“How much is this here?” he asked.
“Four fifty,” said Wayne. “But I can give it to you for four.”
Wayne Holtz was a cretin. New, the piece would go for a thousand. Victor didn’t need another semiautomatic; already he had a half dozen in his arsenal. But he was constitutionally unable to pass up a bargain.
“Sold,” he said.
Wayne reached under the table and handed him a form. “For the background check.” He offered Victor the pencil from behind his ear.
Victor reached for his wallet and placed a Pennsylvania driver’s license on the table. Wayne understood the particularities of his situation. They had done business before.
Wayne studied the license. “How do you say that, anyway? Thibadoo?”
Victor said, “Tib, bow, doe.”
Squinting, he filled in Randy’s address and birth date and Social Security number, information he’d long ago committed to memory. The form was hard to read: the type was large enough, but the letters looked wavy. As he wrote he felt a presence behind him. He turned to see an armed Black man.
Ringing in his ears, a flash of alarm.
The guy was a Pennsylvania statie. His uniform shirt was neatly pressed, his head shaved shiny bald. Immediately, instinctively, Victor made a series of calculations. He did this routinely whenever a cop came into range. This one—L. WASHINGTON, according to his nameplate—was taller than Victor, thirty years younger, and built like a brick shithouse. His service revolver was holstered at his hip.
“Hey, man,” Wayne said, shaking the cop’s hand. “You on duty?”
The friendly tone took Victor by surprise. He wouldn’t have thought Wayne was the type to buddy up with cops, never mind Black ones.
“Not for another hour.” The cop leaned on the table. “Right now I’m just shopping.”
Victor kept his head down and continued writing. A lick of sweat trailed down his back. Randy’s license sat in plain sight on the table, six inches from the cop’s hand.
“I see you made a sale,” the cop said to Wayne. He took the Ruger from the table and raised it briefly to his shoulder. “That’s a good-looking weapon.”
Victor’s back was now slick with sweat.
The cop handed the Ruger back to Wayne. Then he noticed Randy’s license on the table. “What’s this?”
Wayne looked suddenly alert. “I ran a background check on that guy a while ago. Poor bastard left his license behind.”
In spite of himself, Victor was impressed. He had discounted Wayne as a slow-witted blowhard. Who would have guessed he could think on his feet?
The cop slipped the license into his pocket. “There’s a lost and found at the front office. I’ll turn it in for you.”
“Thanks,” Wayne said.
When the cop moved away from the table, Wayne met Victor’s eyes. “Jesus, Victor. That was a close call.”
“Yeah. Sorry about that.” Victor was a little rattled. He looked longingly at the Ruger. “He’s gone now. Can you run that background check real quick? I wrote down all the numbers.”
Wayne looked panicked.
“Victor, man. I get caught doing this, I could lose my license.”
“Oh, for Pete’s sake,” Victor said.
At that moment the PA system crackled, an announcement coming on: Will Randy Thibadoo please come to the office to claim a lost item? Randy Thibadoo.
Victor’s face—he could feel it—flushed scarlet. It isn’t worth it, he thought. The last thing he needed was to get slapped with a gun charge.