"You got me, partner. Don't shoot."
I laugh, playing along with Ricky's cowboy routine and noticing something about the gun. His finger never touched the trigger, and the cylinder wasn't locked into place. Kid knows gun safety despite the theatrics.
Ricky holsters his revolver with a theatrical spin that would make Clint Westwood roll his eyes. Miguel shakes his head, but I notice the corner of his mouth twitch upward.
"Jose, meet Ricky Montoya," Miguel says. "Our resident cowboy."
Ricky extends his hand enthusiastically. "Ricky Montoya, but folks call me Six-Gun."
"Nobody calls you that," Miguel mutters.
Miguel studies me, eyes narrowing. "Speaking of guns, you still carrying that revolver from the other night?"
"Yeah." I pat my waistband where the gun rests.
"Let me see it."
I hesitate, then pull it out carefully, keeping it low and out of sight from the old men still playing dominoes.
Miguel examines it with practiced hands. "This is a .38 Special. How much ammo you got for it?"
"Just what's in it." I shrug.
Miguel exchanges glances with Ricky, who looks horrified.
"You're carrying with no spare rounds?" Ricky's voice cracks. "That's like riding into Dodge City with just one bullet in your Colt!"
"I didn't exactly have time to go shopping," I mutter.
Miguel hands the gun back. "We need to fix that before tonight's job."
"Job?" I ask.
"More details later. Nothing too crazy, but we should be prepared." Miguel nods toward Ricky. "Take him to gun store. Get stocked up."
Ricky's face lights up like a kid on Christmas morning. "Oh man, you're gonna love Henderson's! Best gun shop in Miami. Saw a Winchester '73 last month that would make Doc Holliday jealous."
"Don't let him talk your ear off," Miguel warns, sliding a fifty across the table. "And be quick. We've got work."
The Miami heat hits like a furnace as we walk down Calle Ocho. Sweat immediately soaks through my new pink suit. Ricky seems immune, striding along in his cowboy boots despite the temperature.
"You know, the .38 Special was actually developed in 1898 as an improvement over the .38 Long Colt, which failed to stop Moro warriors during the Philippine-American War." Ricky launches into a history lesson without prompting. "The military needed something with more stopping power, so Smith & Wesson—"
"How far is this gun store?" I interrupt.
"Just up ahead." Ricky points to a storefront with a faded sign reading "Henderson's Firearms." "Mr. Henderson's been running this place since before Kennedy was shot. Real piece of Miami history."
The bell jingles as we enter. The shop smells like gun oil and old leather. Glass cases line the walls, filled with handguns, while rifles stand in racks along the back. An elderly man with thick glasses looks up from behind the counter.
"Ricky! Back so soon?" The old man's voice is surprisingly strong. "Let me guess, more .45 Colt?"
"Not today, Mr. Henderson. My friend here needs .38 Special. Four boxes should do it."
Henderson studies me over his glasses. "New around here?"
"Just got to town," I reply.
"Cuban?" he asks, pulling boxes from under the counter.
"Yes, sir."
He nods, apparently satisfied. "That'll be $4.50 a box. So $18 even."
I blink. Eighteen dollars for 200 rounds? Pretty cheap, but maybe not, still not used to the current prices. I hand over a twenty, and he returns two crumpled singles.
Ricky wanders toward a display case. "Mr. Henderson, did that Colt Python ever sell?"
"Still waiting for the right buyer." Henderson slides my ammunition across the counter. "Too rich for most folks' blood at $500."
Ricky sighs longingly, gazing at what must be a prized revolver.
The bell jingles again. A young woman in her twenties enters, heading straight for the small handgun display. Ricky immediately perks up, abandoning the Python to intercept her.
"Looking for personal protection?" he asks, adjusting his hat.
She nods cautiously.
"Well, ma'am, you've come to the right place. Now, a lady like yourself might be interested in a Smith & Wesson Ladysmith. Designed specifically for the feminine hand in 1902. Or perhaps a Colt Detective Special? The 2-inch barrel makes it ideal for concealment in a purse, though the snub nose does sacrifice some accuracy at distances beyond—"
"Ricky," Henderson calls. "Let the lady browse."
I grab Ricky's arm. "Come on, cowboy. Let's load up."
Outside, I shake my head. "You always come on that strong?"
"What? I was just trying to help." Ricky looks genuinely confused. "Women often don't get good advice about firearms. Salesmen try to push them toward .22s with pink grips when they need something with actual stopping power."
"Maybe let them ask first?"
"I suppose." He kicks at a pebble. "I just get excited. Not many people want to talk guns with me."
"Why are you doing this work anyway?" I ask as we walk toward Miguel's car. "Seems dangerous."
Ricky's usual enthusiasm dims. "My dad got hurt at the docks last year. Can't work. Mom cleans houses, but it's not enough for bills and his medicine procedures." He shrugs. "Miguel pays good. Better than bagging groceries."
"Miguel's a good guy?"
"The best." Ricky's voice firms with conviction. "Helped us when no one else would. Plus, you know what they say in the West, a man's gotta stand for something, or he'll fall for anything."
Miguel's green Fairlane rumbles as we approach rich neighborhood. Surrounding buildings transform from working-class to luxury with each passing block. Palm-lined streets give way to well maintained lawns and Mediterranean-style mansions.
"Tommy Fernandez," Miguel explains, turning down the radio. "University of Miami student. Three weeks overdue on a $2,000 debt from cockfights."
"Cockfights?" I raise an eyebrow.
"Rich kid slumming it for thrills," Miguel says. "Borrowed from us thinking he could double his money quick. Now he's dodging calls, thinking his daddy's name protects him."
"Parents around?" I load my revolver, feeling the weight of each bullet.
"Europe. Some two-month vacation. Kid's house-sitting the family mansion, throwing parties, acting untouchable." Miguel's knuckles whiten on the steering wheel. "These rich boys think rules don't apply to them."
Ricky nods vigorously. "Like Billy the Kid before Pat Garrett caught up to him."
We turn onto a street where every house looks like it belongs in a magazine. Swimming pools glint in backyards. Sports cars sit in circular driveways.
"There," Miguel points to a sprawling white mansion with columns. "Home sweet home."
I check my gun one last time, calculating in my head. Six rounds loaded, twenty-four more in my pocket. If things go bad, I've got $50 in singles.
As we approach the mansion, I feel oddly at peace. This isn't some desperate family man behind on payments. This is a spoiled rich kid who thought he could play gangster without consequences.
"Ready?" Miguel asks, pulling up to the curb.
I nod, feeling the weight of the gun against my hip. "Let's teach him about interest rates."