[b]some time later [/b]

Too much rain today. More than he liked. Pike wondered right now if he should have chosen a better location for the sale. He'd chosen it near some motel near Halfborn Avenue—a squat, brown, run-down place that didn't make people question or think of questions. The window was a mosaic of tears right now. Fat clouds of gray and black dusted the skies outside, sagging with the weight of autumn. The light static of rain splashing against the glass was accompanied by the usual din of Mineenoona: the shriek of a kid playing outside, the rubber screech of a tire.

"Hey, Pike. You all there?"

Pike's head jerked away from the window toward the other occupant in the motel room. A man was standing on the other side of the king-sized bed, and on top of the mattress was a graveyard of guns. The old man wore a lime green denim jacket that was fraying at the sleeves, and the jowl of his neck was dotted with liver spots. His fingers, knobbled with arthritis, steepled over a matte gray revolver he was holding.

"Right. Sorry, Eric." Pike scratched the back of his head, wincing slightly at the swollen mass of blue bruises that mushroomed out of his hair. "Ruger Speed Six. .38 chamber. Eight-round capacity. 'Lil different compared to the police specials you're used to."

"Gun's lighter than I expected it to be," Eric groused, pressing the receiver near to his ear, blue eyes squinting as he thumbed the cylinder. "Sounds different, kid. You changed the frame—no—the barrel."

"Close. Smith & Wesson released titanium cylinders for their .44s two years ago." Pike couldn't help but smirk in pride. "Easy enough to rechamber for a .38."

Eric turned his back away from him, and Pike heard the clock-like click of a finger pulling back a trigger hammer. It continued for a few more minutes and then stopped as Eric turned around, a look of disappointment on his face.

"Sorry, kid, but it's too light. Throws my aim off."

"Thought you needed something fast on the draw."

"Doesn't matter if I'm not used to the weight," Eric grunted, setting the pistol gently on the bed with two hands. He strode over to the coffee table where a duffel bag lay on top. "All the .38s you have are too damned loud, and all the silenced ones you have weigh like a fucking brick. Thought you'd have something for me."

Pike was silent as Eric zipped the bag up and hoisted the strap over his shoulders.

"To be honest, I'm surprised you called me. Normally, I'm the one calling you for iron."

"Yeah," Pike felt like he was swaying on his feet. It was still hard to smile, to make expressions after what happened a week ago. His face felt too tight. He took a slow breath, preparing himself for what he was about to say next.

"Say I was to hire you."

"Nope," Eric replied without a second's consideration. "I know what this is about and, kid, I am not messing with Santiago."

"I have the scratch—"

Eric dropped the bag with a shrug and, before Pike could react, he grabbed his shoulders in a vice-like grip and shoved him roughly onto the bed. The old, grizzled criminal crossed his arms, examining him as if he were an ant under a magnifying glass. There was only the sound of rain to accompany the silence, and Eric must have gotten tired of it, as he started talking in a tone strained with patience.

"Now, in the interest of our long-standing professional relationship, I'll offer you some advice. This is not some dime-store thriller you pick up from some corner store. I kill, but I don't go around dicing up entire streets in an entire night. You want a trigger-happy nutjob, call Raul or one of your shell-shocked fellas down from McCallaghans. They'll fuck it up for you happily."

"I don't need to be lectured—"

"Suppose I did even manage to kill Santiago. A round from half a mile away through his dome while he's pissing or screwing a broad in his underwear." Eric ignored Pike's jab, sucking in a breath. "First thing they'll think of is you. Bet that modern art masterpiece on your face was commissioned by them, aye? First thing his crew will think of is you. Frankly, I expect better of you, kid. You're a lot goddamn smarter than this."

"Let me worry about that. Just tell me how much I need to pay you—"

The punch came as fast as a whip, sending his head jerking back. The pain came a moment later as thunder broke the sky outside. Eric was now sitting by the corner of the bed, one leg propped up.

"Back when I was your age, I used to work with a hijack crew down by the Appalachians. Trucks. Good pay, marks were cooperative, and everyone treated each other fairly. Well, as fairly as you can get in this line of business." The glimmer of nostalgia faded in Kochinsky's eye, replaced by a dull sheen of pain. "It was January. A blizzard had just hit the town. We thought it would be good to do one last job. Cigarette truck rolling out of town. Some of the crew were looking for a cash-out and were getting antsy. One guy, this guy—" Eric bit his lip, rage curling the edge of his cheeks. "Charlie, that's right—Charlie leaves. Not any fault of his own. Cancer will do that to you. So, it was up to me to pick a replacement. We search around town for a bit before I get this guy from a job. Oliver. East Coast second-story guy. Cocky, confident, looking to make a quick buck. Fun to talk to, fun on the job, and I knew he was reliable. I had to."

Eric nodded, and Pike wasn't sure whether it was to himself.

"Night before the job, he gets fidgety." Eric raised his left palm horizontally, tilting it to and fro. "Not the scared type of fidgety, but the kind where you're preparing yourself like you're gonna take a dive off the pool. I ask him the night before the job what's up. Says he's nervous. So, a couple of beers later and he's spilling to me about his debts. About issues he's having. Now, I'm stuck in a quandary. Should I pull him off the job? I agonized. We need one more lookout, he's too unreliable, it's a simple job, can't afford to screw this up, blah blah blah. You can guess which choice I made."

Eric took a deep, shuddering breath.

"So, the job goes smoothly. It's five of us. Snow hides us well. Spike strip to the tires. Boom. Truck goes still. We're going to get the driver, but Oliver beats us to the punch. Shot him through the head. The crew leader, John, gets angry with him, but it's cold as shit, we're hungry from the stakeout, and he wants to get the goods. All of us go to the back of the truck. We're hacking it open with a rotary saw. The sound was so loud that we didn't hear that fucker shooting John in the back. Shoots the rest of us. Bang. Bang. Bang. I managed to get lucky." The light in the curtains had shifted onto Eric's left cheek, and Pike could see a canyon of scar tissue worming down his neck like a noose. "I'm laying on the ground. He's standing over me. He says the usual shit, but that's not him; that's the fucking guilt speaking. I just want it to end already. Then, a gust comes through. Knocks the bullet out of his fingers. I get my lucky break." Eric's hand shoots up in a blur, index and ring finger pointed out with his thumb cocked at the ceiling. "Right through the heart. Didn't stop moving, so I gave him two more in the head."

"What happened next?" Pike watched Eric rub his calloused knuckles, seemingly lost in the sensation of memory before he spoke.

"I just left the truck out there, walked back to my house. Waited for a couple of weeks. Pretended I knew nothing about the truck, but then, the rumors started. Everyone had already made up their minds when I went to talk to them. The widows of the team I was with spat at my feet whenever I'd go out for a drink. Got so bad that I quit my day job there, but it followed me to Florida. Stopped chasing me after I moved here."

"So, that's what you're trying to tell me?" That familiar sense of anger returned, bile-like and acidic in his throat. "That it gets better over time?"

"It doesn't, but you need to live with it. It doesn't matter what you want. It's what other people want. That's just how it is. Otherwise, shit like what happened down at the Soiree gets you killed."

"I wasn't—"

"Doesn't matter what you meant. You're not the only one this affects. Think about who buys your iron." Eric slowly placed his hand on top of Pike's shoulder and then parted his jacket to reveal a brown leather holster, a polished oak grip protruding out. "I don't know what the hell happened to your brother, but keep at it and you'll fucking join him real soon. If that's what you want, come find me. It'll be cheaper than trying to kill Santiago myself."