He took one of my, repeat my, Bentleys and had it chopped and channelled. He turned the fucker into a low rider, like some East LA punk. He even had the leather upholstery removed and replaced with tuck and roll velour. I ask you.’ He shook his head.
‘You don’t mind?’ I asked.
‘I couldn’t care less. He’s a good percy.’
‘Percy?’ I said. ‘I thought his name was Algy.’ I was getting confused.
‘Percy,’ said McBain. ‘Personal, personal roadie, minder, whatever.’
‘And guns?’ I reminded him.
‘What?’
‘You said you got busted for guns.’
‘Yeah, I like guns.’
‘So does your mother.’
‘I like to make sure she can protect herself. I taught her how to handle a gun. Down on the range.’ It sounded like a song title. ‘She wasn’t too keen at first,’ he went on. ‘but I insisted. Here, just take a look at these.’
He clambered off his waterbed and walked across the room. There was a cabinet maybe six foot by three foot mounted on the wall. He unlocked it and swung the doors open. It was lined with velvet and contained about twenty hand-guns. It was a fine collection. There was everything from a twin-shot Derringer to a gorgeous gold-plated 1911 model Colt .45 covered in scroll work and filigree.
‘Christ,’ I said.
‘Nice huh?’ asked McBain.
‘Have you got licences for these?’ I asked.
‘Once a copper.’ He grinned. ‘All legal and above board.’
‘With drug convictions?’
‘I said I got busted, not convicted,’ he said. ‘And I’m a member of several reputable gun clubs, even though I haven’t been out for a while. I’ve still got a bit of a name. It’s easy. Most coppers are groupies. You should know that.’
I grinned. ‘You couldn’t be more right,’ I said.
I went over to the cabinet to get a closer look at the weapons.
‘Do you mind?’ I asked.
‘Go ahead,’ he said.
I lifted a Smith and Wesson .357 Magnum with a ribbed barrel out of its mount and hefted it in my hand. ‘Nice pistol.’ I said.
‘I prefer the .44.’ he said.
‘What for?’ I asked. ‘Shooting elephants?’
He laughed, then asked: ‘You’re a shootist. What’s your favourite gun?’
‘Colts are my preference,’ I replied, ‘but not automatics. That Commander was all right, but autos jam and that can be troublesome, and besides there are times when leaving cartridge cases all over the shop is just too much like taking out a small ad. Revolvers are favourite. A Cobra or Python maybe, something without too much kick, but at least you know you’ve fired it.’
‘I love automatics,’ he interrupted. ‘That gold Colt .45 is my favourite. It was a present from a girl-friend in the States, but I prefer this.’
He went over to his bedside table and pulled open the top drawer. From it he took a Broomhandle Mauser 9mm automatic pistol fitted with what looked like a twenty-shot magazine. It was over a foot long and altogether a very frightening weapon.
‘Shit,’ I said. ‘You know you should have that locked up.’
He shrugged and hefted the gun in his hand. ‘She’s my baby,’ he said. ‘I like to have her around when I sleep. She’s better than any woman and I don’t have to ask if the earth moved. When I fire this bitch I know that the earth moves.’
He replaced the gun reverentially in the drawer. ‘OK,’ he said. ‘You’ll do, let’s get down to business. How much was that bill again?’
I told him and he walked over to his dressing-table and opened the middle drawer.
‘Help yourself,’ he said. The drawer was full of crumpled bank notes. Everything from fifties down to out-of-date pound notes.
I counted out twelve hundred and sixty six pounds, I guessed J.R. could try his luck at the bank with the odd oner. I searched in my pocket for a fifty pence piece. McBain laughed as I held it out to him.
‘Toss you, double or quits,’ he said.
‘Sure,’ I replied and flipped the coin up.
‘Heads,’ he said. I caught the coin
‘You don’t mind?’ I asked.
‘I couldn’t care less. He’s a good percy.’
‘Percy?’ I said. ‘I thought his name was Algy.’ I was getting confused.
‘Percy,’ said McBain. ‘Personal, personal roadie, minder, whatever.’
‘And guns?’ I reminded him.
‘What?’
‘You said you got busted for guns.’
‘Yeah, I like guns.’
‘So does your mother.’
‘I like to make sure she can protect herself. I taught her how to handle a gun. Down on the range.’ It sounded like a song title. ‘She wasn’t too keen at first,’ he went on. ‘but I insisted. Here, just take a look at these.’
He clambered off his waterbed and walked across the room. There was a cabinet maybe six foot by three foot mounted on the wall. He unlocked it and swung the doors open. It was lined with velvet and contained about twenty hand-guns. It was a fine collection. There was everything from a twin-shot Derringer to a gorgeous gold-plated 1911 model Colt .45 covered in scroll work and filigree.
‘Christ,’ I said.
‘Nice huh?’ asked McBain.
‘Have you got licences for these?’ I asked.
‘Once a copper.’ He grinned. ‘All legal and above board.’
‘With drug convictions?’
‘I said I got busted, not convicted,’ he said. ‘And I’m a member of several reputable gun clubs, even though I haven’t been out for a while. I’ve still got a bit of a name. It’s easy. Most coppers are groupies. You should know that.’
I grinned. ‘You couldn’t be more right,’ I said.
I went over to the cabinet to get a closer look at the weapons.
‘Do you mind?’ I asked.
‘Go ahead,’ he said.
I lifted a Smith and Wesson .357 Magnum with a ribbed barrel out of its mount and hefted it in my hand. ‘Nice pistol.’ I said.
‘I prefer the .44.’ he said.
‘What for?’ I asked. ‘Shooting elephants?’
He laughed, then asked: ‘You’re a shootist. What’s your favourite gun?’
‘Colts are my preference,’ I replied, ‘but not automatics. That Commander was all right, but autos jam and that can be troublesome, and besides there are times when leaving cartridge cases all over the shop is just too much like taking out a small ad. Revolvers are favourite. A Cobra or Python maybe, something without too much kick, but at least you know you’ve fired it.’
‘I love automatics,’ he interrupted. ‘That gold Colt .45 is my favourite. It was a present from a girl-friend in the States, but I prefer this.’
He went over to his bedside table and pulled open the top drawer. From it he took a Broomhandle Mauser 9mm automatic pistol fitted with what looked like a twenty-shot magazine. It was over a foot long and altogether a very frightening weapon.
‘Shit,’ I said. ‘You know you should have that locked up.’
He shrugged and hefted the gun in his hand. ‘She’s my baby,’ he said. ‘I like to have her around when I sleep. She’s better than any woman and I don’t have to ask if the earth moved. When I fire this bitch I know that the earth moves.’
He replaced the gun reverentially in the drawer. ‘OK,’ he said. ‘You’ll do, let’s get down to business. How much was that bill again?’
I told him and he walked over to his dressing-table and opened the middle drawer.
‘Help yourself,’ he said. The drawer was full of crumpled bank notes. Everything from fifties down to out-of-date pound notes.
I counted out twelve hundred and sixty six pounds, I guessed J.R. could try his luck at the bank with the odd oner. I searched in my pocket for a fifty pence piece. McBain laughed as I held it out to him.
‘Toss you, double or quits,’ he said.
‘Sure,’ I replied and flipped the coin up.
‘Heads,’ he said. I caught the coin
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