"Smells like a slaughterhouse."
He was rake-handle-skinny, and looked like a man unstuck in time, unencumbered by history. There was good reason for that. Sammy Du- Puis was trapped in 1962. Today Sammy wore a black alpaca cardigan, blue-on-blue point-collar dress shirt, gray iridescent sharkskin pants, and pointy cap-toe oxfords. His hair was slicked back, fused with enough hair tonic to grease a Chrysler. He smoked an unfiltered Camel.
They met on Germantown Avenue, near Broad Street. The aroma of simmering barbecue and hickory smoke from Dwight's Southern permeated the air with its fatty sweet tang. It made Kevin Byrne salivate. It made Sammy DuPuis nauseous.
"What, not a big fan of soul food?" Byrne asked.
Sammy shook his head, hit his Camel hard. "How do people eat that shit? It's all fuckin' fat and gristle. You might as well just put it into a needle and shoot it into your heart."
Byrne glanced down. The gun was laid out on a black velvet cloth between them. There was something about the scent of oil on steel, Byrne thought. There was a terrible power in that smell.
Byrne picked it up, checked the action, sighted the barrel, mindful of the fact that they were in a public place. Sammy generally worked out of his house in East Camden, but Byrne didn't have time to cross the river today.
"I can do it for six fifty," Sammy said. "And that is a bargain for such a beauty-full weapon."
"Sammy," Byrne said.
Sammy was silent for a few moments, conveying poverty, oppression, destitution. It didn't work. "Okay, six," he said. "And I'm losing money."
Sammy DuPuis was a gun dealer who never dealt to drug dealers or anyone in a gang. If there was a backroom small-arms dealer with scruples, it was Sammy DuPuis.
The item for sale was a SIG-Sauer P-226. It may not have been the prettiest handgun ever made-far from it-but it was accurate, reliable, and rugged. And Sammy DuPuis was a man of deep discretion. On this day, these were Kevin Byrne's main concerns.
"This better be cold, Sammy." Byrne put the weapon in his coat pocket.
Sammy wrapped the other guns in the cloth, said: "Like my first wife's ass."
Byrne pulled his roll, peeled off six hundred-dollar bills. He handed them to Sammy. "You bring the bag?" Byrne asked.
Sammy looked up immediately. His forehead was corrugated with thought. As a rule, getting Sammy DuPuis to stop counting money was no small feat, but Byrne's question stopped him cold. If what they were doing was outside the law-and it broke at least half a dozen laws that Byrne could think of, both state and federal-what Byrne was suggesting broke just about every other.
But Sammy DuPuis did not judge. If he did, he wouldn't be in the business he was in. And he wouldn't cart around the silver case he carried in the trunk of his car, the valise that held instruments of such dark purpose that Sammy only spoke of their existence in hushed tones.
"You sure?"
Byrne just stared.
"Okay, okay," Sammy said. "Sorry I asked."
They got out of the car, walked to the trunk. Sammy looked up and down the street. He hesitated, fumbling with his keys.
"Checking for the cops?" Byrne asked.
Sammy laughed a nervous little twitter. He opened the trunk. Inside was a group of canvas bags, attache cases, duffels. Sammy moved a few of the leatherette cases to the side. He opened one. Inside was an array of cell phones. "Sure you don't want a clean cell instead? A PDA, maybe?" he asked. "I can put you in a BlackBerry 7290 for seventy-five bucks."
"Sammy."
Sammy hesitated again, then zipped up the leatherette satchel. He cracked another case. This one was ringed with dozens of amber vials. "How about pills?"
Byrne thought about it. He knew Sammy had amphetamines. He was exhausted, but the uppers would just make things worse.
"No pills."
"Fireworks? Porno? I can get you a Lexus for ten G's."
"You do remember I have a loaded weapon in my pocket, don't you?" Byrne asked.
"You're the boss," Sammy said. He pulled out a sleek Zero Halliburton suitcase, dialed the three digits, subconsciously shielding the operation from Byrne. He opened the case, then stepped away, lit another Camel. Even for Sammy DuPuis, the contents of this case were hard to look at.