Fogtown by Peter Plate Page B

virgin.”
    “You sure? It doesn’t look it.” Jeeter toyed with the pistol, turning it over in his hand. He said to Chiclet, “What do you think, babe?”
    An artificial smile flickered on his wife’s mouth and died in her eyes. The rictus enslaved her face in a harlequin’s grin. Chiclet didn’t know anything about weapons, and she was getting too high to care. “Buy it if you want it, sugar. Just make sure it’s a deal.”
    A scowl crossed Jeeter’s irregular features. “It ain’t right.”
    Stiv would’ve been retarded if he hadn’t noticed Jeeter’s hesitation. He said, “What ain’t?”
    Jeeter baited him. “The gun, damn it. It don’t look new to me, man. I’ll give you fifty bucks for it. That’s a fair price.”
    “Fifty dollars?” Stiv snorted. “You’re fucking unreal. Shit, it’s worth at least a hundred.”
    “No way. You’re fantasizing. I’ll give you fifty. No more than that.”
    Stiv whinnied, “Unh uh, cowboy. You have to give me at least sixty-five bones.”
    “I can’t do that,” Jeeter complained. “I’m already being too generous. You have to lighten up on the price tag. You know me … I can get anything, anytime, anywhere. If you don’t give me what I want, someone else will. Now you want to do this thing or not?”
    “You’re taking advantage of my largesse.” Stiv got sulky. “I’m only asking for sixty-five shitty bucks. That’s chicken feed to a player like you.”
    Jeeter rasped, “Fifty dollars. That’s my final offer. Take it or leave it.”
    Stiv pleaded. “How about sixty-four?”
    “Nope. You’re way off.”
    “Sixty-three?”
    “Not in this lifetime.”
    “Sixty-two?”
    Jeeter smiled. “You’re out of my league.”
    “Sixty-one.”
    “You’re getting closer.”
    “Sixty?”
    “Keep coming down.”
    “Fifty-nine?”
    Jeeter hunched his shoulders and said earnestly, “Can’t do it.”
    “Fifty-eight?”
    “No.”
    “Fifty-seven?”
    “No.”
    “Jesus Christ, you’re killing me. Fifty-six?”
    “Nope.”
    Chiclet begged Stiv’s case with Jeeter. The Valium was finally hitting, charging her with a blast of unfocused energy. She bent forward on the couch, elbows on her knees, hair in her eyes. “Sweetie, let’s give him five extra dollars. I have it in my purse. Stiv’s got a baby and shit to deal with. He needs whatever he can get his hands on.”
    Jeeter didn’t tolerate kibitzing from the sidelines. Buying guns wasn’t a spectator sport. It was for seasoned men only. He whirled on Chiclet; his cheeks were eggplant purple from hypertension. “You hush up, chick. This is commerce. It ain’t welfare.”
    “Fifty-five bucks, Jeeter, c’mon,” Stiv cajoled.
    “No, fifty.”
    Stiv was galled. He was doubtful and said, “I don’t know about this.”
    Jeeter pointed the Saturday night special at Stiv. He put his other arm around Chiclet’s shoulders and snuggled her to his chest. He quipped, “What’s there not to know? Think of it this way. You have something and I want it. It’s a war of wills. Now what’s it going be. Fifty dollars or nothing?”
    Smelling Jeeter’s feet from where he sat, Stiv said, “Fifty bucks?”
    “You heard me right, bucko. Take it or leave it.”
    Stiv was disappointed. His whole life it had been like this, big fish eating the little fish. There were only two kinds of people in the world,winners and losers. He had the dreadful feeling he was in the second category. “I’ll take it.”
    Payment was five shabby ten-dollar bills—even Jeeter’s money was insulting. Stiv had half a mind to ask him if the cash had been dug up from a grave. The bills stank of death and decay. But he kept his opinion to himself. There was no point in egging on the bastard. You were only asking for more damage. He waltzed to his feet, smiled icily at his hosts, and said, “Nice doing business with you. I’ll let myself out.”
    Heading home to the Allen Hotel, Stiv swung over to Market Street. He