First, please understand I deal with many lower class people in my business. It's just a fact of life. The door to my business, though locked, can't discriminate. Their currency spends too.
Yesterday was busy and when the doorbell rang I barely bothered with a glance and simply reached and hit the release button for the lock. I gave out a quick, good morning, and returned to my work. I should have known. It was The Pimp.
He comes around a few times a year when his cash runs shallow and the girls just can't seem to market their product in a timely fashion. This mini-depression hasn't helped matters either. The Pimp runs a string of girls from the Beaches area of River City to the upper West side slums. He was once in partnership with his late father until that man became more interested in his wares and died of complications from overindulgence of same.
The Pimp likes to sell me handguns. I drive a hard bargain, and he knows it.
The Pimp isn't your typical stereotype. He's a skinny white man, fairly young, not quite six feet with shaggy short hair. He has a foul mouth. I don't like him.
Back to his visit.....unlike other occasions after entry in my shop, on this visit he remained silent. Perhaps it was the other customers, not sure. I gave him a nod and a quick flick of my finger and he quickly jumped and walked over. I said, "What is it today?"
He reaches into his left hand pocket and pulls out a little nickel Raven P-25. Then, "Hey, motherf@*^er, what 'ya give me for this?"
If ever a man needed a shotgun mouthwash, this dude is at the top of my list.
I asked my other customers to excuse me and reached and took The Pimp by the shoulder and showed him the way into my back office. I gently explained to him this is my business and I liked desecration in all things related to private firearms sales, and this was indeed private. There wasn't a doubt in my mind the little pea-shooter was probably acquired through illegal means. At least it still had its serial number. Truthfully, I don't give a damn, but I did have a hooplehead in the shop.
He nodded, as if he understood, and said, "Hey, man, give me a hundred dollars."
I laughed. He wiped his nose, ran his hands through his hair, and then came back with, "Ah, man, come on. It's worth it."
Me, "No it isn't. It isn't worth more than half book price. Even then they're hard to move (I fudged the truth a bit here) and I must make a small profit on it."
He thought about it a second, gave off a funk scented fidget, wiped his nose again, shuffled, then, "What 'ya give me for it?"
I gave him my figure.
Many people in the gun culture look down their collective noses at little handguns like this Raven. For good reason I might add. They weren't the best for quality, many thousands were produced from 1970 until about 1991, and the company ceased production of the P-25 in 1984. Yet, they have value and purpose in certain situations.
The .25 caliber is nothing more than a gut buster. It works, if the handgun functions properly. I'd already checked it out. The magazine (they are always loaded, of course) held five rounds. The trigger worked. The slide moved freely. The finish was nice and bright, and believe it or not, they move quickly. The secret is to purchase them at as low a cost as possible.
Back to The Pimp. "Hey, motherf*&#ker, you be trying to rip me off."
I'm a patient man. Shame of it is my best friend, Duke, had just left the shop. He would have liked The Pimp too. After The Pimp's last exchange I calmly explained to him if he called me that again I'd bust his kneecaps. Like that.
Again, I gave him my figure. Said I didn't have time for his silly games. He held out his hand. I gave him a fraction of his asking price.
Then, "Hey, man, I gotta another one I'll bring tomorrow. It's a forty, man. I'll really work with you on that one, okay."
I said, "Sure. But, be careful when you walk into my shop. I may not be in as good a mood as I am today."