Reborn in America, I am a legendary short seller on Wall Street.

Chapter 21 Pan-fried Snapper
Mr. K handed the gun to Larry, who immediately felt its weight.

Real handguns are heavy!

Larry weighed the Italian pistol in his hand. The most obvious thing he noticed was that the grip was small and straight, somewhat like a sheep's bone.

The grip of the gun was engraved with the word "Roma" in cursive script, and there were even a few grains of sea sand stuck in the gaps of the holster.

"May I take it out and have a look?" Larry turned to look at Mr. K, worried that there might be some taboo or unwritten rules in their line of work.

But Mr. K simply nodded casually, "There are no bullets inside, feel free to look around."

Larry pulled out the gun, held it in his hand, and felt that the gun was really good.

The center of gravity is very stable, and there are no unnecessary hooks in the gun design, so the action of drawing the gun is very smooth. Don't be fooled by the small grip; it's not a problem at all for 14-year-old Larry.

Because of its fixed cylinder design, this gun requires loading bullets one by one into the cylinder. It has a magazine capacity of 6 rounds, and reloading is not as quick as a revolver, but it is adequate for self-defense.

Mr. K explained that the M1889 Bodeo pistol has a unique feature: to fire a bullet, the trigger must be pulled back to the fully extended position; otherwise, the hammer will remain in the safe position, so there is no need to worry about its safety.

"Where are the bullets? What caliber are they?"

Mr. K took a red cardboard box, opened it, and found rows of brass-colored bullets inside.

"10.35mm caliber, this box contains 48 rounds. This caliber of bullets is hard to find in the United States, so come back to me if you need any more."

Larry looked at the bullets, his mind racing. He needed to practice shooting and couldn't come to this chaotic "Little Italy" alleyway too often, so he should buy more bullets at once.

After making up his mind, Larry weighed the Bodeo pistol in his hand and said calmly, "A pistol, 200 rounds of ammunition, name your price?"

Mr. K glanced at him, remained silent for a moment, and then said, "You need quite a lot of bullets, okay... Do you also need a sling to hide the gun under your arm? We have the original Milanese ones."

"Yes, I need it."

“But that adds up to a lot of money, kid. Are you sure you can afford it?” Mr. K asked again.

Larry's heart pounded. He had no idea how much a handgun cost in this era, especially a black gun that was neither registered nor officially regulated.

After thinking for a while, Larry deliberately spoke in a flat tone, "Mr. Potter said you are a fair man."

"Fine!" Old K sneered, took a gun sling from the drawer, found three boxes of ammunition, piled them on the table, and swung his forearm. "$36.8, you have to let me make a little less profit!"

Larry almost spat out a mouthful of blood.

That's fucking cheap, only the price of a bicycle wheel. Damn it, he made me nervous for ages, thinking he was going to rip me off...

Are guns this cheap these days?
If black market guns are this price, wouldn't domestically produced guns in legitimate gun shops be even cheaper?
Ah, no, that's not right. Compared to ordinary workers, this is already three months' wages. They only feel entitled to think guns are cheap because they earn money so easily.

Of course, Larry couldn't possibly reveal the thoughts that were on his mind. He frowned deeply and spoke in a hesitant tone, feigning hesitation.

"Okay, I hope this is a good start. I'll get more goods from you if needed."

Mr. K nodded, and after a while said, "Not only the goods, I can also help you get rid of other troubles, as long as you pay enough."

Larry looked at Mr. K with some surprise, but still nodded emphatically and said simply,
"make a deal!"
.
Larry actually received 198 bullets: 192 bullets in four fully packaged boxes, plus six separate bullets that Mr. K had already loaded into his pistol.

As he walked out of the northern fishing port area of ​​"Little Italy," he had a pistol hidden under his long coat, with six bullets still in it.

Whether it's psychological or not, Larry felt a strange sense of security carrying a gun. No wonder men like guns; it perfectly matches the gene segment in men's DNA that seeks security.

Larry went to the fishing port area and retrieved his bicycle from a dried fish shop that also sold cigarettes. This time, the bicycle storage cost Larry 5 cents.

Just as Larry turned to leave, he saw some snapper over three feet long being sold at a temporary stall in the port area, so he quickly pushed his bicycle over there.

Snapper is one of the most famous edible fish in the western Atlantic. Its flesh contains a certain amount of fat, is oily, and has a slightly sweet taste. It is best eaten pan-fried.

(West Atlantic snapper)
Since Larry started working in the securities industry, his palate has become quite discerning. These past few months of comfortable living have allowed him to sample all the high-end ingredients currently popular on the East Coast of the United States.

But just as stock prices continue to rise as they rise, delicious food gives Larry a greater yearning for a gourmet lifestyle.

Larry pushed his bicycle to the fish stall, saying he wanted to buy this three-foot-long fish.

The fisherman glanced at Larry's somewhat well-dressed clothes and his bicycle, realizing he wasn't a poor immigrant from the fishing port. After hesitating for a while, he finally gave a thumbs-up and said...

"Fifty cents, sir!"

Larry was taken aback, thinking to himself, "Why are you sticking out your thumb for 50 cents?"
"What about the other two?" Larry asked again.

The fisherman held up one index finger. "One dollar!"

Larry then realized that the old fisherman's long index finger representing one dollar was actually a substitute for the two short thumbs representing 50 cents...

In the end, Larry negotiated the price and bought the 3-foot-long snapper for 35 cents.

With the snapper on the back of the bike seat, Larry rode his bicycle, marveling at how wonderful Boston, this seaside city, truly was.

I leisurely rode my bicycle home, and my mother covered her face and sighed again.

"Larry, isn't oatmeal enough for you? Why do you buy such expensive food every day? You even need extra oil to fry the fish..."

Larry smiled and carried the large red fish into the kitchen. He knew his mother was just saying that, but in reality, she had never deprived him of anything.

The mother muttered something as she went into the kitchen, while Larry hid in his room, taking out his Bodeo pistol and fiddling with it.

As dusk fell, my mother shouted loudly from downstairs.
"Come down for dinner, Mr. Livingston!"

Larry concealed his gun, went down the stairs, and immediately saw the main course for the evening—pan-fried snapper—on the dining table.

The snapper meat is already tender, and now it's grilled to a golden brown and drizzled with lemon juice. It looks incredibly tempting sitting there.

Larry had just sat down at the dining table when he saw the cutlery set out in front of his father's usual chair.

"Is Dad coming home for dinner?" Larry asked.

“Yes, we’ll wait for him a moment,” the mother said with a smile.

Just then, the door opened, and Larry's father walked in, a relaxed smile on his face. He stopped and said to Larry and his mother,
"Our farm is settled!"

　Dear fellow writers, please don't hesitate to cast your monthly votes and recommendation votes so we can send Larry to New York as soon as possible.

　　
　
(End of this chapter)