Monday, March 10, 1997 | 11:59 a.m.
Obviously, even gunmen need to eat.
So it's nice to see reporters, cops and gunmen all finding common ground in their dining preference.
Place: Taco Bell at Charleston and Decatur.
Day: A recent Tuesday.
Time: twoish.
As we sit chomping thoughtfully on our burritos, a loud clattering shatters the ambience.
Sitting on the floor is a big, shiny, black ... thing.
A gun. A gun with a hefty clip in it -- an automatic.
Its owner, gripping a combo meal and halfway to the door, pauses.
The reporter, who grew up in the reputed crime mecca of New York City but had never actually seen anyone with a loose pistol before, is thinking, "Ohmygod, there's a gun on the floor."
The policeman, who's been patrolling the back streets of Vegas for 18 years, is thinking, "Red alert -- possible crime in progress."
The gun owner, who just came in for a taco or two, is thinking, "Whoops! I dropped my gun on the floor."
So he stoops over, nonchalantly snatches it up and slides it back into the pocket of his low-slung, baggy shorts -- the probable cause of the whole problem.
And takes another step toward the door.
It falls out again, with another clatter.
By now the lunchtime crowd is getting a little antsy, annoyed even.
"Could you stop dropping your gun on the floor?" they're thinking collectively. "If you're going to rob us, just get it over with. But don't be such a klutz with that thing."
It's also slowly dawning on everyone that guns that fall on the floor have the potential to, well, spray bullets out of them.
But the reporter is certainly not about to point this out to him.
Wisely, rightly, cowardly, nobody else is either, too busy practicing the art of self-preservation.
So he pockets it once more and, somehow keeping it in his shorts this time, saunters out the door.
To the rest of the patrons, the stomach-queasing moment is over.
"Whew," they're thinking. "What a story to tell over the dinner table tonight. But ... maybe at McDonald's, instead. Why take chances?"
And that's all. No one panics. No one jumps up to leave. No one notifies the manager.
They just resume chomping. Another day in the big city.
The weak-kneed reporter is marveling at their composure, not sure whether to chalk up their response (or lack of it) to fear or apathy.
New to town, the reporter wonders if she is over-reacting.
Maybe the proper thing to do is just assume a gun owner is probably an off-duty security guard, or that he really, really needs that gun for a fast-food run.
In New York, guns that pop up in public places, such as the Empire State Building or a commuter train, tend to have malicious intent.
But this is the Wild Wild West, where about 6,000 gun owners have received concealed weapon permits in the last two years.
Maybe that makes for a certain amount of weaponly nonchalance.
In fact, only one man rises from his seat, walks to the door, expertly observes the man's license plate, puts in a quick call on his cell phone to dispatch nearby police cars, and returns to his seat.
Needless to say, no one bothers to ask him if he had just called the police.
Luckily, it happened that the man, Robert Wills, in fact IS the police.
Off-duty and gunless, the Metro sergeant knew better than to confront a possible assailant inside a restaurant crowded with burrito-chompers.
He also knows that people with permits to carry concealed weapons generally are taught to carry them, carefully, in holsters. They tend not to drop them repeatedly in crowded restaurants.
So he and the reporter found the patrons' lack of curiosity very curious.
"How strange and sad," the policeman and the reporter think, "to be blase about a weapon lying at your feet."
"Hmmmm," the rest of the customers think, "This is a pretty good taco."
Who knows what our gun-dropping guacamole lover thinks -- he got away.
Guess he made a run for the border.
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