The vendor smiled. He looked like the antithesis of every other dealer Javier had laid eyes on today. He was fit, or at least within a hundred pounds of his ideal body weight. No facial hair. And he wore a Spandex biking suit that had been autographed over the crotch by Lance Armstrong. He’d put an exclamation point on the ensemble with a handsome Swastika button pinned to his collar.
The vendor said, “Oh, a connoisseur. I don’t display everything.” He ducked down behind the table and reemerged again with another black, plastic case.
He opened it.
Jav looked in, smiled. Would’ve been like seeing his long lost friend, Emilio, again, if he hadn’t cut Emilio into four pieces and burned his traitorous ass into a pound of ash in a rusted-out oildrum. He’d mixed the ash into a gallon of lukewarm water and made Emilio’s widow drink it before he shot her between the eyes. “This…I’ve been looking for this.”
“Glock only started producing this model four years ago. It sold out early. Only one point one three inches in width. Secure grip design. Shoots a half dozen forty-five caliber ACP rounds.”
“You mean with the factory clip,” Javier said.
The vendor flashed an oblique grin. “Yes, a factory clip.”
“But you have non-factory clips.”
“I could probably scrounge one up.”
“May I?” Jav gestured to the firearm.
The spandexed bicycle-Nazi-gun freak said, “By all means.”
It took Javier approximately five seconds to field-strip the weapon. He checked the spring, sited down the barrel, and gave it a quick sniff for gun oil. Everything looked perfect.
Javier hadn’t heard the man move up behind him. Just sensed him and turned suddenly and there he was—good-looking black man, roughly his age, smiling at him through a pair of coffee-brown eyes.
“Well done, soldier.”
“What makes you think I’m a soldier?” Jav asked.
“Because it takes one to know one. Reassemble it.”
“Excuse me?”
“Put the Glock back together.”
“Why?”
“Because I can do it faster.”
Jav smiled, felt a spurt of adrenaline rush through him. This guy was pushing him into a game.
“You believe that you can beat five seconds.”
“Hell yes, son.”
“I’m not your son.”
“Relax, my man.”
Nothing made Javier more angry than being told to relax. Felt like a nuclear bomb detonating in the pit of his stomach, but all he did was flash a thousand-watt smile.
He took his time putting the pistol back together, and when it was reassembled, set it back on its plastic case.
His self-appointed opponent stepped up to the table and cut his eyes at the vendor. “You saw my man field-strip this motherfucker?”
“Yep.”
“You can judge if I beat his time.”
“I think so.”
The black man glanced at Javier. “Watch and learn, son. Count me down from five, Spandex.”
Javier registered a moment’s hesitation in the vendor, sensed that being told to do something by this young black man has stiffened his racist bristles.
But he started counting anyway.
“Five…four…three…”
The man cracked his neck and placed his hands palm down on the table.
“Two…one.”
Javier had seen fast hands during his stint with the Special Air Mobile Force Group, but nothing to rival this. It was a single, flawless movement, like choreography, and then the Glock 36 lay in four pieces—slide, recoil spring, barrel, and grip.
Javier couldn’t help shaking his head. “Damn.”
“Maybe three seconds?” the vendor said.
“Impressive,” Jav said. “You military?”
“Force Recon. Isaiah, by the way.” The man offered his hand and Jav shook it.
“Javier.”
Isaiah reassembled the firearm. “Maybe we’ll run into each other at the range some time. Have ourselves a little shootout.”
Javier said, “Competitive much?”
“I’m a Marine, what the f**k do you think?“
Isaiah slapped him on the shoulder, and when he was gone, Javier turned back to the vendor. “How much?” Javier asked.
“Six fifty.”
“That’s a bit more than retail, if I’m not mistaken.”
“Look, I don’t have to sell this gun. It sells itself. That’s the price.”
Jav ran a finger along the slide. “You have a suppressor to fit this pistol?”
“Suppressors are illegal in thirty-eight states. Which state are you from?”
“That’s not what I f**king asked you.”
“You know, you can make your own,” a deep voice said.
Jav turned to look at the man who had come up behind him, wondering what it was about gun shows that made complete strangers act like best buddies. This stranger was a white guy, tall motherfucker. Worst of all, he was wearing a police uniform.
Javier hated cops. They were down there with roaches and rats and needed to be exterminated. But at the same time, Jav knew how to play the game, act nice, pay them to look the other way.
But that didn’t mean he had to be buddy-buddy with them in public.
“I don’t recall inviting you into this conversation, officer.”
The large man smiled. Jav noticed the tag on his dress blues read FULLER.
“Just offering my two cents. A plastic pop bottle and some duct tape can do wonders for suppressing a pistol. Not as nice as a custom, but it works in a pinch.”
“I’ll keep that in mind.”
Javier gave the pig his back, but Officer Fuller didn’t take the hint. He leaned down close and whispered in Jav’s ear. “Look, I’m kind of hurting right now, if you know what I mean. Headache from motherfucking hell. Can you sell me something?”
Jav glanced back, his face screwed up in bewilderment. “Are you f**king with me?”
“I have money,” Fuller said. “I just need a little something to take the edge off.”
Javier considered gutting the pig right there. Then he looked around for cameras to see if this was some kind of Ashton Kutcher Punk’d bullshit. “I don’t know which should offend me more. That you think I’m stupid enough to sell drugs to a cop, or that you think just because I’m Hispanic, I must be carrying something.”
Javier stared at the pig, hard. He saw amusement, and nothing else.
“My mistake then,” Fuller said. “You have a nice day.”