Fogtown by Peter Plate Page A

Chiclet. “Ain’t that right, honey?”
    Chiclet uncrossed her legs and started to get up. “That’s right, Jeeter.” She adjusted her halter-top, giving both men a candid shot of her alabaster breasts. She said to Stiv, “You want something to drink? We’ve got filtered water, beer, and Pepsi. Or you want to smoke a joint?” Her flat eyes sparkled. “I’ll roll a fatty with this here primo Canadian bud we’ve got.”
    Jeeter motioned for her to sit back down, holding his hand up, palm out. His muscle-bound body radiated excitement and disharmony. He said with a slur, “Later with the smoke. We’re doing business, darling.”
    Chiclet flushed, the pocks on her cheeks lighting up with embarrassment. “Gosh, I’m sorry.”
    Ignoring his wife, Jeeter riveted Stiv with a paranoid stare, giving his guest a sample of his prison glare. It was a grimace that he’d acquired during a six-year stay in San Quentin. He didn’t say a word, just looked bald and mean. Then he asked, “So you brought me a cheap piece? Something inexpensive?”
    Stiv got cocky. “Yeah, I did. The cream of the crop.”
    Jeeter said, “I’m pleased to hear that, mighty pleased. Show me what you’ve got.”
    Parting his jacket, Stiv dragged out the Saturday night special from his belt. It was a chrome-plated .25 caliber eight-shot semiautomatic that could fit in a child’s palm. The grips were mother-of-pearl. The finish around the pistol’s muzzle was tarnished. The barrel had nicks all over it. The gun’s appearance let you know that it would blow up in your eyes when you put your finger on the trigger. Not worth more than twenty bucks in the street, its only virtue was in being concealable, which made it an excellent tool for crime.
    Stiv said with a straight face, “It’s a beauty, ain’t it?
La mera mata.
The real deal.”
    Hearing the Spanish, Jeeter brightened. “You’re bilingual, ain’t you?”
    “I’m not,” Stiv said. “I’m from Oregon. From Portland.”
    Jeeter eyeballed the pistol. His doughy features were impossible to read. There was no color in his cheeks and no zest in his eyes. You would’ve never known he was alive if it hadn’t been for his lips, which wouldn’t stop moving. He said, “Please, let me see that thing.”
    Handing the weapon to him, Stiv said, “This is the finest you can get, guaranteed.”
    Jeeter scoffed. “Don’t be ridiculous, Stiv. It looks old.”
    “It ain’t.”
    Hefting the gat, Jeeter aimed it at the floor. He aimed it at the ceiling. He aimed it at Chiclet. He aimed it at Stiv. Pointing the gun at himself, he pressed the trigger five times in rapid succession. The firing pin sounded no more substantial than a paper clip and there weren’t any bullets in the magazine. The bullets—slugs that were no bigger than a grown man’s thumbnail—would cost Jeeter extra. They were a dollar apiece and were in Stiv’s pocket.
    Three vertical lines terraced Jeeter’s brow. There was a question mark grooved in his tightened lips. You could see the dollar signs in his bookworm eyes, how he was already angling to drive the asking price downward. He stuck his tongue out and blew a raspberry. “It ain’t hot, is it?” he asked. “I want a clean gun.”
    All guns are born with a blank slate. The Saturday night special had a legacy. It had been used by a junkie acquaintance of Stiv’s to rob liquor stores in the Tenderloin, the last one being at Turk and Hyde. During the heist, the junkie, suffering from withdrawals, had panicked and fired several shots at the clerk. The bullets took out a Gallo wine display case. The robber’s face and the gun were captured on video—the police were searching everywhere for him and the weapon. So he unloaded the pistol on Stiv for ten dollars.
    Stiv was getting desperate and lied to Jeeter without remorse. The truth would get him zip. Nor would it earn him any money. “It’s fresh from the manufacturers. Never been used for nothing. It’s