* * *
It was February the 10th or the 11th, Ed wasn't sure and he didn't think it mattered. After a few hours of sleep he was gradually starting to remember what had happened the day before. Mr. Barnes had come over and he had behaved like a twit.
That day, Valenti took his time to clean himself up. With a fresh shave and a clean set of clothes, the Italian almost looked respectable. He was hesitating and debating, taking more and more sips from his flask until his hands stopped shaking and he could walk out into the street, with enough courage to look up Mr. Barnes' address in one of the phone books found beside nearly every coin telephone in the city.
There were a total of four Mr. Barnes, but only one was situated in the South Side. Ed assumed that was his best bet, considering that the nearest cemetery to that location was the one Jake had been buried in.
The neighborhood was nice, with plenty of kids roaming those streets and the buildings looked cozy enough - all redbrick two-story houses. There was a clear sky and plenty of snow, making this the perfect day for snowmen and snowball fights. So Ed could only hear that laughter and continuous cheer that the children spread along the street.
He knocked despite his sudden crippling awe at the prospect of facing Mr. Barnes.
The door opened and Ed met with the pale, yet imposing old man face to face.
"Good afternoon, Mr. Barnes," Valenti greeted, removing his hat from his head, and running a hand over those gel-covered blond locks of his.
"I'm sorry I - " Ed went on to apologize, but Mr. Barnes cut him off.
"Forget about it. So you went bonkers there for a moment. I'm not some broad, looking for you to say you're sorry."
Ed stared at Mr. Barnes, a little stunned by the way his apology had been both accepted, and rejected at the same time. Did that mean that the old man wasn't upset with him? What was he thinking? Why would Mr. Barnes even bother or care about him? Of course he didn't need the apology - they were practically strangers.
"Come on." The retired copper took his hat and coat, before he left his home, locking the door. Ed noticed that little detail and didn't think too much of it, until he suddenly realized that Mr. Barnes was alone. The house was empty. No wife. No son. Nobody.
They arrived at the firing range with little daylight left.
But still Ed got to hold a Colt Special .38 revolver, load it, and weight it in his hand, and fire six rounds at a target 20 feet away.
Valenti hadn't fired a gun in months, and at first, was reluctant to even touch the damn thing, but under Mr. Barnes' fixed gaze, Ed quickly obeyed the silent request.
Of course, the old man was expecting him to join the target practice, otherwise why would the former cop have brought him at the police firing range?
It was a wide patch of land just outside the east highway. If it weren't for the small building where Ed assumed the coppers kept their weapons under lock, the firing range would have looked like the back yard of any proud American who owned a few rifles and revolvers. Most cops chose to fire at bottles, but some had cardboard targets - with a large red dot in the middle - pinned to wooden planks.
Valenti shot at his target. A bit rusty and jittery, only four out of six pierced through, and out of the four, only two landed near the middle, at a respectable distance from the bulls-eye.
"You have potential," Mr. Barnes stated trying to hold back a chuckle.
The old man aimed and all six rounds went right through the bulls-eye.
Ed had seen some good shots back when he had trained to be a soldier in the Great War, but he had never seen anyone be as precise, and as fast as this old, pale man.
"Mr. Barnes, that's just impossible! I bet you can't do that again," Ed shared his doubts, not without hesitation.
The man laughed. Clearly he enjoyed practicing, and rubbing his skills in the face of young, unsuspecting fellows.
A second time, Mr. Barnes shot with the same astounding aim, and put a nice hole into the bulls-eye.
“Madonna mia!" Ed exclaimed, and cheered slapping his thigh. "I'll be damned…"
"It's much harder when your life actually depends on how well you throw lead at the bad guys." Mr. Barnes explained, and Valenti shrugged putting on a dumb smile.
Why explain to the old man that he knew exactly how difficult it was to use any skills whatsoever during a life or death situation?
Ed and Mr. Barnes started to go to the firing range every day. Ed would walk to the old man's place, and then they would both take a jitney to the police firing range, just outside the city.
Everybody knew Mr. Barnes there, and they seemed to assume that Ed was just a police recruit or, in any case, some boy that old Sergeant Barnes was grooming to get into the police training program, come spring.
Ed didn't think he'd enjoy unloading a Colt, or any other weapon. He even feared that the experience would awaken more bitter, dark memories of the war, and of other times he had been forced to hold and aim a gun, often resulting in the death of another human being. But it did just the opposite.
Using a gun again felt like getting some control back in his life. It felt as if he wasn't as vulnerable as he had believed. It felt as if death wasn't lurking as close to him for fear of getting a bullet. It felt different. Probably also because Mr. Barnes made it seem like a sport.
Ed started to experience everything as a little too strange and a little too real, as if, all of a sudden, he could feel more, think more, be more and understand himself better.
He believed it was the shooting that helped him keep so focused and clear-headed, but in a couple of weeks Ed realized it was also one simple fact: he had forgotten to refill his dented silver flask.
Valenti had felt sick for a few days, but he had refused to drink and use the flask ever again in Mr. Barnes presence. The Italian was certain that, at the very sight of the flask, the old man would remember that shameful incident - Ed's outrageous and offensive outburst, when Mr. Barnes had come over to his apartment - and that the former cop would suddenly, not be so kind, and willing to forgive and forget.
So, Ed had been drinking less and less, until he forgot to even buy booze, and his dented silver flask had been empty for days now.
"You're getting better," Mr. Barnes praised his shooting, and Ed felt a sudden rush of pride run through him.
With every bang his revolver made, Valenti's heart raced faster and faster, while he kept his breathing slow and controlled, perfectly timed to when he pulled the trigger. These were his days now. He forgot about gambling, and he stopped thinking he needed a drink. Instead, he worked hard to improve his technique and reflexes as if he were actually going to apply for the police training program.
The nightmares had dimmed out and remained just flashes of suffering, things he knew were still there, haunting him, but that no longer chased him.
One day, it was Monday the 7th of March - Ed knew - while they were loading up their guns, Mr. Barnes said it, as if it was an afterthought, the result of intensive pondering, "You should try out for police training."
"Sure thing, I'll let you know how it turns out," Ed cackled in disbelief.
But Mr. Barnes wasn't joking.
For a while, Ed considered the matter. He had been meaning to get Mr. Barnes to teach him a thing or two about investigating, but that was only so he would find her. My Billie…
Thinking about Billie, this time, Valenti discovered he had no desire to go out looking for her. He didn't want to know. He was better off not knowing. Why should he end up following the rats to her?
"What makes you think I could be a cop?" Ed asked Mr. Barnes with a smirk playing on his lips as he offered the frail-looking man a defiant gaze.
"Anyone can be a cop, Ed. I just think you could be a really good cop."
"Oh, yeah? How do you figure that?"
"You care."
Ed couldn't hold back his laughter. The old man clearly had the wrong idea about him. Ed didn't give a damn about anything. That's who he had been, an
d that's who he would be - a ginko that didn't care.