“Thank you,” he said. He headed toward the wardrobe to get his belt, gun, and kepi. I must have been very pale and my shirt felt soaked. Torres buckled his belt, put his gun back in its holster, ran a hand over his hair mechanically, and put on his kepi. He took a few coins out of his pocket to pay me for my services. Then he started to walk toward the door. He paused in the doorway for a moment, turned around, and spoke.
“They told me that you’d kill me. I came to find out for myself. But killing isn’t easy. I know what I’m talking about.”
And he headed down the street.
I watched him go, feeling a mix of relief and sadness. It was always a strange feeling to have someone come to you for a service like that, but I knew it was just a part of the job. As Torres disappeared around the corner, I let out a deep breath and went back to cleaning up the shop.
I couldn't help but think about what he had said. Killing wasn't easy, he had said. I wondered what he had been through, what had brought him to that point. But ultimately, I was just glad that I didn't have to find out the hard way.
As I finished tidying up, I couldn't shake the feeling that Torres had left something behind, something more than just a few coins. But I pushed the thought aside and focused on getting ready for the next customer. Just another day in the life of a gunsmith in a town like this.