After finding a parking spot not far from the restaurant, she fed the meter all her change, and headed down Liberty Street on foot. But she didn’t go straight to the restaurant. Instead, she stopped in front of a grimy building where thick metal bars secured the doors and windows. A sign out front promised cash for gold.
When she opened the door, an alarm gave a shrill warning. In a seat near the register, a burly man with buzz-cut hair glanced up from his newspaper.
The room had a stale scent of sweat and dust. A long counter traced the edges of the small room. Behind it, the walls were covered in guitars, long guns, and tools—anything that could be sold and resold. Under the glass-topped counter were more guns—mostly semiautomatic handguns—and jewelry.
Gold and guns—the merchandise of pawnshops.
“What can I do you for?” the man asked with a smile that didn’t reach his eyes.
“I need a gun.” It felt strange to say it aloud. But in the long sleepless night, she’d made a few decisions, and this was one of them.
His expression didn’t change. “Hunting gun?” he asked.
“Handgun,” she said. “Something small, light, and accurate.”
He didn’t move. “You got a Georgia carry license?”
She shook her head. “It’s for home protection.”
He nodded as if that simple, four-word sentence answered every reasonable question, and rose to his feet. “We keep our ladies’ guns in this cabinet over here.” He motioned to his left.
Pulling a jangle of keys from his pocket, he unlocked the back of the display case. Harper approached cautiously.
Fifteen guns were set out in the long cabinet against a grubby suede base. They came in all shapes and sizes, from long, sleek automatics to short, rounded revolvers, and tiny, snub-nosed pistols no bigger than the palm of her hand. One was garish pink. The rest were silver or coal black, oiled to a glossy sheen.
He stood back, letting her look. “Which one takes your fancy?”
Harper didn’t like any of them. For as long as she could remember, the cops had been after her to get a gun. She’d always refused. “I’d shoot my foot off,” she explained whenever the subject came up.
The truth was, she didn’t like guns. She spent her nights walking through the aftermath of people underestimating the power of a bullet, trying not to get the residue of their mistakes on her shoes.
She’d never wanted one because she knew all too well what a pistol could do. Which was precisely why she needed one now.
“What’s most accurate—a nine-millimeter?” she asked, bending over the cabinet, the astringent smell of gun oil cutting the dust that tickled her nose.
“They’re all fine at close range.” He pointed at a revolver. “Nothing wrong with a snub-nose, but they’re heavy as a brick and hard little suckers to aim.” Holding up his fist with his index finger extended, he explained, “You move when you breathe. With a short little barrel like that a fraction of an inch is enough to screw up your shot if the guy ain’t right in your face. You end up blowing a branch off a tree, instead of whatever you were aimin’ for.” Warming to the topic, he gestured at the longer-barreled automatics. “Nine-millimeter’s lighter and the aim’s good, but there’s more to remember before you shoot and they’re bulky as hell. Some people don’t think they stop a shooter as well as a revolver, although I’m not in that camp.” He stepped back, hands behind his back. “Depends on what you need it for.”
This was not Harper’s area of expertise. All the guns looked equally deadly to her.
She glanced up at him. “If someone was threatening your girlfriend—someone well armed, who’d killed before—which one would you choose for her?”
He gave her such a long assessing look that for a second, she thought he’d refuse to answer. But then he leaned over and slid the back of the cabinet open. He pulled out a black weapon with a squared-off muzzle, tilting his hand so she could see it better. “I’d get her this Glock, no question.”
He twisted and turned it in the light as if it were a diamond necklace. “Lighter to hold, got a small grip. Great accuracy. Soft trigger.” He flipped it over with the practiced ease of a gunslinger and held it out to her. “Take it for a spin.”
Tentatively, she lifted it from his hand. It was not as heavy as she’d expected but it had a nice solidity. It fit in her hand as if it were made for her: her fingers fell comfortably into the grooves on the grip. Turning sideways, she pointed it at the wall on the far side of the room, and stared down the sights.
She dropped the gun to her side and handed it back, grip first. “How much?”
His eyes narrowed. “You got cash?”
She nodded. She’d emptied her bank account on her way in this morning.
He turned the gun, studying it as if it would provide him with the figure. Finally, he glanced up at her. “I’d take four hundred for it.”
It was a good price.
“You’ll throw in some bullets?” she asked.
He gave a somber nod. “I reckon I could spare a few.”
Harper pulled out her wallet. “A few is all I need.”
Setting the gun down, he picked up a stack of forms and slid them across to her.
“Just got to do the paperwork first. Uncle Sam’s got his rules.”
Twenty minutes later, Harper walked out of the pawnshop with the gun tucked at the bottom of her shoulder bag, along with a small box of bullets and a shoulder holster similar to the ones detectives wore under their suit jackets. While they waited for her background check to go through, they’d both abandoned the myth that she wouldn’t be carrying the weapon illegally. He didn’t seem to mind. But when she’d packed everything up and was heading for the door, he’d stopped her.
“You asked what I would tell my girlfriend if someone was coming for her.” He gave her a measured look. “I’d tell her to go for the head or the heart. It’s the only way to know for sure you’ll stop him. Don’t pick up that Glock unless you’re ready to kill.”
It was nothing she hadn’t thought of already. Still, his words were sobering, and as she walked through the lunchtime crowds, she was overly aware of the gun in her purse. She felt convinced everyone must know it was there. It was so heavy and obvious. By the time she walked into the restaurant a few minutes later, nervous sweat beaded her brow.
The Public was a trendy lunch spot for local office workers, and the main dining room was packed. Harper couldn’t see Dells anywhere. When she gave his name to the guy at the door, he immediately directed her up the stairs.
The building was sleekly furnished with spare, dark wood tables and slim chairs. She spotted Dells at the far end of the room. His head was bent over his phone, his high forehead creased. The navy suit he wore looked like it would be soft to the touch. His crisp white shirt set off the tan he sure hadn’t gotten around Savannah lately.
“Sorry I’m late,” she said, when she reached the table.
“You’re forgiven.” He stood up, a smile spreading across his face. He looked as good as she remembered—all high cheekbones and sharp, knowing eyes. He took off his frameless glasses before holding out his hand to shake hers. “Sit down. Let’s have some food.”