The Fool - Chapter III
December 11th 2006 06:40
In this chapter, Vincent winds up his dealings with Nino, but not before taking him up on a kind offer.
Vincent gets a fleeting glimpse of a small, sparsely-furnished kitchen area, then the curtain swings back into place. It’s now that he notices a faint smoke-haze hanging in the room, barely visible, with a vague narcotic smell. Turning around, he observes that the smoke seems to be coming from the other curtained doorway, drifting out and curling around everything, stinging his eyes and making him a little dizzy. And he notices a huge textile poster on the wall, an image of an American flag with a bunch of men in suits standing if front of it, their briefcases with CIA stencilled on them. The men all have pig's heads atop their human bodies. And across the bottom, in chunky black lettering, it says BAY OF PIGS.
That explains a lot, Vincent thinks.
Nino breezes back through the doorway with a swish of the curtain, cigar hanging from his mouth, and places his hands, palm down, on the countertop. “Anything else?” he says, gesturing at the two boxes of bullets sitting atop the counter.
Vincent considers for a moment, stubbing his cigarette out in a glass ashtray by the cash register. “I’m told you sell wildcats,” he says eventually, playing idly with a little diecast replica of a WW1-era mounted cannon which sits by the ashtray.
“That’s right.”
“I wouldn’t mind a look at those.”
Nino gives a slight nod and leads him over to the upright display case near the centre of the room. The rounds inside rest on red velvet. Nino gestures at several rows near the top.
”These are the .357’s and .38’s. See the coloured stripes around the bottom of each?
Vincent leans in, squinting in the dim light, and sees that each bullet has a thin coloured band painted around its base. “Yeah,” he replies.
“The green ones have been repackaged with slugs I made myself – longer, thinner and lighter than the standard .357 round, special grooves cut in a spiral pattern down the sides.” Nino reaches to his belt and detaches a brass ring that jingles with countless keys hanging from it, keys of all shapes and sizes. “The modifications give the bullet slightly less stopping power, but greatly increased accuracy. I recommend them for sport shooters and pistol marksmen.”
He flicks through the keys, selects one and unlocks a latch on the side of the case. The glass front swings open with a whining creak. Vincent reaches out and picks up one of the green-marked rounds, noting the strangely shaped slug with its tiny grooves cut into the sides. He replaces it carefully.
“The ones with the red stripes are exploding rounds. Using a jeweller’s drill, you make a small well in the tip of each slug, then put a tiny amount of mercury in the hole before resealing it. The acceleration of being fired from the weapon slams the mercury back, and when the bullet hits the target and decelerates, it slams forward again, causing the bullet to fragment violently. It is similar in effect to a hollow-point round, only vastly more destructive.”
“That’s cute,” Vincent mutters.
“The ones with blue stripes are Herretts, not my design. I started with a .30-30 Winchester cartridge and shortened it. It has more stopping power than the standard cartridge, and even more than the original .30-30. It’s an excellent medium game hunting round. And the ones with black bands are tracers.”
Vincent notices that while explaining his creations, Nino becomes more animated, gesturing with his hands to emphasise points in his sentences, the corners of his mouth pulling up in a secretive little smile. His behaviour speaks of a lifetime based around guns, a passion that does not adapt well to civilian life. The fingers touch the bullets with the gentle care of a mother touching a newborn, no sign of a tremor despite his age.
Artist’s hands, bloodied in the Bay Of Pigs.
Vincent glances down briefly and taps his chin with one forefinger. “All right. I’ll take my .357s and ten of those exploding rounds, for novelty value.”
Nino nods and closes the case, dropping his cigar butt to the grease-stained concrete floor and grinding it out under a bootheel. “They’re only useful for novelty value, farmers and paramilitary freaks. Useless for small-game hunting. They’ll blow a wild boar clean in half.”
“That’s a charming image.”
“Image? Ai, you should smell it.”
He gets back behind his counter and pulls another cigar from his pocket. He sticks it in the corner of his mouth, unlit, and goes rummaging under the counter again, for longer this time. Vincent hears the tinkling of loose shells and some mysterious scratching, then a muttered “fuck”. Finally Nino pops up again wielding a small box and an unlit match, which he strikes on the countertop and touches to his cigar before shaking it out and dropping it in the ashtray.
“The ten shells are in the box. Mercury is fairly stable so you don’t have to worry about them rolling around in there, but keep ‘em away from fires, okay? All up it comes to…” His eyes roll back to the ceiling for a moment as he considers, then “thirty-five dollars and we’ll call it even.”
Vincent pulls his wallet from the pocket of his jeans and counts out two twenties, placing them on the counter. Although the armpit holster conceals itself well under his shirt, he can tell by following Nino’s eyes that the older man has figured out where he keeps his weapon.
“Excuse me if this is overstepping the bounds, my friend – but would you mind if I saw your weapon?”
“Sure.” Vincent reaches in and unbuttons the holster, then snapping the gun out, spinning it easily on a finger before banging it onto the countertop.
Nino mockingly gives this manoeuvre a gentle round of applause before tucking the cigar into his mouth and picking up the gun with both hands. “Very nice, but not terribly clever. I know a man who blew his left foot off doing that with a much smaller gun than this.”
Vincent picks up the box of wildcat shells, unconcerned, examining each one, turning it slowly in his fingers. “The safety's on.”
Nino is clearly taken with the weapon. It’s a mirror-polished Ultimate Stainless Colt Python with a gleaming 8 inch barrel and slightly worn pale woodgrain grips. Light and infinitesimal reflections run and stretch and bend along its surface as Nino turns it in his hands. He flicks out the cylinder, raises his eyebrows as he notes the spotless finish on the inside of the chambers and the clean snap-click of the crane mechanism.
Vincent stands patiently as Nino flicks the cylinder back in and spins the weapon twice on his finger, finally catching the barrel and offering the grip to Vincent. He slides it absently into the holster beneath his shirt and picks up his purchases.
“That is a beautiful weapon, and it’s been very well cared for,” Nino says with a sigh, taking his cigar between his fingers. “With that grip it must be a custom job.”
“I got it second-hand, but I assume you’re right,” Vincent says, turning to leave. “See you round.”
He’s taken a couple of steps toward the heavy door when Nino says, “Wait a moment.”
Vincent turns around, unhurried, eyebrows raised.
“May I interest you in a cactus? On the house, of course. I have these beautiful little ones that require very little space or attention, perfect for a gentleman like yourself who has the wanderlust.”
“What makes you think I’m a wanderer?” Vincent says, intrigued.
“It is written all over you,” Nino says.
“Well, that’s a very kind offer, but I –“
“Some of my customers tell me that they do not want a cactus, that they are not gardeners. But they take one on my insistence and the next time I see them they tell me that they have given their cactus a name, grown fond of it, become collectors themselves.” Nino has turned around and is perusing a shelf of small cacti in little pots. “Something about a cactus makes it a very beautiful plant. Their hardiness, perhaps; they seem as timeless and unchanging as the hills. Or when they flower. To see a beautiful flower come from something so dangerous and utilitarian in appearance is quite unique.”
“You’re quite a salesman, but I really don’t think so. Thanks anyway.”
Nino turns back to face Vincent and shrugs nonchalantly. “That’s all right. You do not look like a cactus man.”
Vincent laughs. “You seem to know a lot from looking at me.”
Nino nods, setting the cigar down in the ashtray. “When you are as old as me, you learn to tell these things. Well then, why don’t you let Lola give you a reading?” He gestures at the other curtained doorway, the one emanating that odd smoke-haze.
“Lola?”
“Mm. She lives here with me, and has a gift for reading the tarot cards. She is never wrong, or not that I have seen.”
“Thanks, but I'm not a spiritual man either.”
“You have nothing to lose. You might even learn something. If not about the future, senor, then maybe about yourself.”
“I should really be going.”
“You got somewhere to be?”
A short, exasperated bark of laughter escapes Vincent at the man's persistence. “No, but I suppose you knew that too.”
“I did. She told me you were coming.”
Vincent's gray eyes settle on Nino's deep brown ones, trying to gauge whether the man is fucking with him or just crazy.
“Is that right. What did she say?”
“That I would be visited by a tall man with odd eyes, who would not want a cactus.”
Vincent laughs again, perplexed by this weird old man. “Fine,” he says eventually. “Will you look after my things?” He offers his purchases to Nino.
“Yes. They will be waiting on the counter for you. I have some business to attend to in the back room. Just pick them up on your way out.”
“All right,” vincent sighs, handing them over.
“Bon fortuna,”, Nino says mildly, walking toward the counter. “May she give you some good news, my friend.”
“Yeah, right,” Vincent mutters, striding apprehensively toward the other curtained doorway. The narcotic smell grows stronger as he nears its source, a sweet, cloying, evocative fragrance that tickles his nostrils. It's almost familiar.
The Fool - Chapter III
Vincent gets a fleeting glimpse of a small, sparsely-furnished kitchen area, then the curtain swings back into place. It’s now that he notices a faint smoke-haze hanging in the room, barely visible, with a vague narcotic smell. Turning around, he observes that the smoke seems to be coming from the other curtained doorway, drifting out and curling around everything, stinging his eyes and making him a little dizzy. And he notices a huge textile poster on the wall, an image of an American flag with a bunch of men in suits standing if front of it, their briefcases with CIA stencilled on them. The men all have pig's heads atop their human bodies. And across the bottom, in chunky black lettering, it says BAY OF PIGS.
Nino breezes back through the doorway with a swish of the curtain, cigar hanging from his mouth, and places his hands, palm down, on the countertop. “Anything else?” he says, gesturing at the two boxes of bullets sitting atop the counter.
Vincent considers for a moment, stubbing his cigarette out in a glass ashtray by the cash register. “I’m told you sell wildcats,” he says eventually, playing idly with a little diecast replica of a WW1-era mounted cannon which sits by the ashtray.
“That’s right.”
“I wouldn’t mind a look at those.”
Nino gives a slight nod and leads him over to the upright display case near the centre of the room. The rounds inside rest on red velvet. Nino gestures at several rows near the top.
”These are the .357’s and .38’s. See the coloured stripes around the bottom of each?
Vincent leans in, squinting in the dim light, and sees that each bullet has a thin coloured band painted around its base. “Yeah,” he replies.
He flicks through the keys, selects one and unlocks a latch on the side of the case. The glass front swings open with a whining creak. Vincent reaches out and picks up one of the green-marked rounds, noting the strangely shaped slug with its tiny grooves cut into the sides. He replaces it carefully.
“The ones with the red stripes are exploding rounds. Using a jeweller’s drill, you make a small well in the tip of each slug, then put a tiny amount of mercury in the hole before resealing it. The acceleration of being fired from the weapon slams the mercury back, and when the bullet hits the target and decelerates, it slams forward again, causing the bullet to fragment violently. It is similar in effect to a hollow-point round, only vastly more destructive.”
“That’s cute,” Vincent mutters.
“The ones with blue stripes are Herretts, not my design. I started with a .30-30 Winchester cartridge and shortened it. It has more stopping power than the standard cartridge, and even more than the original .30-30. It’s an excellent medium game hunting round. And the ones with black bands are tracers.”
Vincent notices that while explaining his creations, Nino becomes more animated, gesturing with his hands to emphasise points in his sentences, the corners of his mouth pulling up in a secretive little smile. His behaviour speaks of a lifetime based around guns, a passion that does not adapt well to civilian life. The fingers touch the bullets with the gentle care of a mother touching a newborn, no sign of a tremor despite his age.
Artist’s hands, bloodied in the Bay Of Pigs.
Vincent glances down briefly and taps his chin with one forefinger. “All right. I’ll take my .357s and ten of those exploding rounds, for novelty value.”
Nino nods and closes the case, dropping his cigar butt to the grease-stained concrete floor and grinding it out under a bootheel. “They’re only useful for novelty value, farmers and paramilitary freaks. Useless for small-game hunting. They’ll blow a wild boar clean in half.”
“That’s a charming image.”
“Image? Ai, you should smell it.”
He gets back behind his counter and pulls another cigar from his pocket. He sticks it in the corner of his mouth, unlit, and goes rummaging under the counter again, for longer this time. Vincent hears the tinkling of loose shells and some mysterious scratching, then a muttered “fuck”. Finally Nino pops up again wielding a small box and an unlit match, which he strikes on the countertop and touches to his cigar before shaking it out and dropping it in the ashtray.
“The ten shells are in the box. Mercury is fairly stable so you don’t have to worry about them rolling around in there, but keep ‘em away from fires, okay? All up it comes to…” His eyes roll back to the ceiling for a moment as he considers, then “thirty-five dollars and we’ll call it even.”
Vincent pulls his wallet from the pocket of his jeans and counts out two twenties, placing them on the counter. Although the armpit holster conceals itself well under his shirt, he can tell by following Nino’s eyes that the older man has figured out where he keeps his weapon.
“Excuse me if this is overstepping the bounds, my friend – but would you mind if I saw your weapon?”
“Sure.” Vincent reaches in and unbuttons the holster, then snapping the gun out, spinning it easily on a finger before banging it onto the countertop.
Nino mockingly gives this manoeuvre a gentle round of applause before tucking the cigar into his mouth and picking up the gun with both hands. “Very nice, but not terribly clever. I know a man who blew his left foot off doing that with a much smaller gun than this.”
Vincent picks up the box of wildcat shells, unconcerned, examining each one, turning it slowly in his fingers. “The safety's on.”
Nino is clearly taken with the weapon. It’s a mirror-polished Ultimate Stainless Colt Python with a gleaming 8 inch barrel and slightly worn pale woodgrain grips. Light and infinitesimal reflections run and stretch and bend along its surface as Nino turns it in his hands. He flicks out the cylinder, raises his eyebrows as he notes the spotless finish on the inside of the chambers and the clean snap-click of the crane mechanism.
Vincent stands patiently as Nino flicks the cylinder back in and spins the weapon twice on his finger, finally catching the barrel and offering the grip to Vincent. He slides it absently into the holster beneath his shirt and picks up his purchases.
“That is a beautiful weapon, and it’s been very well cared for,” Nino says with a sigh, taking his cigar between his fingers. “With that grip it must be a custom job.”
“I got it second-hand, but I assume you’re right,” Vincent says, turning to leave. “See you round.”
He’s taken a couple of steps toward the heavy door when Nino says, “Wait a moment.”
Vincent turns around, unhurried, eyebrows raised.
“May I interest you in a cactus? On the house, of course. I have these beautiful little ones that require very little space or attention, perfect for a gentleman like yourself who has the wanderlust.”
“What makes you think I’m a wanderer?” Vincent says, intrigued.
“It is written all over you,” Nino says.
“Well, that’s a very kind offer, but I –“
“Some of my customers tell me that they do not want a cactus, that they are not gardeners. But they take one on my insistence and the next time I see them they tell me that they have given their cactus a name, grown fond of it, become collectors themselves.” Nino has turned around and is perusing a shelf of small cacti in little pots. “Something about a cactus makes it a very beautiful plant. Their hardiness, perhaps; they seem as timeless and unchanging as the hills. Or when they flower. To see a beautiful flower come from something so dangerous and utilitarian in appearance is quite unique.”
“You’re quite a salesman, but I really don’t think so. Thanks anyway.”
Nino turns back to face Vincent and shrugs nonchalantly. “That’s all right. You do not look like a cactus man.”
Vincent laughs. “You seem to know a lot from looking at me.”
Nino nods, setting the cigar down in the ashtray. “When you are as old as me, you learn to tell these things. Well then, why don’t you let Lola give you a reading?” He gestures at the other curtained doorway, the one emanating that odd smoke-haze.
“Lola?”
“Mm. She lives here with me, and has a gift for reading the tarot cards. She is never wrong, or not that I have seen.”
“Thanks, but I'm not a spiritual man either.”
“You have nothing to lose. You might even learn something. If not about the future, senor, then maybe about yourself.”
“I should really be going.”
“You got somewhere to be?”
A short, exasperated bark of laughter escapes Vincent at the man's persistence. “No, but I suppose you knew that too.”
“I did. She told me you were coming.”
Vincent's gray eyes settle on Nino's deep brown ones, trying to gauge whether the man is fucking with him or just crazy.
“Is that right. What did she say?”
“That I would be visited by a tall man with odd eyes, who would not want a cactus.”
Vincent laughs again, perplexed by this weird old man. “Fine,” he says eventually. “Will you look after my things?” He offers his purchases to Nino.
“Yes. They will be waiting on the counter for you. I have some business to attend to in the back room. Just pick them up on your way out.”
“All right,” vincent sighs, handing them over.
“Bon fortuna,”, Nino says mildly, walking toward the counter. “May she give you some good news, my friend.”
“Yeah, right,” Vincent mutters, striding apprehensively toward the other curtained doorway. The narcotic smell grows stronger as he nears its source, a sweet, cloying, evocative fragrance that tickles his nostrils. It's almost familiar.
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