holster, and a metal case.
    â€œMost of the shoulder rigs I got are too big for a small S and W. What barrel length are we talking about? Two inches?”
    â€œYeah.”
    â€œThat’s no good. You need something better?”
    Igor’s gun wasn’t reliable, and I couldn’t risk using the Glock again. “What do you have?” I asked.
    The old man opened the case and turned it around on the counter so that I could see inside. Three guns were nestled into custom foam pockets. There were two fat black revolvers — a four-inch barrelled model 36 Smith and Wesson . 38 , and another Smith and Wesson . 38 , but this was the model 40 . The other gun was a cheap Saturday Night Special. The guns were all bigger than Igor’s small revolve, but none of them was in any condition that looked reliable.
    As if sensing my thought, the old man spoke up. “They’ll all fire. Tested them myself.”
    â€œWhat’s behind your back?”
    The old man frowned and harrumphed to himself. “What’s behind my back?” He reached behind himself and strained to twist the gun out from under his vest. His bony, blue-veined hand came back holding a large black shape. The gun was heavy and ugly. There was no mistaking it.
    â€œHow much for the belt holster, that black shoulder rig there, and your Colt?”
    â€œThe . 45 ain’t for sale. It’s mine. What’s in that case there is all I got for you.”
    â€œFive hundred for the Colt and the two holsters,” I said.
    â€œFive hundred, hah! Thousand.” And just like that, the Colt was on the market.
    â€œSeven fifty and you hand it over with a spare magazine and a box of ammunition.”
    â€œEight,” he said.
    â€œDone.”
    â€œHee, hee, son, you made a fine