The .357 was where he'd left it, cleaned, tuned, and oiled. He loaded it; its weight in his shoulder holster felt good. He took out the sawed-off, broke it open, dropped in two shells of number 4 buckshot -- just a bad as double ought and lots more lead flyin' around when you needed it. He put it into the special pocket of his raincoat.
Yeah. A Burberry. Anyone who wanted to make something of it could kiss his chimp lips.
Now for the piece de resistance, the Tommy. The Chicago piano. The Gun That Made Chicago Run.
He opened the box. There it was.
From Cutts compensator to the buttless receiver, it was as he liked it: short, ready, and capable of heavy-duty firepower. Two straight mags and two drums: two hundred and fifty rounds of fully-jacketed lead, each damn near half an inch in diameter and traveling at 850 feet per second. Two hundred and fifty body slams, two hundred and fifty kicks with caulked logging boots.
Chimps were stronger and more flexible than people, but Chongo still prefered the front-and-rear pistol grips on his Tommy. Helped prevent barrel climb, which happened even with the Cutts.
Chongo tapped a stick mag home, worked the bolt. It locked to the rear, ready to drum out a melody of Death. He put on the safety.
He crossed the office, opened the door at the rear. Good. They hadn't repossessed his car. Yet.
He slid the Tommy and the extra mags in the special door panel he'd had Roscoe build in, before Roscoe had fried for that Kent job, down in Metropolis. Dumb bastard shoulda known better, knockin' off that old farm couple just after their four-eyed son had moved them to what passed for a big city in those parts.
He thumbed the door opener and backed out. Where to? Drive out to Cicero and see what some of them apes out there might know? Or head up to Evanston and talk to the boys up there?
Nah. Better than either. The Island. Out in Lincoln Park. Yeah. If there was any word anywhere, it'd be there.