definitely wasn't made of him.
"We're not here to rob you," said Farrell.
"Oh aye?"
"We're here to buy," I said.
"I thought you kicked."
"Not blow."
"I need a gun," said Farrell.
Goose looked at him. "I don't sell guns, mate."
"That's not what I heard."
Back to me: "You tell him I sold guns?"
"No."
"Because if that gets out, that's not just the fuckin' polis at my door, that's the whole Armed Response."
"I didn't tell him that. I said you might be able to help. Like you might know a bloke—"
"I don't know anyone what sells fuckin' guns, Jimmy."
I held up both hands. "Okay."
"You want to ask anyone round here if they know any fuckin' gunrunners, you ask your mick mate over there."
Farrell's smile turned into a grin, which wasn't a good sign. He got out of his chair and switched off the television on his way over to Goose.
"Fuck d'you think you're doing? I was watching that."
Farrell cupped an ear. "Sorry, Mr. Goose, I didn't hear you on account of your pornography was turned up too loud."
Goose jerked in his chair. "You what?"
"Farrell," I said.
"See? It's playing havoc with his hearing, too."
"Farrell-man—"
Farrell smacked the table, sent it flipping into the air. It landed somewhere behind him, knocking something fragile over and smashing it. Goose's mouth went like a cat's arse and he made a move for his shirt, but Farrell got there first. Grabbed Goose's fingers and twisted, dipping in for the gun with the other hand. Goose screamed. Farrell brought out the gun, held it up out of reach, and then let go of Goose's hand. Goose snatched his fingers back, his face all crumpled up.
"Broke me fuckin' fingers, you fuckin'—"
"You don't know anyone who sells guns, do you?"
Goose glared at us. "I thought you was a decent bloke, Jimmy. I thought you knew where the line was drawn."
"Don't project onto him." Farrell shucked the cylinder from the .38 snub. "You're the one caught in a lie."
"Goose," I said, "I'm sorry."
"What you sorry for?" said Farrell.
"You, you mental twat. Listen, Goose, let's be fuckin' civilised about this, alright? Try not to chuck an eppy or owt."
"Chuck an eppy? I don't know this cunt from Adam and he comes in here, breaks me fuckin' hand—"
"Oh, it's your whole hand now, is it?"
"And now he's waving me fuckin' gun around—"
"I'm not waving it around."
"You fuckin' well are, you bog-trotting shitehawk. You know I would've took you right down if it wasn't for me leg."
"Or lack thereof." Farrell shook the bullets from the cylinder, dropped them into his jacket pocket, and clicked the gun closed. Then he started messing on with the hammer, thumbing it back and letting it settle slowly onto the firing pin. All of this while he pointed the gun right at Goose. And even though it was empty, Goose was still shitting it.
"You keep it nice," said Farrell. "Where'd you get it?"
The hammer clicked down. Goose jerked his chair away from Farrell, knocked over a pile of videos. "Pair of youse can get fucked."
"Howeh, Goose," I said. "Don't be like that."
" You in particular."
"I'm sorry about Farrell. I already said I was sorry about him, alright?"
"That doesn't make it better."
"Lookuh, he's just in a hurry, so he's not as polite as he could be."
"I'm being polite," said Farrell. "He's the one having a tantrum."
"Fuck yourself."
"See what I mean?" Farrell held up the gun. "You should be thanking me, Mr. Goose. This gun, you keep it nice and everything, but it's too old to be handling the kind of round you had wedged into it. I'll tell you straight, if you'd have drawn and fired this just now, you'd have a blown barrel and a hand to match your leg there."
Goose kept quiet. A vein throbbed in the side of his head.
"So, you know, you're welcome."
"Fuck you."
"Close enough."
"How much do you want for the gun?" I said.
"Fuck you an' all."
"Is this the dark place you were telling me about?" said Farrell.
I put hands on Farrell then, pushed him out towards the door before
"We're not here to rob you," said Farrell.
"Oh aye?"
"We're here to buy," I said.
"I thought you kicked."
"Not blow."
"I need a gun," said Farrell.
Goose looked at him. "I don't sell guns, mate."
"That's not what I heard."
Back to me: "You tell him I sold guns?"
"No."
"Because if that gets out, that's not just the fuckin' polis at my door, that's the whole Armed Response."
"I didn't tell him that. I said you might be able to help. Like you might know a bloke—"
"I don't know anyone what sells fuckin' guns, Jimmy."
I held up both hands. "Okay."
"You want to ask anyone round here if they know any fuckin' gunrunners, you ask your mick mate over there."
Farrell's smile turned into a grin, which wasn't a good sign. He got out of his chair and switched off the television on his way over to Goose.
"Fuck d'you think you're doing? I was watching that."
Farrell cupped an ear. "Sorry, Mr. Goose, I didn't hear you on account of your pornography was turned up too loud."
Goose jerked in his chair. "You what?"
"Farrell," I said.
"See? It's playing havoc with his hearing, too."
"Farrell-man—"
Farrell smacked the table, sent it flipping into the air. It landed somewhere behind him, knocking something fragile over and smashing it. Goose's mouth went like a cat's arse and he made a move for his shirt, but Farrell got there first. Grabbed Goose's fingers and twisted, dipping in for the gun with the other hand. Goose screamed. Farrell brought out the gun, held it up out of reach, and then let go of Goose's hand. Goose snatched his fingers back, his face all crumpled up.
"Broke me fuckin' fingers, you fuckin'—"
"You don't know anyone who sells guns, do you?"
Goose glared at us. "I thought you was a decent bloke, Jimmy. I thought you knew where the line was drawn."
"Don't project onto him." Farrell shucked the cylinder from the .38 snub. "You're the one caught in a lie."
"Goose," I said, "I'm sorry."
"What you sorry for?" said Farrell.
"You, you mental twat. Listen, Goose, let's be fuckin' civilised about this, alright? Try not to chuck an eppy or owt."
"Chuck an eppy? I don't know this cunt from Adam and he comes in here, breaks me fuckin' hand—"
"Oh, it's your whole hand now, is it?"
"And now he's waving me fuckin' gun around—"
"I'm not waving it around."
"You fuckin' well are, you bog-trotting shitehawk. You know I would've took you right down if it wasn't for me leg."
"Or lack thereof." Farrell shook the bullets from the cylinder, dropped them into his jacket pocket, and clicked the gun closed. Then he started messing on with the hammer, thumbing it back and letting it settle slowly onto the firing pin. All of this while he pointed the gun right at Goose. And even though it was empty, Goose was still shitting it.
"You keep it nice," said Farrell. "Where'd you get it?"
The hammer clicked down. Goose jerked his chair away from Farrell, knocked over a pile of videos. "Pair of youse can get fucked."
"Howeh, Goose," I said. "Don't be like that."
" You in particular."
"I'm sorry about Farrell. I already said I was sorry about him, alright?"
"That doesn't make it better."
"Lookuh, he's just in a hurry, so he's not as polite as he could be."
"I'm being polite," said Farrell. "He's the one having a tantrum."
"Fuck yourself."
"See what I mean?" Farrell held up the gun. "You should be thanking me, Mr. Goose. This gun, you keep it nice and everything, but it's too old to be handling the kind of round you had wedged into it. I'll tell you straight, if you'd have drawn and fired this just now, you'd have a blown barrel and a hand to match your leg there."
Goose kept quiet. A vein throbbed in the side of his head.
"So, you know, you're welcome."
"Fuck you."
"Close enough."
"How much do you want for the gun?" I said.
"Fuck you an' all."
"Is this the dark place you were telling me about?" said Farrell.
I put hands on Farrell then, pushed him out towards the door before
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