McFadden sniffed the barrel of one of the revolvers and then the other.
“This must be yours,” he said. “I’ll clean it for you, if you have the stuff. Otherwise, you’ll fuck up the barrel.”
“There’s cleaning stuff in one of the drawers in the kitchen,” Matt said.
“You got any bullets? There’s none in this.”
“Cartridges, Charley. Bullets are the little lead things that come out the end. There’s a box with the cleaning stuff.”
“Fuck you, clean your own pistol,” Charley said, laid both pistols beside the answering machine, and returned to the oil painting. He picked it up and held it in place over the fireplace, turning his head for approval.
“Great,” Matt said.
“What are you going to do when your mother comes back?”
“Mother will modestly avert her eyes,” Matt said.
“You got a brick nail?”
“What’s a brick nail?”
“A nail you can drive in bricks. You can’t do that with regular nails, asshole, they bend.”
“No.”
There was a knock at the door at the foot of the stairs.
Jesus erupted from his chair and went to the closet and took the shotgun from it.
“It’s probably Wohl or Washington,” Matt said.
“Who’s there?” Jesus called.
“Telephone company.”
Jesus went down the stairs. In a moment, he returned, followed by two telephone company technicians, one of whom was visibly curious and made more than a little uncomfortable by Jesus’s shotgun.
“Where do you want your phone?” one of them asked.
“One here and one in the bedroom, please,” Matt said.
“Is something going on around here?” the other one asked, curiosity having overwhelmed him.
“Like what?” Charley asked.
“Hey, you’re the cop who shot the Liberation Army guy, aren’t you?” the first one asked.
“Just put the goddamn phone in,” Jesus snapped.
“What the hell is wrong with you? I just asked, is all.”
It took forty-five minutes to install the two telephones. The installers refused a drink, but accepted Matt’s offer of coffee.
“It’s cold as a bitch out there,” one said.
When they were gone, Martinez said, “That’s not going to work.”
“What’s not going to work?”