Never Mix Business With Pleasure
“This is my favourite gun.” He held up a very small revolver, cupped gently in the palm of one meaty hand as though it was a rare butterfly. But it didn’t take my attention away from the assault rifle he was pointing at my chest with the other.
I’ve noticed this before in my dealings with other professional maniacs – in situations like this, it’s best to keep them talking. On the face of it, when you’ve busted into someone’s home under cover of darkness, believing them to be five miles away in an old man’s pub sinking pints with a retired prostitute and it turns out they’re not, asking to see the rest of their gun collection may seem unwise. But here we are 8 minutes later and I’m still not dead.
“Isn’t she a little beauty?”
Well, I had to agree. This was the seventh gun he’d held up for inspection and I surmised that my time to make a move was probably running out. “Is that a mother-of-pearl handle?” I asked in the tone of delighted interest I normally reserve for asking if it’s Bombay Sapphire the barman’s just poured into my gin and tonic.
“Sure is!” he said proudly and glanced down at it. I took the opportunity to taser him in the neck. Funny things tasers. Ever so useful. I clunked him over the head with the butt of the assault rifle to make sure he wouldn’t be troubling me any further that evening.
I got what I needed from the poor, but standard, hiding place of being taped to the underside of the dining table and went on my merry way. I had a helicopter to catch and if I missed it, it wouldn’t only be me who finished the evening dead.
I pocketed the tiny gun. I didn’t normally travel armed, but the hairy man was right – she was a beauty.