Jimmy stared at it, transfixed. He hated guns. He hated what they did.
Sure, people killed not guns, but they were certainly accessories to the crime.
As for the bag of powder, he assumed it was cocaine. He left it on the floor not surprised.
He looked around for something with which to pick up the gun. He didn’t want to get his fingerprints on it. An old rag had been tossed in a corner, so Jimmy grabbed it, wrapped it around the imposing pistol, then placed the entire wrapping in his jacket pocket. He felt the weight of the metal, though it was heavier than it should have been. He hated its proximity to his body, but he needed it. He would have it examined and tested. He doubted it was registered.
He had one last item he wished to accomplish there. He walked over to the back wall, whe
