   The sign was yellow and lit up, with black letters that read C & J Pawnshop. Evzen pushed the door open with the flat of his hand and walked in. His guitar was at home, nestled against the wall between his bed and bookcase. He was wearing his jacket, the sleeves rolled up and showing the white rolled-up sleeves of his shirt beneath it. He walked to the clear-glass counter and rested his hands on top, glancing down at the jewelry, knives, leather jacket, antique shot gun. There was a rustle and a creak and the back door opened, a chalk-white man with bleached-yellow dread locks coming out. His watery blue eyes wobbled their way up and down Evzen and he snorted.    "Need a gun."
   The man behind the counter leaned against the wall and closed his long, narrow fingers over his stomach.
   "What kinda gun yoo need?"
   "Colt .45, you have it."
   He rested his hands casually on the glass top of the counter, palms down, flat, unarmed.
   "Yoo know howta shoot?"
   "Been usin a gun since I was four year old. You got a piece for me?"
   "Colt .45? Got one in back, serial filed off. I let it go at two hunnert."
   "Sounds good. I get it now?"
   "Need ammo?"
   The guy behind the counter, whose name was Charlie and made up the C of C & J, idly shooed a fly away.
   "Couple boxes. Got any? Holster too. Shoulder."
   "Locked inna back. Cost you plenny extra."
   "I can pay."
   Charlie nodded and slouched into the back room. Evzen looked around the shop. It was dimly lit after the bright light of the afternoon outside. Instruments hung from the rafters like cured musical hams. There was a locked case stuffed with fur, a few more cases of jewelry. The floor was wooden and splintered, looked like it had been scoured with seawater and a brillo pad. Somewhere outside, a dog barked in rapid, staccato bursts, and a siren whined, Doppler-like, down the street and away. Evzen stood experimentally in a cluster of shadows and peered around. His hair swung around his dark face, slightly darker than shadows, and thicker. He reached up and gently ran a finger down the smooth slick side of a cherry red electric guitar. It gleamed in the still room, glimmering among the other guitars, trumpets, trombones, drums, suspended from the ceiling.
   Charlie walked out of the back room, something white in his hands. He offered it to Evzen: a white cloth around a chunk of metal, smooth and heavy. Evzen picked it up in his dusky hand. The gun was cold. He sighted down the length of the barrel, cocked it, tested the trigger. Light pooled along its surface, puddling dully. Evzen raised the gun and let it stroke gently down his check, eyes closed. He could smell the metal of it. He opened his eyes, dark eyes, at Charlie.
   "It's good. Got the holster?"
   Charlie dropped the brown leather holster on the table and Evzen picked it up, shrugging out of his jacket. He slid into the holster, strapping it into place, and slid the gun into its nest. He put his jacket back on, gun hidden, and took money from the right pocket. He handed Charlie more than he asked for, and Charlie passed him several heavy boxes, wrapped in white paper.