Page 21 of Near Miss

“Are you packing, Matilda?” Dino asked.

“My bags or my gun?”

“Do you own a gun?”

“Trench left one at my apartment once and never came to get it.”

“Are you licensed?”

“No.”

“Do you know how to shoot a gun?”

“Yes, my father taught me.”

“I’ll send you the license application. Don’t leave your house in possession of a weapon until you’ve got the license in hand. I’ll expedite it.”

“Thank you, Dino.”

“Also, I don’t think you should keep the gun Trench left at your apartment. You don’t know where it’s been or what it’s done.”

“I’ll send it back to him, then.”

“Unload it first, and put the cartridges into a separate bag. Don’t mail it. Send your doorman to his place with it securely wrapped. You want it off your hands as soon as possible.”

“Why don’t I have Fred pick it up from your place and deliver it?” Stone said.

“Everybody is so solicitous,” she said.

“We have to be,” Dino replied. “When you have a gun.”

Chapter 14

Matilda’s carry license turned up, hand-delivered, two days later, and Stone took her downtown to a gun store frequented by cops.

“This is a wonderland of mayhem,” she said, looking around at the showcases and wall display of weapons.

“You need to choose only one,” Stone said, leading her to a showcase. “Let me see your hand.”

She spread her fingers.

“Not unusually long,” he said. “Let’s try gripping this one.” He pointed at a Sig Sauer .380. A salesman unlocked the case, cleared the weapon, and handed it to her.

She held it in front of her and look down the barrel. “It’s a nice size,” she said, “but it’s a little too heavy.”

Stone turned to the salesman. “Do you have a Colt Government .380?”

“Colt doesn’t make it anymore, but I’ve got a couple of nice used ones.” He went to another case and came back with two small pistols, which were, to the eye, like miniature Colt Model 1911 .45s. One was nickel-plated.

“The other one,” she said, pointing at the blued pistol. The salesman cleared it and handed it to her; she hefted it in her hand and pointed it at a target across the room. “Perfect.”

Stone paid for the weapon and a box of cartridges, the salesman put it in a box, and they left. Back at his house, they went down to his one-lane shooting station in the basement, and she fired some rounds. Soon, she was hitting the paper outline of a man in the chest, with a nice grouping.

Stone showed her how to disassemble the weapon and clean it. “Must be done every time you fire it.” He wiped it clean with a cloth and dropped it into the zippered leather envelope that the pistol had come in. “Okay. You’re officially dangerous.”

They went back upstairs, where he gave her the license, and she tucked it into her purse.

“Always carry it,” Stone said.

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