I did, we did. Ferociously.
He sat back on my freshly cleaned sofa, looked round, said,
“Very clean, very neat; this I like.”
A few moments later, the Goose bit, and that warm glow lined my stomach. He stood, glass in hand, and began to move around, paid full attention to the bookcases, selected the Poems of Hemingway, said,
“I did not know he wrote poetry.”
I said,
“Take it, then you decide if he did.”
He smiled, that’s the kind of answer he liked. He pointed his glass towards the sports bag, said,
“Your merchandise is in there.”
Paused, a vague smile hovering, added,
“With ammunition, of course.”
I took out the Mossberg and for a moment I was amazed at how light it felt. He said,
“The barrel, the grip, have been sawn off, so it fits almost like a handgun.”
He chuckled, quipped,
“Taylor made.”
Delighted at his own pun, he freshened our drinks. He said,
“Give me the shells.”
I placed half a dozen on the table. They were heavier than I’d imagined. He indicated the gun and I tossed it to him; he caught it effortlessly, one hand. Looked impressive and showed a deep familiarity with the weapon. He muttered,
“Epharisto poli.”
Thank you, in Greek.
I think.
It didn’t, of course, mean he was Greek; it simply meant he knew how to say thanks in the language. He flipped the gun to his left hand, grabbed two of the cartridges and inserted them, pumped the barrel once, said,
“Rock ‘n’ roll.”
Handed it back to me, a man who treated a loaded weapon carefully, a man who knew his trade, said,
“Practice with your left, over and over again, using your right hand to prop the barrel.”
I tried, fumbled, and he moved his finger.
I. e., again.
I did.
Knowing there were shells in it kept me focused. We stayed at it for a time, his eyes never leaving the weapon. Finally as sweat began to roll down my face, he signaled: enough. I went to put the gun aside and he said,
“No, make it part of your hand. Until it is, you are an amateur.” Lesson over, the steel left his voice. He asked,
“Need backup?”
I thought about it, said,
“Maybe.”
Then I reached for a thick envelope I’d readied and moved to put it in his hand. He shook his head, said,
“No, but perhaps, a little further along, I might call on your assistance.”
I assured him with,
“Ask and ’tis done.”
Words that will haunt me to my grave.
We sat, sipped at our drinks in more relaxed fashion. Laura’s letter was on the table. He asked,
“A woman?”
“Yes.”
He could see it was unopened, then,
“Do you love her?”
With Kosta, everything was direct, to the point of bluntness.
I said,
“I had hoped I might.”
He pondered that, staring at the remains of the vodka in his glass, said,
“Quel dommage.”
That I knew.