“That’s not what I mean.”

“What do you mean, pal?”

He gestured vaguely toward me with his free hand. “You and that old service model .45 you carry. M1911, referencing the year that antique dates to. The so-called ‘Colt Government.’ It’s big, it’s heavy, and you haul it under your shoulder like something out of an old black-and-white movie. Hell, man, why don’t you go over to Frielich’s and get yourself something state-of-the-art? You can afford it.”

For a couple of seconds I just looked at him, then let out a grunt, uncrossed my legs, set the coffee cup on his desk, and sat up.

Then I slipped my hand inside my jacket, under my left arm, and slid the piece free of the holster. I regarded the weapon. The bluing was thinning out, the butts were well-worn, and the edges of the thumb rest were nicked. But it had that satisfying machine-clean oily smell and felt alive in my hand.

“It’s like me, man,” I said. “An oldie but goodie.”

Still leaning back, Pat was grinning as he flipped his jacket back to pat the S & W .38 in the speed rig on his hip.

“Modern technology,” he said. “You should give it a try.”

“Why?” I tossed him a nasty grin. “Think you could out-draw me, Pat?”

Smirking, he said, “What, you figure this is the Wild West or something?”

“You bet your ass I do. You’ve been out on these streets. You know how the stats read.”

His eyebrows flicked up and he shrugged. “No argument, buddy.”

“Anyway, you’re forgetting something.”

“I am?”

“Sure. The old western gunfighter rule.”

His grin reversed itself. “Which is?”

“Don’t ever try to out-draw a guy who already has a gun in his hand.”

I let him have a look down the big hole at the end of the barrel, watched him as he sucked in a breath, then I chuckled and snugged the gun back in its leather womb.

Pat waited a second before he breathed out and said, “Damn, Mike, the old gunfighters also said never draw a gun unless you intend to use it! Man, you’re a real pisser—you scare the hell out of me sometimes.”

“Just sometimes?”

The phone rang and Pat grabbed the receiver.

The call didn’t last long, but most of the talking was on the other end, while Pat leaned forward jotting on a notepad and saying “Uhhuh” now and then, till he thanked his guy and hung up.

He rocked back. “Guess how many red Ferraris there are in the greater New York City metro area.”

“I don’t know. Twenty?”

“You’re close—three-hundred-and-twenty. Four-hundred-and-seventeen, state-wide.”

I grunted something that was almost a laugh. “More people have dough than I thought. And decent taste.”

“Do I have to tell you what that means?”

“Red’s a popular color?”

But we both knew what it really meant was that although the case was still in the Active pile, the hit-and-run outside Pete’s Chophouse a little over two weeks ago was already a dead issue.