Shot of Tequila Read Online Free PDF Page B

squalid on Chicago’s far west side. Nothing the slightest bit homey, or even pleasant, about the place. But at least once a week she would trek back to that apartment, even though almost all of her clothing, her possessions, and even her pet goldfish was here.
    Freedom is an important thing, noted Tequila, even if it was only symbolic.
    Tequila went to the fridge and poured himself another glass of apple juice, emptying the bottle. He put the cap back on and placed the bottle in the plastic recycle bin under the sink. Then he hit the release button and tugged his guns from his shoulder holsters, setting them on the kitchen table.
    In a cabinet next to the dishwasher Tequila removed a metal box the size of a portable television. He unlocked the box with a key on his keychain and flipped the top open. His keychain only held four keys. One for the box, one for the car, one for the apartment, and one for Spill . Also on the ring, next to his car alarm remote, was a small Swiss Army knife and a yellow metal smiley face Tequila had gotten from Sally as a birthday present. It hadn’t been his birthday, but he accepted it as if it was. Sally gave him birthday presents many times a year.
    Tequila removed several metal trays from the box until he got to the one he wanted. In the partitioned slots of the tray were gun oil, a wire brush, a chamois, and several long metal tubes with threaded ends.
    He picked up the first of his .45s, a custom-made pistol that incorporated parts from several gun manufacturers. It had, among other things, Novak night sights, stippled grips, a beveled magazine well for speed reloading, a wide competition trigger, a lowered ejection port, a ramp and throat job for the use of hollow-point bullets, and a contoured hammer. The gun had also been dehorned, a process that involved beveling every sharp edge so it didn’t snag clothing or holsters.
    Stripping the weapon, Tequila cleaned and oiled every moving part with attention bordering on intimacy. When the last traces of its recent usage had been polished away, he replaced the barrel with a new one from his metal tray. The barrel on any weapon was its signature. The rifling—the twisted grooves inside the tube that made the bullet spin—marked that bullet in a particular way, as unique as a fingerprint. Replacing the barrel was like having an entirely new, and consequently clean, weapon. The old barrel went into the recycle bin under the sink, to be disposed of the next time he went out.
    Tequila reassembled the pistol, and then repeated the procedure with its twin. China came into the kitchen during the process to bid her goodnight.
    “I’ll just sleep in the guest bedroom.”
    Tequila nodded, concentrating on his work. China’d been sleeping in the guest bedroom for four years.
    Completing the task, Tequila made sure both safeties were on and then put the guns back into their holsters. The holsters were a piece of work in themselves; a criss-cross leather rig custom-made to perfectly fit the .45s. It weighed almost three times as much as a normal dual holster set-up, and under casual inspection the holsters appeared to be too long for the guns. That was because each contained a ceramic magnet and a battery. Wires ran from the batteries through the leather webbing and to a hidden button in the center of the outfit. When pressed, the button engaged, juicing the magnets and holding the guns in their holsters with more than three hundred pounds of pressure. Depressing the button allowed the guns to slip out easily.
    It was a safety feature that not only prevented his guns from being taken from him, but was also necessary with Sally in the house. She was under strict orders not to touch his guns, but strict orders only worked with people who understood them.
    Tequila put the tray back into his box and locked it. Then he washed out his juice glass, dried it with a hand towel, and replaced it in the cabinet. He brought his rig—the guns safely magnetized in