Jeremy almost laughed out loud. This was a psychiatrist’s observation.
Stifling this inner joke, Jeremy walked up to the counter. A single clerk was stacking boxes of ammunition as he helped one of the two other customers, who hefted a wicked-looking black pistol with obvious admiration. The clerk was a middle-aged man, buzz-cut and significantly overweight, with a “USMC” tattoo prominent on a forearm the size of a ham hock. He wore a shoulder harness with a semiautomatic pistol butt protruding and a gray T-shirt that had an old National Rifle Association cliché printed on it in fading red: “If you outlaw guns, only outlaws will have guns.”
“Help you with something?” the clerk asked not unpleasantly, looking up.
“Yes,” Jeremy answered. “I think I am in need of some proper home protection.”
“Everyone is in need of proper home protection these days,” the clerk said. “Got to keep you and yours safe. What did you have in mind?”
“I’m not at all sure…” Jeremy started.
“Well, you already have an alarm system on the house, right?”
Jeremy nodded.
“Good,” said the clerk. “Dog?”
“No.”
“How many folks in the house with you? I mean, kids, grandkids visit much? Wife? Does her book group meet at your place? Do you get lots of deliveries from FedEx? Just how much traffic at the front door is there?”
“I live alone. And no one visits any longer.”
“What sort of house? What sort of neighborhood? Where’s the closest police station?”
Jeremy felt as if he was being cross-examined. The two other shoppers, both now holding unloaded guns, stopped and listened in.
“I live out in the country. It’s pretty isolated. Old farmhouse near a wildlife preserve. No real neighbors to speak of, at least none within a couple of hundred yards and none that I’m real friendly with, so no one just drops by. And I’m set pretty far back from the road. Lots of trees and bushes-makes it all scenic. You can barely see my place from the roadway.”
“Whoa,” said the clerk, grinning. He half-turned toward the other two shoppers, who both nodded. “That’s not good. Not good at all.” He emphasized the last two words like a teacher might in a grade school classroom. “If the shit hit the fan-if you’ll pardon my language-you’re on your own, completely. Well, damn good thing you came in here today.”
The clerk seemed to assess Jeremy’s homestead as he would a potential battlefield. “Let’s talk about threats,” the clerk said. “What specifically do you think might happen?”
“Home invasion,” Jeremy said quickly. “I’m an old guy living alone. Pretty easy target, I’d think, for anyone.”
“Do you keep valuables or piles of cash in the house?”
“Not really.”
“Uh-huh.” The clerk nodded. “But, I’m guessing the place looks pretty nice. High- class. What do you do for a living?”
“I’m a doctor,” Jeremy said. “A psychiatrist.”
The clerk made a wry face. “Don’t get many shrinks in here. In fact, don’t think I’ve ever sold a gun to a shrink. Orthopedic guys, yeah. All the time. But not one of you. Is it true you can listen to some dude talk and tell what they’re really thinking?”
“No,” said Jeremy. “That would be mind-reading.”
“Hah!” The clerk laughed. “I bet you can. Anyway, you got a nice car?” This was posed as a question.
“It’s outside. BMW.”
“Well, that’s like posting a big old neon sign outside saying, ‘I’m a rich guy,’ ” chimed in one of the other shoppers, a younger man, long greasy hair pulled back in a ponytail, wearing a Harley-Davidson leather jacket above jeans and a neck tattoo only partially obscured by the collar of his coat.
The clerk smiled.
“So, really what you’re saying to me, Doc, is that you live in a nice place, where you’re probably surrounded by a bunch of stockbrokers and housewives who do real estate on the side and you give off the look of someone who just might be an easy score.”
“Okay,” Jeremy said. “True enough. What do you think? A shotgun? A handgun?”
“I think both, Doc, but it’s your money. How much do you want to spend for peace of mind?”
Neck Tattoo leaned forward as if interested. The other shopper had turned away to examine other handguns.
“I think I should just listen to the professional,” Jeremy said. “Given my situation, and if cost isn’t a concern, what would you recommend?” The gun clerk smiled.
“For the shotgun, either a Remington or a Mossberg. Not too heavy. Short barrel for use in close quarters. Simple, efficient mechanism. Won’t jam. Won’t rust. Can take a lot of combat abuse.”
“I’ve got a Mossberg,” Neck Tattoo added. “It’s also got a very cool attachment for a flashlight, which is really helpful.” He didn’t say why it was helpful. This seemed obvious.
The clerk nodded. “True. Six- or nine-shot models. And, I think, to really be effective, you should pair that up with a Colt Python.357 Magnum revolver. Put in wad-cutters. Stop an elephant in its tracks. The Cadillac of handguns.”
Neck Tattoo started to speak, and the clerk held up his hand. “I know, I know. More rapid firepower with a Glock Nine or a.45.” He smiled. “But for this gentleman, I think old-fashioned, easiest to use, just point and shoot and not worry about fumbling around with a clip and chambering a round, that makes the most sense.”
The clerk turned back to Jeremy. “A lot of folks see the cops on TV or in the movies and they always use semiautomatics, so that’s what they want. But a damn good pistol, I mean, a quality gun-hell, you can drop it in the mud or use it as a hammer when you’re doing your weekend chores, and it’s still gonna work just fine. That’s what I’m guessing will fit you best.”
Jeremy followed the clerk down a flight of stairs into the basement along with the two other shoppers. There was a makeshift firing range below the store, with a pair of shooting galleries. The clerk set up the first of the other men, handing all of them ear protectors and boxes of ammunition. Within seconds, the other man was in a slight crouch, expertly aiming and then opening up with a semiautomatic pistol at a target barely forty feet away. A makeshift pulley system ran along the ceiling and there was a built-in table and a single sheet of drywall material that separated the two ranges. The rapid fire from the semiautomatic was deafening, and Jeremy adjusted his pair of ear protectors. They muffled some-but not all-of the reports.
The clerk was yelling instructions, first for the Mossberg 12-gauge, then for the pistol. Loading. Stance. Grip. He gently maneuvered Jeremy into position.
Jeremy snugged the shotgun tightly up against his shoulder. Positioning, the clerk yelled above the incessant explosions coming from the adjacent gallery, was crucial. Jeremy could barely hear, “You don’t want to fracture that shoulder!”
The clerk tugged on the pulley system and sent a black-and-white bull’s-eye target down to the back wall, in front of a pile of sandbags. Jeremy eyed the target. The shotgun, snugged up against his shoulder, felt like a sudden extension of his body, as if it was screwed into him. In that second, as his finger closed around the trigger, Jeremy felt younger, as if years had fallen from his body. He suddenly felt equal. He sighted the target, took a breath, held it as he’d been instructed, and fired.
The weapon kicked back. It was like being punched by a professional boxer, or having the wind knocked out of him. But these sensations fled when he saw that the target had been shredded.
He cocked the weapon, ejecting the spent cartridge, and fired again.