“You could trust me,” the burglar said. “You have my word on that.”
“My point exactly. I’d have to take your word that your word is good, and where does that lead us? Down the proverbial garden path, I’m afraid. No, once I let you out from under my roof I’ve lost my advantage. Even if I have a gun trained on you, once you’re in the open I can’t shoot you with impunity. So I’m afraid—”
“No!”
Trebizond shrugged. “Well, really,” he said. “What use are you? What are you good for besides being killed? Can you do anything besides steal, sir?”
“I can make license plates.”
“Hardly a valuable talent.”
“I know,” said the burglar sadly. “I’ve often wondered why the state bothered to teach me such a pointless trade. There’s not even much call for counterfeit license plates, and they’ve got a monopoly on making the legitimate ones. What else can I do? I must be able to do something. I could shine your shoes, I could polish your car—”
“What do you do when you’re not stealing?”
“Hang around,” said the burglar. “Go out with ladies. Feed my fish, when they’re not all over my rug. Drive my car when I’m not mangling its fenders. Play a few games of chess, drink a can or two of beer, make myself a sandwich—”
“Are you any good?”
“At making sandwiches?”
“At chess.”
“I’m not bad.”
“I’m serious about this.”
“I believe you are,” the burglar said. “I’m not your average woodpusher, if that’s what you want to know. I know the openings and I have a good sense of space. I don’t have the patience for tournament play, but at the chess club downtown I win more games than I lose.”
“You play at the club downtown?”
“Of course. I can’t burgle seven nights a week, you know. Who could stand the pressure?”
“Then you can be of use to me,” Trebizond said.
“You want to learn the game?”
“I know the game. I want you to play chess with me for an hour until my wife gets home. I’m bored, there’s nothing in the house to read, I’ve never cared much for television, and it’s hard for me to find an interesting opponent at the chess table.”
“So you’ll spare my life in order to play chess with me.”
“That’s right.”
“Let me get this straight,” the burglar said. “There’s no catch to this, is there? I don’t get shot if I lose the game or anything tricky like that, I hope.”
“Certainly not. Chess is a game that ought to be above gimmickry.”
“I couldn’t agree more,” said the burglar. He sighed a long sigh. “If I didn’t play chess,” he said, “you wouldn’t have shot me, would you?”
“It’s a question that occupies the mind, isn’t it?”
“It is,” said the burglar.
They played in the front room. The burglar drew the white pieces in the first game, opened King’s Pawn, and played what turned out to be a reasonably imaginative version of the Ruy Lopez. At the sixteenth move Trebizond forced the exchange of knight for rook, and not too long afterward the burglar resigned.
In the second game the burglar played the black pieces and offered the Sicilian Defense. He played a variation that Trebizond wasn’t familiar with. The game stayed remarkably even until in the end game the burglar succeeded in developing a passed pawn. When it was clear that he would be able to queen it, Trebizond tipped over his king, resigning.
“Nice game,” the burglar offered.
“You play well.”
“Thank you.”
“Seems a pity that—”
His voice trailed off. The burglar shot him an inquiring look. “That I’m wasting myself as a common criminal? Is that what you were going to say?”
“Let it go,” Trebizond said. “It doesn’t matter.”
They began setting up the pieces for the third game when a key slipped into a lock. The lock turned, the door opened, and Melissa Trebizond stepped into the foyer and through it to the living room.
Both men got to their feet. Mrs. Trebizond advanced, a vacant smile on her pretty face. “You found a new friend to play chess with. I’m happy for you.”
Trebizond set his jaw. From his back pocket he drew the burglar’s pry bar. It had an even nicer heft than he had thought “Melissa,” he said, “I’ve no need to waste time with a recital of your sins. No doubt you know precisely why you deserve this.”
She stared at him, obviously not having understood a word he had said to her, whereupon Archer Trebizond brought the pry bar down on the top of her skull. The first blow sent her to her knees. Quickly he struck her three more times, wielding the metal bar with all his strength, then turned to look into the wide eyes of the burglar.
“You’ve killed her,” the burglar said.
“Nonsense,” said Trebizond, taking the bright revolver from his pocket once again.
“Isn’t she dead?”
“I hope and pray she is,” Trebizond said, “but I haven’t killed her. You’ve killed her.”
“I don’t understand.”
“The police will understand,” Trebizond said, and shot the burglar in the shoulder. Then he fired again, more satisfactorily this time, and the burglar sank to the floor with a hole in his heart.
Trebizond scooped the chess pieces into their box, swept up the board, and set about the business of arranging things. He suppressed an urge to whistle. He was, he decided, quite pleased with himself. Nothing was ever entirely useless, not to a man of resources. If fate sent you a lemon, you made lemonade.
A Blow for Freedom
The gun was smaller than Elliott remembered. At Kennedy, waiting for his bag to come up on the carousel, he’d been irritated with himself for buying the damned thing. For years now, ever since Pan Am had stranded him in Milan with the clothes he was wearing, he’d made an absolute point of never checking luggage. He’d flown to Miami with his favorite carry-on bag; returning, he’d checked the same bag, all because it now contained a Smith & Wesson revolver and a box of fifty .38-caliber shells.
At least he hadn’t had to take a train. “Oh, for Christ’s sake,” he’d told Huebner, after they’d bought the gun together. “I’ll have to take the train back, won’t I? I can’t get on the plane with a gun in my pocket.”
“It’s not recommended,” Huebner had said. “But all you have to do is check your bag with the gun and shells in it.”
“Isn’t there a regulation against it?”
“Probably. There’s rules against everything. All I know is, I do it all the time, and I never heard of anyone getting into any trouble over it. They scope the checked bags, or at least they’re supposed to, but they’re looking for bombs. There’s nothing very dangerous about a gun locked away in the baggage compartment.”
“Couldn’t the shells explode?”
“In a fire, possibly. If the plane goes down in flames, the bullets may go off and put a hole in the side of your suitcase.”
“I guess I’m being silly.”
“Well, you’re a New Yorker. You don’t know a whole lot about guns.”
“No.” He’d hesitated. “Maybe I should have bought one of those plastic ones.”
“The Glock?” Huebner smiled. “It’s a nice weapon, and it’s probably the one I’ll buy next. But you couldn’t carry it on a plane.”
“But I thought—”
“You thought it would fool the scanners and metal detectors at airport security. It won’t. That’s hardly the point of it, a big gun like that. No, they replaced a lot of the metal with high-impact plastic to reduce the weight. It’s supposed to lessen recoil slightly, too, but I don’t know if it does. Personally, I like the looks of it. But it’ll show up fine on a scanner if you put it in a carry-on bag, and it’ll set off alarms if you walk it through a metal detector.” He snorted. “Of course, that didn’t keep some idiots from introducing bills banning it in the
United States. Nobody in politics likes to let a fact stand in the way of a grandstand play.”
His bag was one of the last ones up. Waiting for it, he worried that there was going to be trouble about the gun. When it came, he had to resist the urge to open the bag immediately and make sure the gun was still there. The bag felt light, and he decided some baggage handler had detected it and appropriated it for his own use.
Nervous, he thought. Scared it’s there, scared it’s not.
He took a cab home to his Manhattan apartment and left the bag unopened while he made himself a drink. Then he unpacked, and the gun was smaller than he remembered it. He picked it up and felt its weight, and that was greater than he recalled. And it was empty. It would be even heavier fully loaded.
After Huebner had helped him pick out the gun, they’d driven way out on Route 27, where treeless swamps extended for miles in every direction. Huebner pulled off the road a few yards from a wrecked car, its tires missing and most of its window glass gone.
“There’s our target,” he said. “You find a lot of cars abandoned along this stretch, but you don’t want to start shooting up the newer ones.”
“Because someone might come back for them?”
Huebner shook his head. “Because there might be a body in the trunk. This is where the drug dealers tend to drop off the unsuccessful competition, but no self-respecting drug dealer would be caught dead in a wreck like this one. You figure it’ll be a big enough target for you?”
Embarrassingly enough, he missed the car altogether with his first shot. “You pulled up on it,” Huebner told him. “Probably anticipating the recoil. Don’t waste time worrying where the bullets are going yet. Just get used to pointing and firing.”
And he got used to it. The recoil was considerable and so was the weight of the gun, but he did get used to both and began to be able to make the shots go where he wanted them to go. After Elliott had used up a full box of shells, Huebner got a pistol of his own from the glove compartment and put a few rounds into the fender of the ruined automobile. Huebner’s gun was a nine-millimeter automatic with a clip that held twelve cartridges. It was much larger, noisier, and heavier than the .38, and it did far more damage to the target.
“Got a whole lot of stopping power,” Huebner said. “Hit a man in the arm with this, you’re likely to take him down. Here, try it. Strike a blow for freedom.”
The recoil was greater than the .38’s, but less so than he would have guessed. Elliott fired off several rounds, enjoying the sense of power. He returned the gun to Huebner, who emptied the clip into the old car.
Driving back, Elliott said, “A phrase you used: ‘Strike a blow for freedom.’ “
“Oh, you never heard that? I had an uncle used that expression every time he took a drink. They used to say that during Prohibition. You hoisted a few then in defiance of the law, you were striking a blow for freedom.”
The gun, the first article Elliott unpacked, was the last he put away.
He couldn’t think of what to do with it. Its purchase had seemed appropriate in Florida, where they seemed to have gun shops everywhere. You walked into one and walked out owning a weapon. There was even a town in central Georgia where they’d passed their own local version of gun control, an ordinance requiring the adult population to go about armed. There had never been any question of enforcing the law, he knew; it had been passed as a statement of local sentiment.
Here in New York, guns were less appropriate. They were illegal, to begin with. You could apply for a carry permit, but unless there was some genuine reason connected with your occupation, your application was virtually certain to be denied. Elliott worked in an office and never carried anything to it or from it but a briefcase filled with papers, nor did his work take him down streets any meaner than the one he lived on. As far as the law was concerned, he had no need for a gun.
Yet he owned one, legally or not. Its possession was at once unsettling and thrilling, like the occasional ounce or so of marijuana secreted in his various living quarters during his twenties. There was something exciting, something curiously estimable, about having that which was prohibited, and at the same time, there was a certain amount of danger connected with its possession.
There ought to be security as well, he thought. He’d bought the gun for his protection in a city that increasingly seemed incapable of protecting its own inhabitants. He turned the gun over, let the empty cylinder swing out, accustomed his fingers to the cool metal.
His apartment was on the twelfth floor of a prewar building. Three shifts of doormen guarded the lobby. No other building afforded access to any of his windows, and those near the fire escape were protected by locked window gates, the key to which hung out of reach on a nail. The door to the hallway had two dead-bolt locks, each with its cylinder secured by an escutcheon plate. The door had a steel core and was further reinforced by a Fox police lock.
Elliott had never felt insecure in his apartment, nor were its security measures the result of his own paranoia. They had all been in place when he moved in. And they were standard for the building and the neighborhood.
He passed the gun from hand to hand, at once glad to have it and, like an impulse shopper, wondering why he’d bought it.
Where should he keep it?
The drawer of the nightstand suggested itself. He put the gun and the box of shells in it, closed the drawer, and went to take a shower.
It was almost a week before he looked at the gun again. He didn’t mention it and rarely thought about it. News items would bring it to mind. A hardware-store owner in Rego Park killed his wife and small daughter with an unregistered handgun, then turned the weapon on himself; reading about it in the paper, Elliott thought of the revolver in his nightstand drawer. An honor student was slain in his bedroom by a stray shot from a high-powered assault rifle, and Elliott, watching TV, thought again of his gun.
On the Friday after his return, some item about the shooting of a drug dealer again directed his thoughts to the gun, and it occurred to him that he ought at least to load it. Suppose someone came crashing through his door or used some advance in criminal technology to cut the gates on his windows. If he were reaching hurriedly for a gun, it should be loaded.
He loaded all six chambers. He seemed to remember that you were supposed to leave one chamber empty as a safety measure. Otherwise, the gun might discharge if dropped. Cocking the weapon would presumably rotate the cylinder and ready it for shooting. Still, it wasn’t going to fire itself just sitting in his nightstand drawer, was it, now? And if he reached for it, if he needed it in a hurry, he’d want it fully loaded.
If you had to shoot at someone, you didn’t want to shoot once or twice and then stop. You wanted to empty the gun.
Had Huebner told him that? Or had someone said it in a movie or on television? It didn’t matter, he decided. Either way, it was sound advice.
A few days later, he saw a movie in which the hero, a renegade cop up against an entrenched drug mob, slept with a gun under his pillow. It was a much larger gun than Elliott’s, something like Huebner’s big automatic.
“More gun than you really need in your situation,” Huebner had told him. “And it’s too big and too heavy. You want something you can slip into a pocket. A cannon like this, you’d need a whole shoulder rig or it’d pull at your suit coat something awful.”
Not that he’d ever carry it.
That night, he got the gun out of the drawer and put it under his pillow. He thought of the princess who couldn’t sleep with a pea under her mattress. He felt a little silly, and he felt, too, some of what he had felt playing with toy guns as a child.
He got the gun from under his pillow and put it back in the drawer, where it belonged. He lay for a long time, inhaling the smell of the gun, metal and machine oil, interesting and not unpleasant.
A masculine scent, he thought. Blend in a little leather and tobacco, maybe a little horseshit, and you’ve got something to slap on after a shave. Wi
n the respect of your fellows and drive the women wild.
He never put the gun under his pillow again. But the linen held the scent of the gun, and even after he’d changed the sheets and pillowcases, he could detect the smell on the pillow.
It was not until the incident with the panhandler that he ever carried the gun outside the apartment.
There were panhandlers all over the place, had been for several years now. It seemed to Elliott that there were more of them every year, but he wasn’t sure if that was really the case. They were of either sex and of every age and color, some of them proclaiming well-rehearsed speeches on subway cars, some standing mute in doorways and extending paper cups, some asking generally for spare change or specifically for money for food or for shelter or for wine.
Some of them, he knew, were homeless people, ground down by the system. Some belonged in mental institutions. Some were addicted to crack. Some were layabouts, earning more this way than they could at a menial job. Elliott couldn’t tell which was which and wasn’t sure how he felt about them, his emotions ranging from sympathy to irritation, depending on circumstances. Sometimes he gave money, sometimes he didn’t. He had given up trying to devise a consistent policy and simply followed his impulse of the moment.
One evening, walking home from the bus stop, he encountered a panhandler who demanded money. “Come on,” the man said. “Gimme a dollar.”
Elliott started to walk past him, but the man moved to block his path. He was taller and heavier than Elliott, wearing a dirty army jacket, his face partly hidden behind a dense black beard. His eyes, slightly exophthalmic, were fierce.
“Didn’t you hear me? Gimme a fuckin’ dollar!”
Elliott reached into his pocket, came out with a handful of change. The man made a face at the coins Elliott placed in his hand, then evidently decided the donation was acceptable.
“Thank you kindly,” he said. “Have a nice day.”
Have a nice day, indeed. Elliott walked on home, nodded to the doorman, let himself into his apartment. It wasn’t until he had engaged the locks that he realized his heart was pounding and his hands trembling.