Bennie stood in front of an AK-47, an M3, two 30-30 hunting rifles, and three revolvers, all of which were arrayed on a grimy blanket on the ground, like a makeshift display case.
“Not much of a selection, eh?” the pilot asked, and the other man, John Something, chuckled.
“Like I said, it ain’t Newark.” He was a stocky young American with a shaved head and a neck tattoo that read Johnny Angel, and he had on an old-fashioned surfer T-shirt with jeans. The cinder-block shed belonged to him, and it was crammed with old lawn mowers, harrows, bush hogs, and an ancient tractor, its hood cracked open like a crab shell.
“How much is this one?” Bennie asked, picking up the Smith & Wesson. It was an older model, probably a forerunner of her own, which she kept at home in a gun safe, trigger lock and all. She’d never fired hers outside of a lesson, but it had been easy to kill the bad-guy silhouette that would come zipping up to her, his paper heart tattered into a busted star.
“The S &W?” Johnny Angel said. “Three hundred.”
“Fair enough.” Bennie dug the cash out of her purse, counted it off, and handed it over.
“You got six bullets in there. You need more?”
“If I do, I’m in trouble.”
“Ha!” Johnny Angel laughed, and the pilot clapped him on the back.
“Thanks, man. Wanna come out with me and Tomboy? He’s in the car.”
“What’s he doin’, smokin’ up?”
“What do you think?”
“Nah.” Johnny Angel clucked, rubbing his grizzled chin. “I’m clean and sober, two and a half years.”
“Ha! Old married man, eh?”
“You got that right.” Johnny Angel chuckled again, but Bennie had slid the gun into her purse and was waiting at the door.
“You guys good to go?” she asked.