Free The Equalizer by Michael Sloan

chasing moons across its face, which had a deep, sonorous pendulum. There were glass cabinets of knives and bayonets from World War I and II and tarnished medals with faded ribbons on them. Flintlock rifles stood in glass cabinets along one wall. There were delicate pill boxes and snuff boxes in varying colors on a cascade of small shelves. The store smelled of musk and damp and sawdust, although there was none on the hardwood floor.
    McCall liked the aroma of the place. It reminded him of a bazaar he’d visited once in Tangier. All that was missing was the scent of the fruit. Of course, someone had been trying to kill him in that bazaar, which left the sense memory somewhat lacking in warmth. He walked over to one glass case in which there were twenty handguns, most of them Remingtons, some Colts, all of them pre-1900. There was one particular Colt Revolver that interested him. It was a Model P Peacemaker, Single-Action Cavalry Standard with a 7 ½ -inch barrel, also known as the Frontier Six-Shooter. It had a revolving cylinder holding six bullets. It was the 1873 model, but it had been adapted in 1877 to take 44-40 Winchester caliber cartridges instead of Colt 45 bullets so as to be cross-compatible with the Winchester Model 73 rifle. Acid-etched on the barrel on the left side was Colt Frontier Six-Shooter . Moses had assured him it was in mint condition. It was also a tad over $2000, a little out of McCall’s price range for a decorative item. But he came to visit the gun in its glass case on occasion.
    Old Moses shuffled over to him. He moved with obvious pain. He had tarnished baseball trophies on his cluttered desk at the back of the store, but it was hard to think of him as a young man hustling for fly balls in the outfield and sliding into second with a stolen base. It was arthritis, he had told McCall, which had traveled down the sciatic nerve in both legs. But he never complained about it. His fingers had been spared the disease, which was a good thing, because he did very delicate work with them. Old Moses was more than just an antiques dealer. Your family heirloom clock stopped? He’d fix it. Your cuckoo clock would not make a peep? It cuckooed heartily once Moses had finished with it. Your watch stopped and it wasn’t the battery and you didn’t want to take it to Goldberg’s Jewellers on the corner because it cost you the price of a new watch to have it fixed? Moses would fix it for five bucks. He always looked the same, because McCall had never seen him dressed any differently. He wore dark jeans, penny loafers with no socks, a white shirt with a brown cardigan over it that had seen better days. It was hard to tell how old he was. Probably north of seventy, but he could have been older. McCall always found his voice somehow soothing.
    â€œYou look, Mr. McCall, but you never ask me to take the Peacemaker out of the case and show it to you.”
    â€œWhen the time is right,” McCall said.
    â€œYou have handled many guns in your career.”
    It was a statement, although McCall had never talked to the old man about his former profession.
    â€œThis is a beauty to have and admire, but never to fire,” Moses said. “Although I can supply you with a box of ammunition for it.” He wasn’t giving up. “You want me to take it out of the display case? Feel the weight of it in your hand?”
    â€œNot today, Moses.”
    A bell tinkled from within the bowels of the store. McCall knew it was a back entrance to the place. It was not normally open to the public.
    â€œExcuse me,” Moses said, and shuffled back to where the store was gloomier, most of the lights on the various lamps there extinguished, except for the modern black enamel lamp on Moses’s desk. There was an alcove behind the desk, which led to the back door and a storage room. Moses disappeared.
    McCall walked over to one of the shelves of clocks-of-the-world, still relaxed, but his