Once I knew a cop in Hingham who thought that it was the metal in guns that somehow short circuited the minute electrical impulses of the brain and made people act stupidly. This same guy also ate seaweed, kept a swarm of stray cats he had picked up on the job, and worked out for about three hours every day at the gym. Obviously he did not have a lot of time to think his theories through. But he had gotten me to think twice about guns.

I didn’t own one. Connie offered to loan me one of his guns, but I refused. Nevertheless, I was going to the range every other week to take some shooting practice. I agreed with Connie that I should know how to use one, even if I didn’t want to carry it. Situations can change. My Army training was nearly twenty years old and mostly involved an M-16. Besides, it was paid for–part of the company insurance plan. I had received my license to carry in late October.

The cop in Hingham was half-right, in any case. I wish I could thank him for that. As Mae West knew, having a gun in your pocket short-circuited your thinking. It was too easy to stop at that solution rather than work things through a little further.

The cop, Harry Bellows Jr., was run over at a construction site on Route 3 a few years ago by an eighty-year old man in a Buick. Maybe the metal in cars has an effect on some brains as well.

The first week of December I had the late shift at the headquarters for one of the politicians running in the special election for the Senate. The third night a fellow came in the door who did not look like a voter or a volunteer. Campaign volunteers come in all sizes, but most of them have a look. They are not just doing a job. They’re friendly. Earnest. Sometimes they are overflowing with nervous energy, as if every second counts. The fellow who came in was looking tired and took a pretty weary breath at what he saw. He gave a slight shake to his head. I imagined he didn’t think much of it. Because I was the only one who was paying him any attention, he comes right over.

“Where’s Davis?”

To keep Connie happy, I’ll call the candidate ‘Davis.’ Connie can’t afford to loose any more contracts because of me.

I say, “On the road somewhere. Can I help you?”

He says, “You work for the campaign?”

I say, “Yes.” Essentially true.

He says, “You a cop?”

I’ve been told before that I look like a cop. I don’t wear any kind of uniform but I do have a plastic badge on my jacket. The guy can’t focus his eyes enough to tell what the badge says. I figure he’s in his late forties. He’s got a Frank Sinatra style hat on and I suspect there’s nothing beneath it. I’d already been thinking this guy was probably a cop himself, just from the shoes and the coat, but now I decide he’s an ex-cop. At least it turned out I had that much right.

I answer, “No. Security.”

He says, “Good. Here. Do me a favor. Give this to Davis.”

It was a padded shipping envelope, sealed, with something hard in it about the size of a book but lighter. A video tape. Easy to guess. Everybody has gone digital these days, but the last time I owned a TV, we still used tapes.

I say, “What is it?”

He says, “That’s not your business. It’s for Davis. He’ll want it.”

I say, “You don’t know what my business is, and I don’t know yours. For all I know, you might just be trying to make the Six O’clock News.”

He tries to grab the envelope from my hand, but I pull it away.

He says, “Give it back.”

That was the moment I knew he was an ex-cop. There was something in his voice. Something broken. He was someone who had made too many mistakes. I could sympathize with that.

I say, “I’ll give it to Davis.”

I had both size and weight on the guy, but he stood his ground, close enough to give me a kiss.

He says, “It’s important.”

I can see in his eyes that it means something to him. It’s not just a job. He’s not just a delivery boy.

I say, “He’ll get it.”

He stands down. His eyes scan the office to see if anyone has been noticing. Everybody looks busy. He nods. Then he says, “Thanks.”

That sealed it.

A couple of seconds after the guy is out the door again and into the night one of the campaign staff people comes over.

He says, “You got something there for us?”

This guy is too young and too thin and way too eager. I’ve noticed him before. I lied.

“It was just one of our guys with something from my boss, Connie. It looks like I have to work another job tonight after this one. Harry tracked me down with the keys. Son of a bitch.”

The staffer smiled at nothing. Nodded a couple of times. Then he retreated back toward the desks where they were working the phones.

I don’t trust politicians in general. For all the usual reasons, but more. I’ve known a couple. Poker players will tell you to always cut the cards, and when your brother is dealing, cut’em twice. And when a politician deals, always get a new deck.

But Davis is easy to like. No pretenses. He looks at people and answers what’s being asked. And he’s working hard for the job. He didn’t check in until nearly midnight. Most of the phone work is done from home, but the dozen or so who were working from the office were mostly gone. About half a dozen volunteers and staff were still there drinking Coke and eating pizza at the back. The eager fellow was on a cell phone at a desk. Davis came in with a reporter at his shoulder already talking.

I interrupted, “Sir, can I speak with you a moment.”

Davis reads my face and excuses himself to take my arm and walk to the side with me.

“What’s up?”

“I have something for you. Hand delivered. Guy looked like a private detective to me. No name. He wanted to get it directly to you. Something about it seemed important enough.”

I had just given the envelope to Davis when the eager fellow, who had popped up from his desk and practically run in our direction, butted in.

Mr. Eager says, “I thought that was from your boss.”

I ignored him and kept my eyes on Davis’ face. “My guess is it should be seen by you before anyone else.” Davis gripped the package hard enough to understand what was in it and then nodded.

He said, “Thanks.”

I backed away. Mr. Eager has a big frown on his face. He gives me the dirty look of a schoolyard punk.

The reporter, a good-looking woman I’d seen before, had been watching all this and picking up on the nuances. As Davis returns she says to him, “Anything important?”

Davis smiles. “Probably not. We’ll see.”

A little later, when he’s eating some pizza with the remaining staff, I can see that his jacket pocket in full and the emptied envelope is in a can of garbage by a desk.

About one in the morning I’m out of there and on my way home. The temperature has dropped down below twenty and the sky is dark enough to see a few stars, even in the city haze. The streets out of Oak Square are empty that time of night, but I was taking it easy. I was tired, but I’d noticed. Someone was following me. Over the bridge and through Harvard Square I keep an eye on it. Whoever it is, I don’t want to take them home with me, so I park at the end of a block I know on Mass Ave that hasn’t had a street light in years before I get too close to Porter Square. The other car parks about a hundred feet behind me. I take my time getting out. I ignore him, lock the car door and walk around the corner.

Thirty seconds later, here comes the guy. Even in the dark I can see it’s the ex-cop, but what happened then happened without a lot of thought.

It must have scared the crap out of him to have me standing right there. His right hand went into the front of his coat. I punched him there where his hand went in before it could come out again. I thought I heard something break, either a rib or a finger, as the air went out of his left lung. He fell straight back and bounced his head on the cement.

Now I was scared. I had visions of Holly Martins and Harry Lime skulking about the mean streets of post-war Vienna in The Third Man. But this was yuppiefied Cambridge. What was I doing? I was very glad I was not carrying a gun.

I went down on my knees to see if the guy was still alive. He gasped. Breathing must have hurt. He’s blinking water from his eyes. The Sinatra hat is crushed beneath the back of his head. Both his arms were crossed over his chest. One hand was still in the front of his coat, so I reached in after it and removed the gun from the holster.

I said, “Why the hell’d you do that?”

It was like asking myself at the same time.

He answered in a whisper, “Reflex, I guess.”

My own answer was about the same. Some stupid kid had tried to mug me one night not long ago, just the other side of Porter Square, and it had put me into the wrong frame of mind. I was feeling stupid again.

I put the gun in my own pocket.

“How bad is it? Can you move? Can you stand?”

He sat up. Coughed. Gasped. I helped him stand.

Finally he says, “I’m okay.”

I say, “You’re not okay. Something broke. You might have a concussion.”

He says, “Did you give him the tape?”

I said, “Yeah.”

He took a small breath. “Then it’s okay. I’ve had worse.”

“Why were you following me?”

“To see where you lived. In case you didn’t give him the tape.”

“You’re an idiot.”

“Yeah,” He brushed my hand away with his left hand. “Give me my gun.”

I picked his hat up instead. He gave me a look, a bit like one of my daughters when she thinks I’m playing the father role a little too much. Both his arms are still gripping the front of his coat, but I see it’s his right hand that’s pressed under his arm. I figure it was a finger that broke against the hard edge of his holster. I was thinking, what would Holly Martins do?

I gave him the hat. He pushed it down over the bald swath of his scalp and winced. Then I gave him his gun. He took it gingerly and stuck it inside his coat.

Then he said, “Thanks,” and he turned and carefully made his way back to his own car.

I called after him,

“What’s your name?”

He didn’t turn to answer. I imagine it might have hurt for him to turn. He just spoke out into the empty street.

“Jim Lunz.”

Later that morning, with sun on my windows and me still under the covers in bed, Connie calls and says, “What’d you do?”

I say “What?”

He says, “You got us fired.”

“How?”

“The campaign manager called from Davis’ office and told me that they were consolidating and putting all the security assignments with Turners. God damned Turners! Deadwoods, for Christ sake. Everything was good yesterday afternoon. So what did you do?”

I told him. Including the confrontation in the dark. Connie thought about it a moment. Then he says, “Got a pencil? Here’s the number. Call Davis. Tell him what’s happened. Then we’ll see.

I left two messages before I got a call back. I told Davis that someone from his staff had cancelled our services and I thought it might be because I had gone around Mr. Eager with the tape.

I can tell Davis is with someone, but he doesn’t skip a beat. He says, “What’s wrong? You don’t like our pizza? No problem. I’ll buy you a sandwich. What do you like? Come in tonight. Tell your boss Connie that our guy got it backwards. We’re dropping Turners. I’ll talk to my guy and get it straight.”

He didn’t mention the tape. I didn’t ask.

Davis showed up that night with a pastrami on rye from Michaels. Mr. Eager was nowhere to be seen.

It’s hard to eat a real good pastrami sandwich at midnight and then get any sleep, so I wrote all this down instead.