Page 67 of Tainted Princess
“You lookin’ for something in particular?” he said, his voice sounding like he’d maintained a two pack a day habit since he was six years old. I watched as he set the orange cannister on the counter, Metamucil, now that I could see the label, and began to spoon the contents into the glass of water that he had obviously left sitting there earlier. “The wedding chapels started selling their own rings a few years ago, so I don’t see many young couples around here.” He ran his eyes over my clothes, then over Vinnie in his crisp dress shirt and jeans. “At least none that can pay.”
“Oh, that’s not going to be a problem,” I said, grimacing as the man rapidly stirred the glass, the spoon clanking against the sides obnoxiously and doing absolutely nothing for my head. “But, actually, it’s not rings that we’re after.” He froze and raised an eyebrow, the long gray hairs dancing in the breeze from the squeaky oscillating fan mounted to the wall behind him. He was tall, taller than Vinnie even, but thin as a rail. His brown teeth peeked out from behind a mouth that seemed to perpetually hang open, and his rheumy eyes never stopped moving.
The guy probably expected us to be undercover cops. I curled my lip at the thought; as if I would ever narc on anyone. Not after what Eric had fuckin’ pulled.
Bastard.
I realized my face was probably making me look less than innocent when the guy behind the counter leaned down, likely reaching for the aforementioned twelve gauge. Smiling again, I went on quickly, “What I am really looking for is a gun.” Pawn shop guy’s bushy eyebrows went even higher, but his arm froze. “Well, two guns, really. At least to start. I’m Frankie, by the way, and this is my man, Vinnie.”
He stared at me, the distrust clear in his expression, but he sucked on his teeth and responded, “Phil.”
“Great to meet you, Phil.” At least, I hoped it would be. I didn’t really have a ton of time here. “So, let me tell you what I’m looking for, and you can tell me if you can help me. Sound good?”
He didn’t speak, instead he started to loudly chug the entire glass of cloudy slop he had just mixed, so I went on.
“I’m looking for something small but powerful. I need it to be easy to conceal, but it’s got to pack punch, you know? Ideally, I’d like a SIG P365. Just love the high capacity ten round mag. It’s functional but still just so...cute.”
Setting down the empty glass, Phil continued to stare, and I continued to smile, each of us waiting for the other to blink.
I won.
“I ain’t got nothing fancy, and I sure as fuck ain’t got anythingcute.” Phil spat the word as if it tasted foul, but it was probably just his fiber drink. “What I do got,” he went on, gesturing to the far end of the glassed-in display counter. “Is a few revolvers and a couple shot guns. All of which you’ll need paperwork for.” I stared through the dusty glass at the pathetic display of weapons on offer.
“Jesus, Phil,” I scoffed, incredulous. “What the hell is this? It looks like an episode ofDragnetin here. Is that an S&W Snub Model 10? The 1970s called, and they want their guns back.”
Vinnie snorted, but Phil looked less than impressed. “You don’t like the shit I have on offer, lady, there’s the fuckin’ door.”
Vinnie moved to step forward, and for the first time, Phil’s eyes showed something other than lethargy or disdain. When he looked at Vinnie, I detected a little bit of nervousness. I raised my hand, drawing the attention of both men back to me.
“Phil, you and I both know that you have a lot more than this available. You just need to show it to me.”
“I don’t know what the fuck you’re talking about.” But the tick in his jaw said that he did. So did the way his eyes kept darting to the door to the back room.
“I’m asking nicely, Phil. I have cash and I am willing to pay. I’ll likely be a repeat customer, but you and I have to establish an element of trust here. I have to be able to trust that you are going to show me the best merchandise you have available—because I only want the best, Phil—and you have to trust that I am going to keep my mouth shut about how you actually make your money, because clearly, it’s not with the shit you have on the shelves.” To prove my point, I picked up a usedChia Petin the shape of Mr. T’s head from the closest shelf behind me. Creepy thing let you grow a green mohawk on it.
Disgusting.
I waited, giving Phil ample time to grind his teeth like he was gonna turn down my cash. Once he felt he’d held out long enough to maintain his manly dignity, he sighed, then nodded to Vinnie. “Lock the door and turn the fuckin’ sign over.” Then gestured he for us to follow him behind the counter.
After I set down the terracotta head, Vinnie and I followed him into the small room, lined with shelves as I had previously seen. I could now see that they were lined with boxes of provisions, MREs, first aid kits, and other prepper shit like gas masks and filtered water. The whole room gave me the creeps, but Phil didn’t linger, quickly moving across the space and reaching a second door.
I watched as he slid a flap in the door casing aside, revealing a biometric thumbprint scanner, and I laughed out loud.
“Phil, you lying son of a bitch! I knew you were hiding the good stuff.”
This time, when he looked over his bony shoulder at me, I caught a hint of a smile. The door scanner beeped, allowing us to enter, and my pulse increased at the sight before me.
Shelf after shelf of guns, more than I could have ever hoped to find in a shit hole like this. Phil wasted no time, marching right over to the back wall and pulling down a few choices. He brought them back to me, placing them on the makeshift island in the center of the space, a thing that looked to be a stack of wooden crates covered in an old shower curtain.
“Alright, Missy,” Phil said, his ‘all business’ personality suddenly brimming with even more pompous misogyny than before. “Here’s some that will fit your bill. I ain’t got the P365, but I can get it if you’re particular.”
“What kind of source are we talking here, Phil?”
His eyes snapped to mine, narrowed in suspicion once again. “You a fuckin’ cop or something, lady?”
“No, Phil. I am not a cop,” I barked back. “I just don’t want to be going about my business and suddenly find that the gun I just used to...protect myself was also used to hold up a bodega in Brooklyn in 1997. I need to know your shit’s clean.”
“My shit’s clean. I got the cleanest shit this side of the Rio Grande. Ain’t no one’s shit this fuckin’ clean.”
