Goldstein’s Legacy

      The overhead lamp lit up the work table. Even though Rock Goldstein, the owner of a small-town gun shop, had set out his tools and managed to find two nitro enamel cans after lunch, he still hadn’t started. It was approaching one in the morning. The weaponsmith had a chance to close the gap between him and a truly talented one, if not for the long years of belittling his capabilities. In the end, he had gotten a valuable order.

***

      The client introduced himself as Dante and looked extraordinary: Rock noticed the ash-blond hair, although the man was not old, and the red leather coat. There were patches sewn on the cloth, and this detail did not match the pistols. The semi-automatic modified M1911s looked excellent. No scratch; even the wooden grips were not worn off. The engravings on both pistols, “Ebony & Ivory” (same colors as the piano keys, the client had previously noted), were untouched by time. But something confused the weaponsmith.       “Dante?” Rock drawled thoughtfully and frowned. “Not Tony Redgrave?”       Rock heard enough about the robbed and killed owners of their personalized weapons.       “That’s how I introduced myself to the previous gunsmith, Nell Goldstein,” the client said quickly.       This answer dispelled Rock’s doubts. At first, Rock noted how well-maintained weapons were. Their unusual outlook really revealed his mother’s style, talent, and skill. The elegance and power of these pistols — or rather, the art of weaponsmithing — were not for everyone. Yes, she could fit them, thought Rock, but he threw “clearly” for Dante.       After making sure the guns had no bullets, the man checked the trigger on Ebony. He began to look for a possible breakdown or external defect. It was Ivory’s turn. After a series of manipulations, the paired pistols were already lying on a counter.       “The whole issue is in maintenance, but it looks like everything is in order. Of course, I won’t refuse. It’s my bread, after all.”       Dante came closer and, squinting his eyes, ran his finger along the bottom line under his old “name”.       “Fix it.”       Rock was stunned: the inscription “By .45 Art Warks” like on a handmade medal, which he gave to his mother before she left, looked absurd and touching on the cold metal. His stupid childhood mistake.       No worse than another, which became the reason for a bitter separation.       Now Rock was thirty-five, but his whole body was shaking, and the injury was causing a lingering pain in his temple. Several dark, almost black strands with rare gray hair fell onto his sweaty forehead. The man carefully removed them, trying not to touch the bandage on his right eye. He was not ready to show emotions, but it seemed his client had no mockery of the hidden, snotty gunsmith’s nature.       “Just fix ‘Warks’,” Dante added calmly. “It was her sharp engraving, but it’s such a hassle to explain to everyone. I would have fixed it long ago if I had met a good gunsmith. I think you are the only one I can trust with my ‘beauties.’ What do you think, Rock Goldstein?”       His name sounded with an enveloping warmth. Dante’s soft smile completely confused him. It was… strange, as if Dante had been preparing for this meeting, and man's fingers clenching the hem of his coat betrayed his excitement.       Rock hastened to answer; his voice trembled. “I’ll do it.”       Dante nodded understandingly. “Well, that’s what I wanted to hear. How much time do you need?”       “I’ll finish this evening. Finding the right paint and correcting the typo — all this will take two hours.”       A short chuckle completely confused him, as did the folded arms across Dante’s chest. Rock hastened to the conclusion: he would have to finish the order earlier than he had supposed.       “I don’t doubt your experience,” Dante assured. “But two hours are not enough to say goodbye to them, don’t you think? I suggest we do it this way: I’ll wait patiently, and when you decide, Lady will come for the pistols.”       “So they know each other…” Rock should have guessed earlier. Lady, his regular client… If she heard about Nell and saw these pistols, she could inadvertently mention his surname.       Rock was lost in his thoughts until Dante spoke again, “I’ll pay part of the order, and then… I’m afraid I’ll have to take on a lot of work to pay off the debt. Do your best, Rock!”       The bills rustled on the counter; the client walked towards the exit. Something told Rock: if he didn’t ask now, he would never get another chance, and only regret would remain.       Time was slipping through his fingers like sand.       “I saw what was left of her gun shop.”       Dante froze at the threshold. Rock brought unprecedented confidence back into his voice. “The locals told me about the fire and other devilry that was happening in the city. I don’t believe in underworld forces, but I know for sure: our meeting was not a chance. But you are not one of those who will be frank.”       The silence dragged on. Dante did not turn around, his shoulders drooping dejectedly. As if the weight of painful memories had bowed his head.       “I’m not asking you to tell me everything,” the gunsmith added understandingly. “Whoever you were, you meant something to her. Just as she meant something to both of us. But I didn’t meet her after ten years of separation. Tell me, Dante, to a man who lost his mother: what happened that day?”       Rock felt his own gaze become heavy. He should have been patient, but his fingers clenched to a crunch, his nails dug into the skin.       “A drink wouldn’t hurt for such a conversation,” the client’s voice rang out again. Returning to the counter, he leaned against the bar and peered into Rock’s face.       “Oh, no, I won't offer that. I need a sober gunsmith, just like you need someone sober to talk to. I swear on the old lady's memory, they didn't lie to you about the fire... I'm sorry, but I called Nell 'old lady'. She didn't mind much; otherwise, I wouldn't be standing here. She was grumpy; sometimes she made sandwiches or other food disgustingly, but everyone respected her. She put her heart into her work. Even when the gun shop was burning, she brought the work to perfection. She couldn't leave that place.”       “It wasn’t just about the weapon,” Rock spoke up, without asking or confirming.       “Yes,” Dante responded dully. “One bastard wounded her. I didn’t see how it all began; it was enough for me to see the end. I couldn’t save her. I heard her raving and asking me to take care of a boy. And then I was lucky to meet you, her son. But it seems you don’t need care anymore. At least not mine.”       Stunned by the revelation, Rock couldn’t find anything to say. Dante fell silent.       “I’m really sorry” rang out in unison. And then Nell’s son decided to ask if his mother’s killer had been punished. Dante nodded shortly and said goodbye…

***

      Rock caught himself thinking that he had unknowingly had a hand in the creation of these pistols. Surely Dante — or rather, Tony — had noticed the stupid “Warks”. How could a gunsmith, a grown woman, make such a stupid typo?       Without this 'zest', the pistols would be different, Rock thought and grinned. Then he headed to the other corner of the room. Finding a camera took time, as did finding a good angle. His hands did not tremble; his chest did not feel tight from excitement…       A timid knock on the door blurred the frame.       “Please wait, I’ll open,” Rock responded, putting the camera down.       A short “uh-huh” on the other side was drowned out by the creak of the desk drawer being pulled out. Not changing his habit, the weaponsmith hid the pistols in an improvised hiding place and headed for the door. His niece stood on the threshold, frozen with her fist raised.       “Can’t sleep again, Nico?” Rock asked affectionately, looking at the dark-skinned, brown-eyed girl of about ten.       She nodded quickly. And then she shook her head, as if she was confused with the answer, and pressed the toy closer to her chest. This time Nico was dressed in a nightgown, and her hair, braided into a ponytail, was completely disheveled. And, it seemed, she forgot to put on her glasses, which she took off before going to bed.       “I went to bed, honestly,” she babbled in justification. “But I dreamed of a terrible demon, and I got scared.”       Rock was wary: usually, Nicoletta did not talk about her dreams, much less knock on the door of his room-workshop in the middle of the night. She knew that her uncle was working, but if she couldn’t fall asleep by the appointed time, she would ask him to tell her a bedtime story. He glanced at his niece and noticed her bare feet.       “How could you walk this way? You’ll freeze,” the man chattered excitedly. “Come here.”       Nico only had time to gasp when her uncle deftly picked her up with one hand.       “I can go by myself,” she demonstratively puffed out her cheeks. “I’m not little anymore.”       “You’ll still have time to grow up, trust me,” Rock responded. “But right now I don’t want you to get sick. Your feet are like icicles!”       On the way to the children’s room, located at the end of the corridor, he listened to the creaking of the floorboards and tried to make out at least something in the semi-darkness. A couple of steps away, he stopped at the door, ran his hand along the wall from memory, and turned the switch. Behind him, he heard the quiet click of a light bulb turning on.       It hadn’t burned out.       Anxious thoughts, one after another, swirled around in a whirlwind: something had really scared Nico.       Opening the door to the room, Rock carefully sat Nicoletta down on the bed. She reluctantly lay down, reaching for one of the toys. She liked the “toothy” one the best. This absurdity in the shape of a human was sewn from whatever was found: its head and body were from an old gray T-shirt, the button eyes of green and red colors, and sharp teeth from the remains of white cotton.       “Maybe you can tell me what kind of demon it was?” asked the uncle, covering her with a blanket. “I owe you a story about how you defeated him with one of those things you drew.”       Nico’s lips twitched in that grin when Rock asked her about her past day. Unfortunately, he was forced to ask the neighbor to look after the girl while he was busy in his gun shop. At the end of the day, he picked up his niece, and she did not admit what she had done this time. She only slyly narrowed her eyes behind her glasses and smiled.       “Well, I remember being alone in an unknown city,” the girl began timidly. “There were lots of statues and a big church. White-white. I was walking along a path, and then the wind blew at my back. I thought it was the wind, but when I turned around, I saw a d-d-demon. He looked like some kind of beetle. He had the fly’s eyes, but red-red, and he also had horns on his head. He spread his wings and flew at me, but I hid. Oh, if you only knew how ang-g-gry he was!”       “Of course, you’re the champion at hide-and-seek,” Rock would have said to cheer her up. In moments of great excitement, she stuttered, just like her father…       A transparent trail of tears glistened on her swarthy face. A ringing voice quietly babbled, “And then… he asked about my mom.”       Nicoletta drew her knees up. Rock hung his head under her unblinking gaze.       His half-sister, Alyssa, had lived with Nico’s father for three years at most until he disappeared from their lives. A weird scientist from Fortuna, Agnus, had returned to his small homeland and did not want to take his wife and daughter with him. Alyssa was delirious with the idea of ​​rushing to this city, but a lingering illness confined her to the bed and brought her to the grave. Without thinking twice, Rock adopted Nicoletta, and she continued to grow up with the habit of calling him by name. As if he was not her uncle, but an older brother.       Nico shook under the blanket, sobbing, “How did he know my mom? Why did she want to go to that city if it was so scary there? That demon… He said that he would make me just like him. I d-d-don’t want to!”       Bending over his adopted daughter, Rock put his arm around her shoulders. His hand was immediately in a tenacious, childish grip.       “Don’t be afraid. You know I’ll be near you. It’s just a dream. You told it, and it won’t come true. Don’t cry.”       “Yeah,” Nico agreed, “you said that only a little bit-…”       “W-w-wait!” Rock himself began to stutter. “You shouldn’t repeat that after adults. Even after me.”       Finally, Nico laughed through her tears, no longer flinching when she sobbed. Rock stayed with her until she fell asleep to a bedtime tale where a demon was defeated by a cannon hand. The very one from Nico’s drawings. It’s amazing how this child, not knowing about her step-grandmother, still wants to become a gunsmith. No matter how much Rock wanted to protect her, he couldn’t do it but admit: he himself wasn’t far behind.       If he was not destined to surpass his mother, he was ready to do what his heart desired. He firmly decided to correct the ridiculous typo on Dante’s perfect pistols and, having let go of the pain, to call Lady. Let Ebony and Ivory remain only in a photo and his own memories…