“I don’t know if you’ll want it,” the man was saying, “but there’s a piece in the glove box.”

A piece of what, Keller wondered, and then realized what the man meant. “Along with the registration,” he said.

“Except the piece ain’t registered. It’s a nice little twenty-two auto with a spare clip, not that you’re gonna need it. The clip, I mean. Whether you need the piece altogether is not for me to say.”

“Well,” Keller said.

“That’s what you guys like, isn’t it? A twenty-two?”

If you shot a man in the head with a.22, the slug would generally stay within the skull, bouncing around in there, doing no good to the skull’s owner. The small-calibre weapon was supposed to be more accurate, and had less recoil, and would presumably be the weapon of choice for an assassin who prided himself in his artistry.

Keller didn’t spend much time thinking about guns. When he had to use one, he chose whatever was at hand. Why make it complicated? It was like photography. You could learn all about f-stops and shutter speeds, or you could pick up a Japanese camera and just point and shoot.

“Just use it and lose it,” the man was saying. “Or if you don’t use it just leave it in the glove box. Otherwise it goes in a Dumpster or down a storm drain, but why am I telling you this? You’re the man.” He pursed his lips and whistled without making a sound. “I have to say I envy a man like you.”

“Oh?”

“You ride into town, do what you do, and ride on out. Well, fly on out, but you get the picture. In and out with no hassles, no complications, no dealing with the same assholes day in and day out.”

You dealt with different ones every time, Keller thought. Was that supposed to be better?

“But I couldn’t do it. Could I pull a trigger? Maybe I could. Maybe I already done that, one time or another. But your way is different, isn’t it?”