Seven Hundred and Seventy-Six
The handle of the revolver was the nicest part. That wasn’t saying much. It hung down like the long, bulbous nose of a drunkard. It may have been a smooth chestnut brown at one time, but now it was chipped and cracked, covered in scratches like a rattlesnake that had been on the losing end of a badger fight. Running along the side, between the trigger and the hammer, was what may have once been fine silver plating. Now it was tarnished to match the rusted barrels and cylinder.
Floyd Usher wondered about the last time it had been fired, if ever.
He lifted his eyes from his desk where the pistol lie and blinked at the man seated across from him. “You say you want $776? Nothing more. Nothing less.”
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