10
When Jack checked his voice mail outside Cordova's and heard Abe's message—"Your package has arrived"—he hopped a cab to Manhattan.
He entered the shop, locked the front door behind him, and headed for the rear.
"Did you really find one?" he said as he approached Abe in his customary spot.
Abe said nothing, merely stared.
"Abe?"
"Jack?" His gaze ranged from Jack's hair to his glossy, wheat-brown loafers, to his man bag, then back to his hair. "This is you?"
"It's part of a fix."
"On Christopher Street you're working maybe?"
"I'll explain later. Did you get the gun?"
And still Abe stared. "Your hair… it's wet?"
"Nah. Just some sort of gel. The Beretta, Abe?"
"And your coat. Like a robe it looks with that tie thing around the waist."
All this scrutiny was making Jack uncomfortable.
"Earth to Abe. Did—?"
"Has Gia seen you like this?"
"No, and she's not going to." She might like it and want him to dress like this all the time. "I'll spell it out for you: B-E-R-E—" Yes-yes.
Abe shook himself out of whatever transported state he was in and reached under the counter. He came up with a brown paper lunch bag and slid it across the counter.
Jack slipped his hand inside and removed a stainless-steel 9mm Beretta 92. It was beautiful. It was perfect.
"Abe, you are amazing," he said, turning the gleaming pistol over and over in his hands. "Truly amazing."
"I am. Yes, I am." When Jack glanced at him with a wry smile he added, "What? I should pretend to be humble? Hours on the phone I spent. No one else in this city could have found such a thing for you on a Sunday. No one."
"I thank you for this, Abe. Really. If you hadn't found it, this whole afternoon spent setting up the fix would have gone down the drain." He looked around. "Where are your cotton gloves?"
Abe pulled an oil-smudged pair from under the counter and handed them across.
"Want some oil?"
"No. Just need to wipe it down. Don't want our fingerprints on it."
"Certainly not."
He slipped on the gloves and polished the pistol's shiny planes and bevels, its Brazilian walnut stocks. Then he pushed a release button, rotated the cam, and pulled the slide assembly off the frame in one piece. He wiped the barrel and underside of the slide.
"It's used," Abe said, "but well kept."
"I see that. Used is better than new. I just want to double-check there's no serial number on the slide."
"With a Beretta, only on the frame."
"Perfect." He replaced the slide assembly, then ejected the empty magazine from the grip. "Got those Hydra-Shoks?"
Again Abe's hand disappeared under the counter, returning this time with two boxes of 9mm rounds, each with the familiar red Federal across the top.
"Federal Classics, as requested. Grain-wise I've got one-twenty-four and one-forty-seven."
"The one-twenty-fours should do."
He intended to be up close and very personal when he pulled the trigger, so he preferred a lower muzzle velocity. Jack slipped open the box and removed ten rounds. He rubbed each carefully with his gloved fingers before pressing it into the magazine.
"A CSI team you're expecting?"
"You betcha."
"And you won't tell me about it?"
"After I'm through, I'll fill you in on every last detail."
"The clothes too?"
"Everything."
"So till then I must hang?"
"But you won't be hanging alone," Jack said. "Trust me on that."