Guns and Money

It looks more like a sack of potatoes than anything else — the coarsely woven brown bag the skinny Thai corporal is hefting onto the rickety table with a grunt. The sack gapes open and dozens of guns clank out, covering the tabletop, several dropping onto the grimy concrete floor. We stare at the jumbled heap of handguns, which I know from Joe, the arms trader who has brought me, are either Brownings or Smith & Wessons. Some have seen long service, the butts chipped and scored. Joe ignores these, instead picking up a snub-nosed Browning, still shiny with gun oil....

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