“What are you doing with that?” Bill asked.
I looked up. He was talking to me.
I looked down in my lap at the gun parts I had there. “I’m cleaning it,” I said.
“What do you need it for?” he asked.
“I don’t usually clean them but...”
“No, not why do you need to clean it, why do you need a gun?”
“Why do I need it?”
“Yes.”
“I want it,” I said.
“But why do you need one?” he persisted.
“Need one?” I asked again, not understanding his question. “I don’t follow you.”
“How many guns do you have?”
“You mean ‘own’ or how many did I bring up with me?”
My question seemed to put him off.
“How many do you own?” he asked in a voice that was tinged with exasperation. “How many guns do you have here, there, and everywhere?”
I thought a minute. “About a dozen.”
He screwed up his face. “What do you need 12 guns for? If you need a gun, one should be enough.”
“Enough for what?”
“What do you need a gun for?”