Devil May Cry - Volume 1 - Chapter 1.2

Phase 1.2

Bobby's Cellar was unlikely to win any awards. Any drunk who managed to locate the dive in its obscure downtown back alley, would think twice about going inside after clapping eyes on Bobby's warning, which was nailed on the door: “Go home, take a dump, and sleep it off.” 
But, of course, he meant only after braving the smell of garbage, downing a few beers, and maybe scarfing a meal at his little establishment. Low prices and unsavory hours kept the punters coming. Constant brawls and the occasional gunshot sometimes sent them right back out. 
Bobby's Cellar wasn't for the faint of heart. 
A few straggling patrons staggered out of the bar as the sun peeked over the horizon. Bobby scrubbed the countertop, sporting his customary scowl. Anyone still left after sunrise was bound to be a good-for-nothing. But one of them stood out more than the others. He looked deceptively young, but his silver hair gave the game away. 
“I heart about it, Tony. You and Mad Dog were at it again.” Grue took a slug of gin and rocked his chair back on two legs. Like most mercenaries, his lined face looked older than its years. But his imposing body was still in top condition. “Didn't I tell you to stay away from Denvers?” 
“You know what they say.” Tony shrugged. “I'm not just a lady's man. I'm a man's man.” 
“I'll pretend I didn't hear that. I thought gunfights without profit weren't your thing?” 
Tony knocked back his whiskey. “I was bored. It passed the time.” He frowned. “He ruined my favorite coat.” 
“Is that why you're wearing that getup? It doesn't suit you.” Grue chuckled, but it sounded more like a death rattle. 
“Can it, will ya? I can't help it.” Tony were a bland black jacket, at odds with the cool image he usually tried to project. He looked more like an embarrassing uncle than a master mercenary. 
“Just get something else to wear soon. You look like you're at a funeral. Just seeing you walk around in that thing makes me depressed.” 
“I'm not wearing it because I like it,” Tony protested. 
There are plenty of superstitious guys in this business. Black's not a very popular color.” Grue whipped out a cheap cigarette and lit it up. 
Tony waved his hand irritably. 
“Gee, am I bothering you?” Grue asked sarcastically. 
“I only do alcohol. Do you like destroying your lungs?” 
“About as much as you like devastating your liver.” Grue laughed. “You think like a kid. Someone like Denvers is gonna take advantage of that one of these days.” He stubbed out his cigarette. If there was one thing Grue couldn't stand, it was a smartass. 
“Say what you want,” Tony murmured dismissively. “By the way, there's something I wanna ask you about.” 
“If it's money, the answer is no.” 
“I haven't said anything yet!” 
“I know what you're gonna say before you say it. Do you know how much I've lent you already?” Grue had moved on to a mug of the cheapest beer he'd ever tasted. It was bitterer than the hops it was made from, and Grue had become something of a local legend for being the only person brave enough to tuck it back. 
Tony cocked his head. “Come on, that's the skunky beer talking. I heard you had some money saved up. How about it?” 
Grue slapped a coin on the table. “I've got three daughters. You think they leave anything left over for savings? All I've got is enough for this slop. I'm broke.” He tossed the coin at Tony. 

That's what Tony was waiting for. “I owe you one. I'll pay you back soon.” 
“I won't hold my breath,” Grue growled. “But I'll be waiting.” He pushed back from the table and stood up, revealing the large Python hanging from his waist. “I heard that Enzo is coming tonight. Be sure to show your face. Don't forget.” 
“I won't.” 
Grue managed a half-hearted wave on his way 
Tony ambled onto the street a few minutes later, blinking in the sunshine. He preferred the night and normally would have slept in his hideout until the evening. But his encounter with Denvers left him energized. Might as well take care of some errands, he reasoned. 
He made his way to a shabby downtown office. The building was plastered with signs for money lending and public services. Tony found an emergency stairwell and crept up the ramshackle steps. 
Goldstein's Shop had a simple sign that instructed customers to go through a rickety door off one of the staircase's landings. 
Tony turned the doorknob. “I'm coming in, old 
lady! You here?” The door swung inward. “You haven't kicked the bucket, have you?” 
“You're an annoying little brat, you know that?” Nell Goldstein shuffled into view, carrying a gun frame. “How many times have I told you to knock before you come in?” 

The shop was dark – windowless, lit by a dull lamp. 
Goldstein turned back to her table and continued sorting through gun parts. “Just when I thought I'd finally have a day of peace and quiet.” 
She had refined her name as a gunsmith. Those in the know called her the “.45 Caliber Artist” on account of her skill. But the years had worn some of the tread from the tires, and now she spent her days sprucing up weapons made by other people. She may have looked like Methuselah's grandmother, but she could juice up a squirt gun until it could take out an elephant. 
“You're the only person in the world who could get away with calling me an old lady,” she rasped, shooting a pointed glance at his silver hair. “I wonder what your parents must look like.” 
Tony smiled kindly. He pointed to a gold plate on the wall that read .45 Caliber Warks. “When are you going to fix this plate? Even a kid wouldn't make a spelling mistake like that.” 
“Tosh. It's always been like that. I don't mind.” And anyway, those days are over, she reflected. 
“You don't mind because those old eyes of yours can't read letters properly anymore,” Tony teased. 
“Why don't you tell me what you're doing here before I decide to wash your mouth out with soap?” 
Tony set the bootlegged Mauser on the table in front of Goldstein. “I've got another gun. Can you take a look at it for me?” 
“Again? How many guns is it this month?” 
“I dunno. I don't really think about it.” 
I'm not your personal gunsmith,” Goldstein objected. But she picked the gun up anyway, examining its contours through a magnifying glass. She handled the Mauser like it was her own child. 
“Well? Is it usable?” 
Goldstein regarded Tony above the rim of her bifocals. “Yes. But used by whom? It's not fit for you. The HSC is a magnificent weapon, but it's not something for shooting wildly like some kind of idiot.” 
Tony rubbed the back of his neck. “Yeah, I was coming to that. You know that P08 you gave me? It sort of crapped out on me.” 
Goldstein put a hand to her temple with mock weariness. “Give me a break! I put a lot of time and energy into that Luger.” 
She was constantly improving guns for Tony, but he would invariably wear them out by trying to match the lightning output of a machine gun. It was difficult to find parts that could withstand that kind of stress. “You know, most normal people can't pull a trigger that many times in a second. I had to virtually rebuild the weapon from the ground up to make it possible.” 

“Yeah, I know. That's why I only come to you, old lady.” 
“I want you to know what a pain in the ass you are,” Goldstein muttered. “Geez.” She continued to study the Mauser, mentally reconfiguring it for superior performance. She'd been dealing with Tony ever since he had arrived in the city. This was old hat by now. 
“I'll have to strip down the frame,” she fretted. “Even then, the cost for parts alone wouldn't be worth it. Forget about it.” Time and money meant that some weapons got tossed instead of improved. 
“Don't say that! Come on, old lady. A mercenary without a gun just wouldn't look right.” 
“Since when did anyone care what a mercenary looked like?” Goldstein huffed. She deposited the Mauser in a desk drawer. “It's going to take a while. I want half the cash up front. Got it?” 
“Sure. No complaints here!” Tony beamed like a kid on Christmas. 
Goldstein frowned. That smile makes him impossible to dislike, in spite of the ridiculous jobs he always requests. 
“Anyway, Enzo is coming tonight, so you won't have to worry about money.” He winked. 
“I won't be holding my breath.” 
Tony tsked. “Oh, come on! Have some faith for once. All that doubting is going to age you… skin like an old Bible.” 
“Shut your trap!” Goldstein shooed Tony out of her shop. “I'm tired of idiots without any manners. Geez.” 
After he had gone, she turned back to the table and studied the parts arrayed in front of her. Five pieces had to be completed before she turned in. 
So tired. 
Goldstein reached for a picture lying face down on the corner. The photograph captured a boy with chestnut hair and a smile, sitting beside a dog that seemed to tower over him. A picture from the heartland. 
He eyes drifted down to the heavy gun clasped in the boy's hand. 
“I love mommy” was scribbled in crayon. 
The boy looked an awful lot like Tony.