The text below is from a novel in progress. First draft so there's still plenty of editing that will need to be done before it's "ready."
“It was marked on the wall outside.”
“Show me,” Tex moved from behind the counter toward the door.
Outside, Roy pointed at the graffiti. Tex considered the markings for only a moment before heading back inside.
“I don't suppose, Canuck, that you carry a sidearm?” Tex was rooting behind the counter. “I've got one here if you don't.”
“A gun? For what?”
“La Madre is one of the local gangs. Involved in drugs, illegal hooch, drug smuggling. People sometimes,” Tex stood up holding what Roy knew was a shotgun, but didn't recognize the type. “Rile up all kinds of trouble in town. When they feel like it; when someone ain't paid up protection money or wronged them some way. Not happened in a spell, quiet lately. We've been marked for target practice, I expect.”
Tex banged a side of the counter top and a small spring-loaded drawer opened on the customer side of the counter.
Roy's wide eyes stared down at some kind of handgun. Growing up in the wilds of Canada, Roy knew about rifles – a tool that his family used on a regular basis to hunt game – but handguns? What use was there for a handgun? Using a rifle was all about keeping a safe distance from dangerous game. The effective range of a handgun made it impractical unless you wanted to make a lot of noise without getting much done. He reached for the gun.
