When Marlene and Harry left the courthouse, Foley Square was cold in the bone-withering way that March can be cold in New York and swept with sheets of chilling rain. Marlene had intended to walk home, but now she allowed Harry Bello to lead her to his old Plymouth, illegally parked in a judge’s slot at the side of the building.
They got in and Bello raced the engine to pump some warmth into the car. Marlene relaxed, fumbled out a cigarette, longed for it, and replaced it in her bag. She was over six months pregnant and slowing down a hair. Instead, she fiddled with the radio dial, searching for music to soothe her savage breast. She found someone singing a Puccini aria and left it on. The song ended. It was then that she realized that they had been traveling far too long. She looked out the window. They were on the West Side Highway heading north.
“Harry, where are we going?” she asked.
“Weehawken,” said Bello.
If Harry Bello had been a regular person, Marlene would have asked him why they were going to Weehawken and he would have said why, and they would have taken it from there. But Marlene knew that Harry expected her to know already why they were going, as if the trisyllabic name of the unlovely Jersey burg already contained, in the fashion of the ultra-fast code bursts sent down from spy satellites, the complete story. And she knew that if she just demanded an explanation in the conventional way, Harry would look at her funny and think she was slipping, and so the trust between them, which besides the person of Lucy Karp was the only thing that held Harry to the normal world, would fray a little and Harry would withdraw another notch into the chaotic depths of Harryland.
She was used to this, however, and it took her less than a minute to figure it out and respond, “I said, I don’t need one.”
Because she had gone back to the last substantive conversation she had had with Bello, over the phone, during which she had told Harry about Mattie Duran and what Mattie wanted her to do, and Harry had said, “You need a gun,” and she had declined and this was Harry not taking no for an answer.
“She’s got a sheet,” said Harry, dismissing her last statement and making another jump. This was an easy one. Of course, Harry would have used his cop sources to check out Mattie Duran. Marlene was not surprised at what he had learned. She waited.
“Forty-six months in Texas for bank robbery,” Harry added, switching to Real Mode. “Guy I talked to down in El Paso said she popped her old man too, but they didn’t prosecute.”
“Why not?”
“It’s Texas. They thought the guy needed killing. Had a couple of partners in the bank thing. Both killed in a shoot-out with the Rangers. They never recovered the loot. Something like eight hundred K.” Harry looked at her significantly and she moved her head slightly, indicating that she hadn’t known all of that. He seemed about to say something, but at that point he had to maneuver the tricky exit from the West Side Highway and onto the ramp leading to the Lincoln Tunnel.
Marlene ruminated as they sped through the filthy tiled pipe. Harry’s information explained a lot about Duran: how she was able to run the shelter without public money, why she was wary of the authorities. The parricide thing was a bit of a shock, though. Marlene did not recall ever meeting anyone- socially-who had killed one of their parents. She wondered whether she should, and by what means she might, bring it up in conversation with Duran. Meanwhile, it was clear that Harry thought that her relationship with Mattie required an increased level of protection, and she wondered why.
Harry read her mind, of course, and said, as they emerged into gray daylight and rain, “People disappear.”
“That’s her job, Harry. It’s for the women’s protection.”
“Men too,” said Harry.
“Wait a minute, Harry. You think she does hits on people?”
Harry did not deem this worthy of an answer, and left Marlene to her unpleasant thoughts as they emerged into freezing rain in Weehawken. After a drive of about ten minutes through broken and deserted industrial streets, Harry pulled the car through a sagging gate in a chain-link fence topped by rusty barbed wire. There was a low concrete-block building on the site, which bore a small, faded sign announcing that it was the home of the Palisades Rod and Gun Club. Harry parked and led Marlene through a door marked OFFICE.
A chubby man in his late fifties rose from behind a cluttered desk and shook Bello’s hand. Bello introduced him to Marlene as Frank Arnolfini. Marlene looked around the small, veneer-paneled room. For a rod and gun club, it was remarkably light in the rod department. Shelves held shooting trophies and the little banners they give out at conventions. A glass showcase counter was full of handguns, and a rack held rifles and shotguns. The walls were decorated with posters supplied by arms and shooting accessory manufacturers, and the sort of plaques and photographs that people accumulate during a long career with the New York Police Department. Arnolfini was an ex-cop and a part-time gun dealer.
After some chat about how bad the weather was and how they were both doing in retirement, Arnolfini turned to Marlene and said, “Harry tells me you’re interested in a weapon.”
“Actually, Harry’s interested in me getting a weapon. I can’t stand the idea myself.”
Arnolfini chuckled understandingly. “Yeah, well, a lot of ladies are that way. But there’s really nothing to be scared of if you have the proper training. We run a pretty good handgun course here for women.”
“Uh-huh, but as it happens, I’m not scared of guns, and I’m a natural shot.” Arnolfini and Bello exchanged looks. Arnolfini shrugged and said, “You want a carry gun, you’re probably in the market for a semiauto, a nine, right?”
“How big is it?” asked Marlene shortly.
Arnolfini smiled in a way that confirmed Marlene’s impression that she was about to be patronized.
“Well, that would depend,” he said. “There’s all different kinds.”
She felt a wave of bitchiness rise within her. She didn’t want to be here, she didn’t like guns. That she was here, and that she probably was going to buy a gun, and carry it, stemmed from her decision to go into an enterprise that might require her to shoot somebody. Having to lie in a bed she had made was not something Marlene was fond of doing.
Arnolfini went to the handgun cabinet, took out a selection of semiautomatic pistols, and arranged them on a felt pad on top of the glass.
“These are all good nines,” he said. “Your Browning Hi-power, a little old but still a classic, your Beretta 92F, pricey but a great gun, your Heckler P9S, very pricey but the best; I can give you a deal on this one. And here’s your Smith 669 in stainless. A good piece, and under six hundred bucks.”
When Marlene made no move to handle any of the weapons, Arnolfini picked up the Smith and held it out to her.
“Try it. It’s real light.”
Marlene took it and let it dangle from her hand like a wet dish towel. “It’s a brick,” she said.
“It’s only twenty-six ounces empty,” replied Arnolfini. “Look, here’s something maybe you don’t get. The heavier the pistol, the easier the recoil. For a woman that’s something to think about.”