Mob Rules (20 page)

“I'll take you, but I don't want to go with you to see him. He doesn't like me. Plus, I need to visit my family and let them know where I am and that I'm okay.”

“No problem. I guess I can buy a gun by myself.”

We left the Coliseum and headed north on Vermont a short distance into the mist before the world shifted. We arrived at a run-down warehouse in Van Nuys that had probably been built sometime during the oil boom of the twenties. It seemed a little clichéd that the arms dealer was shacked up in an old warehouse, but it also struck me as practical. Then, too, my gangster boss held court at a strip club, so who am I to cast stones at clichés?

I made arrangements to meet Honey at the condo after I'd done my business. She left, and I walked up to the office door of the warehouse. There was a guard out front, an Asian gangbanger who might have been eighteen when he died. He was holding a Kalashnikov.

“Hi,” I said. “I'm Domino Riley. I need to do some business with your boss.”

The kid's eyes moved down my body and got stuck somewhere around my waist.

I snapped my fingers. “Up here, Romeo. I'm in Shanar Rashan's outfit. I want to buy a gat.”

He looked at me a moment longer and then jerked his head in the direction of the office door. I went in and found five ghosts sitting at a table playing seven-card stud. They looked up at me when I closed the door behind me and I repeated my business. There was a door leading into the warehouse and a stairway to a second-floor office.

One of the ghosts motioned me to a chair. He was a Mexican kid in a wife-beater and chinos. Just about every square inch of exposed skin was covered with gang and prison tats. I sat down and he went upstairs. A few minutes later, he returned and waved me up from the stairway. I squeezed past him and he followed me up the stairs. I really wished I'd put some sweats on over the shorts.

The Burning Man was seated behind a large banker's desk that might have been vintage but just looked worn-out. There was a chain-link cage behind him filled with boxes and crates. There were two padded chairs in front of the desk, one of which was occupied by a young woman. She was blonde and pretty, with the best skin you could get in a place where everything is yellow. She looked like a starlet from the black-
and-white days, like an Ingrid Bergman type. She smiled at me and showed me a vampire's fangs.

The Burning Man was an Anglo, tall, black hair slicked back, dark eyes glittering at me under narrow eyebrows. He gestured to the remaining chair and I sat down.

“Welcome, Miss Riley,” he said and offered his hand. I leaned up out of my chair and reached across the desk to take it. It started burning and I gave it back to him. The flames just licked at him at first, then they caught and began to devour his fine old suit.

“Pay no attention to the special effects, Miss Riley. I assure you it's quite beyond my control. A bit of a nuisance, really.” The fire had eaten away his clothes and was working on his flesh, blackening it and peeling it away from his bones. I forced myself to watch. I gave a little nod to let him know it didn't bother me if it didn't bother him.

“Tell us what we can do for you, Miss Riley.”

“I need a gun. I heard you were the man to see.”

“I am,” said the Burning Man. “I am, indeed. Well, I know of you and your outfit, of course. I know of your boss. I'm very pleased to have your business. What manner of firearm are you in the market for?”

I thought about it. “Something I can use in a tight spot, but with enough pop to leave an impression. A forty-five or a three-fifty-seven should fit.”

The Burning Man smiled and Vampirella stifled a laugh. I stared hard at her but she didn't seem to mind.

“Weapons are a little different in this place from what you're used to, Miss Riley. They're not truly real, of course, in any physical sense, and so characteristics such as caliber and muzzle velocity are of little consequence here.”

I looked at him like I look at Mr. Clean and waited for him
to tell me something. It was a little disconcerting, because he wasn't much more than a smoking skeleton at this point.

He nodded. “Yes, you see, in the Between, a firearm's capabilities are more related to the…event responsible for its instantiation in this place.” He stood up and opened the cage behind him. The fire was gone and he was clad in healthy flesh and well-tailored summer wool again. “In other words, Miss Riley, the size of the weapon doesn't matter here. It's what is done with it that counts.”

“Well, like I told you, I need a handgun with some muscle.”

“Indeed.” The Burning Man nodded thoughtfully. “The best weapons are typically those used in mass murders and spree killings. Such weapons are regrettably rare, of course, and highly prized.” He turned from the product he was considering and looked at me. “Do you mind if I ask about the nature of the job the weapon is intended for? You understand there is no law here and any information you provide is strictly confidential. My interest is motivated solely by my desire to provide the best possible service.”

I looked at him and then at Vampirella. I shrugged. Fred already knew I'd be coming for him. Even if word got out, that would cost me less than going up against him with a gun that couldn't do the job.

“There's a vampire I need to shoot,” I said. I smiled at Vampirella and winked. She still didn't seem to mind.

“I see. Well, vampires don't have a lot going for them—no offense intended, Sophia, my dear—but they are remarkably difficult to kill in the Between.” He considered, curling the fingers of his right hand and pressing his thumb to his lips. He started to burn again. He turned back to the cage and lifted a rectangular box of dark wood from a crate. He brought it
out of the cage and placed it on the desk, smoothing it with his burning hands.

“I have a weapon, Miss Riley—well, an artifact, really—that would be ideal for your purposes.” He turned the box around and opened it. “It's known as the Dead Man's Gun.”

It was a Colt Peacemaker. I'd seen enough Westerns to recognize the type. It had a polished walnut grip and the black steel barrel was half again as long as Honey.

“This gat's probably a hundred and thirty years old. And it's a six-shooter. It looks nice enough, but I had more modern technology in mind.”

“It belonged to Wyatt Earp, Miss Riley. Its power lies not only in the number of men it killed, but also in the legend that is woven into it. As I said, the Dead Man's Gun is an artifact.”

“Well, it's an artifact that holds six rounds and will probably choke on half of them.”

“Again, Miss Riley, physical characteristics are irrelevant here. You will never have to worry about the Dead Man's Gun running out of ammunition. You will never have to worry about jams or misfires, I assure you.”

I reached for the Peacemaker and then looked at the Burning Man for permission. He nodded and kept burning. I lifted the gun out of the case.

In the ordinary world, a gun is just a gun. The only thrill you get out of fondling one is a little boy's power fantasy. This wasn't the ordinary world. The Dead Man's Gun had juice. It tingled along my hand and up my arm, spreading out through my body. It whispered to me with the calm, comforting voice of a killer.

The Peacemaker was a rocket launcher in a compact five-pound package. Well, it wasn't that compact. It was about
eighteen inches long from the tip of the barrel to the back of the grip. Not exactly built for a woman, but it felt comfortable in my hand.

“Says here its name is Ned,” I said, studying the gun. The name was engraved in the walnut grip.

“Ned Buntline,” said the Burning Man. He was nodding and smiling with the enthusiasm of a boy talking baseball cards. “He commissioned these long-barreled Colts and presented them to several peace officers in Dodge City in 1876. It was Earp's favorite firearm.”

“Single action?” I asked. I released the cylinder and looked. It was loaded with five cartridges, the hammer resting on an empty chamber.

“Yes, the action is the only element of the firing mechanism that is functional in this place. I think it is part of its personality.”

“So I have to cock it before it will fire.”

The Burning Man nodded. “You can also thumb-fire and fan the weapon, if speed is more important to you than accuracy. You'll find that the action is very smooth and the gun enjoys such treatment.”

“But it doesn't need reloading?”

“That is correct, Miss Riley.”

“How much?”

The Burning Man spread his burning hands and sighed. “As I said, the Dead Man's Gun is a unique and valuable artifact. It is very difficult to put a price on it.”

“But you're going to, just the same.”

“Indeed, Miss Riley. My price is an exclusive arrangement with your outfit. If, in the future, your people need weapons in the Between, you will do business with me. Do you have the authority to make such an arrangement?”

I nodded. “Assuming my boss doesn't have an existing agreement with a supplier, sure.”

“He does not. It is my business to know these things, you understand. Very well, Miss Riley, do we have a deal?”

“Yeah, we have a deal. I'll need some kind of rig for this thing.” The Burning Man nodded and went back into the cage, returning with a black leather gunbelt. He handed it to me and I took it. The initials
WBSE
were tooled into the leather in silver.

“I must place one condition on this sale, Miss Riley. You understand that different rules must, of necessity, apply to property in the Between. On the event of your death, ownership of the Dead Man's Gun reverts to me, so that I might pass it on to another worthy warrior. This is its nature.”

Well, what's one more spirit that wants me dead? I was assembling quite a collection. “Not on the event of my death,” I said. “On the event of my passing into the Beyond, permanently, the gun goes back to you. It's mine as long as I have business in the Between.”

The Burning Man stared at me. His skull burned and an eye popped. I didn't blink. Finally he nodded and smiled. “You are a shrewd negotiator, Miss Riley. I believe that weapon will make you a formidable opponent indeed. Very well, then, we have reached an agreement.” He extended a blackened claw to me and I shook it. The bone was cold and charred.

I stood up and buckled the gunbelt around my waist. I thought it would be way too big for me, but the last hole on the belt was a perfect fit. I slid the Peacemaker into the holster, then nodded at the Burning Man, winked at Vampirella and left.

 

Honey was waiting for me when I got back to the condo. She looked at the Peacemaker swinging on my hip, back at me and then back at the pistol.

“I didn't know you were going to buy a cannon,” she said.

“Wyatt Earp's gun.”

“The cowboy in the movies?”

“He was a lawman, not a cowboy. In the movies, at least.”

“Well, did you know his gun was cursed?” Honey was staring at the Peacemaker, frowning.

“They call it the Dead Man's Gun. I guessed it probably was. Anyway, I call it Ned.” I turned sideways and showed her the engraving on the grip.

“It doesn't bother you that it's cursed.” Honey was staring at me in disbelief.

“Well, it beats toting a gun some psychotic teenager used in a school shooting. Anyway, I think it likes me.”

“It likes you.”

“Yeah,” I said, patting the Colt. “I guess it'll put a big enough hole in Fred.”

“Well, it looks a little ridiculous.”

I looked down at the holstered gun. It reached most of the way to my knee. “It doesn't really go with running shorts,” I allowed. “I'll have to change into something more somber next time.”

“It's a little…oversized, don't you think?”

“No,” I said, “watch this.” My right arm blurred and the Peacemaker came out of the holster like it didn't even notice it was there.

“It's very impressive, but that's not what I meant. Don't you think the length is a little pretentious?”

“I didn't put a foot-long barrel on it,” I grumbled.

“Freud would have loved you, Domino. Are we going after
the vampire now, or do you need some time to practice with that thing?”

“I'm ready. I did some target shooting on the way back here.”

“What did you shoot?”

“Stop sign. There's no traffic here, so you might as well shoot one.”

Honey and I traveled south and the mist delivered us to Watts. It was a short walk to the salvage yard. The loitering ghosts were no more hostile than the living in the juiced-up ghetto.

We advanced through the yard. It was quiet. It was still a junkyard, but it was easier to look at it in the Between. The faded colors and vague light softened it and smoothed it out. It was almost peaceful, like an old cemetery.

I was sure Terrence had cleared the debris and dug out his gangbangers in my world, but the work hadn't gotten done in this one. The path I'd created with the repulsion spell was still there, and we followed it into the open lot. The Vampire Fred was polite enough to come out and meet us before we made it to the building.

He stepped outside and stood watching us, his hands at his sides. He left the door open behind him. I guessed the spirit was back there somewhere in the darkness.

I stopped about thirty feet away. Honey hovered at my side, pixie dust falling from her in agitated clouds. The sword was back and she held it in both hands, the blade dipping toward the ground in front of her.

It occurred to me to shoot Fred and cut the visit short. I decided not to, because I thought he might say something worth listening to. I heard metal shift and grind against metal behind me. I turned. The ghosts of the gangbangers I'd killed
were pulling themselves out of the twisted and tangled debris. They weren't much to look at, with shattered bones, torn flesh and caved-in skulls. There were only eight of them, so Terrence must have gotten a few out alive. I turned back to Fred.