I bumped into my old buddy, Indiana Murphy the other day.
See that fucker, Dixon Gently? he said.
Do you mean Ganley?
Gently. Grimly. Grumbly. Whatever. The guy that bought a party. Whatcha call it? Liver-toss?
Libertas, I corrected. Their name is Libertas. Mr Ganley set up a party as he has every right to.
Well, said Indy, that’s as may be. But did you know he’s been buyin’ and sellin’ thousands of Baryshnikovs, and that’s how he got all his money?
He’s been selling ballet dancers? I thought he was buying timber in Latvia.
Ah, Baryshnikov, Baroshnikov, Barackobamikov. I should worry about this already? Whatever the fuck you call ’em. He was buyin these Achey-fifty-sevens from the guys that used to be Russians, and he was sellin them to some other guys. African guys.
For killing people?
Who knows? They sure as hell wasn’t usin ’em for golf clubs.
Fuck, I thought he was buying timber in Latvia.
Well, maybe he was. Maybe he was buying some timber, but it was shaped like a lot of handles and attached to things shaped a lot like high-velocity assault Kashkropikovs.
I was astounded. Could Indy be suggesting that a committed Christian might be capable of lying? Or worse – dealing in weapons of death? Surely not.
I’m astounded, I said. Could you be suggesting that a committed Christian might be capable of lying? Or worse – dealing in weapons of death? Surely not.
Indiana Murphy shrugged. Who knows? When I’m out robbin’ tombs, I hear things. Who knows what’s true and what ain’t? I hear he lives in a castle in Galway. They call it the Rifle Tower.
