Flint
Our gun repair shop is small, maybe eight hundred square feet. Me and my friend Tommy went into business together after we got out of the army, and we’re making a good living. I came to Cedar Falls because that’s where my uncle is. Rock’s my father’s brother, and for a while I was at a loss, until he invited me to become a member of his motorcycle club. Tommy ended up joining me six months later. I’ve been here coming up to eighteen months now. I repair the guns and he handles the customers and paperwork. It’s a division of labor that plays to our strengths. Of course, we keep it neat and organized. All our tools are on a pegboard behind the workbench. The display cases are glass-fronted and well-lit. Behind the workbench is my happy place.
Turning the Walther over in my hand, I admire the workmanship. German handguns are well made and reliable. This one is no exception. Unfortunately, they’re also prone to flippy recoil because of the higher bore axis. I’ve broken it down and have all the pieces laid across the rubber mat in a neat line in the order I’ll put it back together. The recoil spring is worn down past its service life, which explains why the owner complained about cycling issues, and there’s carbon buildup caked along the feed ramp.
Tommy’s doing a bang-up job of handling a customer at the front counter.
“So what happened was, I took it out to my buddy’s place in Johnston County,” the customer says, by way of anexplanation. Johnny is a regular and is leaning both elbows on the counter like he’s gonna give the long version of his story. He is a big guy in a camouflage jacket. He’s got wild eyes and an even wilder beard. I know Tommy likes shooting the shit with him.
“We set up some targets at about a hundred yards, and I’m telling you, my favorite rifle was pulling left every single time I took a damn shot. I know it ain’t me because I’ve been shootin’ since I was twelve years old and I know how to hold a fuckin’ rifle.”
Tommy nods, his face lit up with interest. “That’s a shame. Bet it was embarrassing, being as it was in front of your friend and all.”
“Damn straight it was. That’s why I hightailed it straight to your shop the minute I hit town. I gotta get this shit fixed so I can kick his ass next weekend.”
Tommy fist bumps with Johnny. “Don’t worry, brother. We’ll fix you right up. By the time we’re finished, this fucker will be firing like a brand-new rifle.”
“That’s what I told the missus when she said I should buy a new rifle. I said, Lynette, why the hell would I spend our good money when I can get the beast repaired for a lot less fuckin’ money. You Ragers know to how work on weapons.”
Tommy proudly smooths down his prospect’s cut. “You are so fuckin’ right about that, Johnny. Remind your old lady that vintage Winchesters don’t just fall out of the sky. They’re damn hard to come by.”
Johnny runs one down the barrel. “This one was willed to me by gramps ‘cause he was sure the hell not letting go of it in his lifetime.”
“Fuck yeah, your gramps was a smart man.”
I leave them to it and head around the back of the shop and do a quick stock take of our supplies. When I return to the front, Tommy’s just about done with the customer.
“Here’s what we’ll do,” Tommy says, tearing the intake slip along the perforation and handing the customer his copy. “I’ll get Flint to inspect it, check the scope mount, and look at the crown. We’ll figure out what’s wrong with it, call you with an estimate before we do any work, just like we always do with your weapon repairs.”
Johnny nods, “Thanks, Tommy. Be careful with my Winchester. She’s my pride and joy.”
The bell above the door jingles as Johnny leaves. Tommy puts Johnny’s Winchester in our gun safe, wanders over to the workbench and drops down onto the stool across from me.
“That’s a mighty fine weapon,” Tommy says. “Did you see it? That damn thing still has the original finish on the stock.”
“It’s probably worth seven or eight grand. Vintage Winchesters in good condition like that command high prices on the open market.”
Tommy grunts his agreement and begins rolling the new spring for the Walther back and forth on the mat.
I quickly start reassembling it. The barrel seats back into place. Next, I insert the guide rod and spring. Then I slide theframe back on. I always do a function check by pulling it back, releasing it, and listening for the click. Everything cycles the way it should now.
I set the Walther on the mat and wipe my hands on the shop rag. Glancing at my watch, I see it’s near closing time. Tommy’s already at the register, counting down the drawer, separating it into stacks. I lock the display cases, double-checking each lock, and pull the security gate across the front window. Tommy hits the lights in the back room. We’re at the door when his phone buzzes in his pocket.
I lock up while he pulls out his phone. I see his expression change when he glances at the screen. “It’s Jules. I hope everything is okay,” he mutters before answering the call.
Jules is his younger sister, the one he finished raising when his mother died ten years ago. Tommy is like the worst helicopter parent in the world to her. I like Jules, though I haven’t seen her in years. Not since I left LA.
“Jules?” he says, “What’s up? You don’t usually call to chat until the weekend?”
His free hand comes up and presses flat against the brick building. I can tell by the way his weight shifts from one leg to the other and the angry set of his jaw that whatever she’s saying, it means trouble.
“Okay,” he says. “I want you to stay right there on the front porch. I’ll be there in about ten minutes.”
He ends the call and stands there for a second with a worried expression, staring at the phone.
“Jules is at my place,” he says finally.
“What the fuck? She just drove here from LA all by herself?”
