Memorabilia

“Mr. Rourke, this is an incredible discovery, but it presents us with a difficult decision.”

Rourke waved a languid hand, looking seeming everywhere except at the man across from him. He shifted in his seat, leaning forward slightly. “Well,” he said, “I don’t know, man, that’s why I brought it to you, right?”

Arthur Wittmann was one of the more reputable collectors of Hollywood memorobillia. His office was decorated -- maybe a better word would have been ‘encrusted’ -- with posters, art, and framed and mounted props from various films.

He was also a well-respected criminal and civil attorney with a long and successful track record. The combination made him the right man to deal with the incredibly difficult decision to be made.

The item on the desk between the two men was not mounted or  framed; in fact, it looked decidedly well-used.  It was a pistol with two triggers and a bolt-action and it looked... well, it looked more or less just like the gun Rick Deckard used to run down replicants with in Blade Runner.

“So you’re saying that this is the gun that killed George Reeves.”

“That’s the way I heard it.” Rourke shifted in his seat again. He was starting to look bored.  “Well, at least...” Roarke sighed. “It’s the barrel that killed Reeves. The front trigger is from the gun that killed Tupac Shakur, the back trigger is from the one that killed Biggie Smalls.”

“So...” Wittmann reached out with a pen and pushed the gun around on the desk. “It’s a... a fake prop, made of real-- of items of real provenance.”

“That’s what the dude said.” Roarke leaned back, put his hands on his head. “Dude I got it from said he got it off a hooker that got it off some john she rolled. The dude kept talking about it, so she took it when she took his wallet.”

“And you have no idea who this ‘dude’ was.”

“I have no idea who either of the dudes was. I just met this guy in a bar in Santa Monica, he walks up to me and goes, ‘hey, you’re Mickey Roarke’ and then lays this story on me, about some psycho fan that collected famous guns and made... this thing out of them. And then he gave it to me, said he thought I should have it. He was pretty fucking drunk, you ask me.”

“Hmm.” Wittemann leaned forward, looked from the gun to Roarke. “So, no documentation, no authentication... That’s quite a story.”

“Yeah,” said Roarke, “this kind of shit happens to me all the time, I don’t know.” He pulled a cigarette seeming out of his hair, then seemed to remember that he couldn’t smoke here. “So listen, man. Is it worth money or what? I got debts.”

Witteman leaned back and looked from the gun to Roarke, then back to the gun.