pressure I can bring to bear.â
Anger rose in Rita like mercury in a hot glass stick. âIâd advise you to move your fucking hand,â she said, âor you going to have to bring it nine-fingered.â Borchard moved, and she rubbed the beer glass against her forehead until the desire to cut him abated.
âIâve offered you a fair price,â Borchard said. âIâm past the bargaining stage. I want that gun.â
Given the majorâs passion for the Colt, the henâs passion not to sell it to him, and Jimmyâs way of making his stories, Rita figured she knew more-or-less where he might be going with his newest one. She wondered where it would take her.
âI understand where youâre coming from,â she said to Borchard. âYou look at me, you see this tough Indian womanâs been through it. Reservation-bred. Some shithole like Browning. Sheâs learned how to take care of herself. Could be she got a hunting knife in her boot . . . and could be sheâs used it. But sheâs a known quantity. You believe you talk some shit to her, sheâll recognize where her interests lie.â
Borchard shifted in his chair, attentive.
âJimmy, now, he ainât so easy to read. You say heâs slow, but heâs smart. Itâs just he was raised up hard by his daddy, and all his smartness got squashed over into one place in his head. He takes people he meets, fixes âem up so they sound different and puts âem in these stories he makes up. Beautiful stories! Doesnât write them down or nothing, but he remembers every goddamn word. You look at him, you see a spaced-out âbilly whoâs crazy for guns. But he goes a mile deeperân that. I donât even know for sure what allâs down in there.â
âIâm sure heâs brilliant,â said Borchard. âWhat does that have to do with the Colt?â
âI got two kids,â Rita said. âI board them with my aunt, but they was with me around the time when I was getting to know Jimmy. Before we got together. So one night I was going out and I couldnât find nobody to stay with the kids. Jimmy volunteered. Appeared he could handle a couple pre-schoolers. So I left them fed and in their nightgowns. I got home, I found heâd taken his industrial stapler and stapled them up by their nightgowns to the wall. Heâd spreadeagled the both of âem to the boards like trophies. Theyâd been pestering him and he just couldnât deal with it. âCourse they kept on pestering him. They loved hanging on the walls, and they were running him ragged, getting him to fetch sodas and candy.â She laughed. âI was pissed, but I had to admit it was funny as hell.â
âAnd your point is? Aside from warning me to keep clear of his stapler?â
âYouâd do better to lay off pressuring Jimmy, âcause inside he ainât nothing but pressure. You canât never tell whatâs gonna come out. Heâs one bottle cap you donât wanna pop.â
Borchard gave his smile a rest and fixed her with a firm look intended, Rita thought, to convey the notion that his position was unshakeable. âI want to give you five thousand for a weapon that isnât worth more than two,â he said. âYou canât walk away from that. And you canât jack me up any higher.â
âI could show you a hole in the ground,â Rita said, âand tell you there was a bear trap set at the bottomâI bet youâd still jump in to see if I was lying.â
Borchard seemed pleased, as if he thought sheâd paid him a compliment. âGoing halfway gets you nowhere.â
âRita?â
A bearded man in a leather vest and plaid shirt was standing beside them; sheltering beneath his arm was a weary-looking woman with short gray hair and pronounced crowsfeet, clutching a menu to her chest.
âMind if we join