T. Parker - The Famous and the Dead

Hood looked up from the guns and into the faces of three men one at a time. “So what happened to old Granddad, anyway?”

“None of your business, Twinkle Tooth,” said Brock Peltz. He was taller and heavier than Hood had expected.

Young Clint Wampler laughed. He wore a peacoat and had the same pageboy bangs as in his mug shot. “He died defending this country from people like you.”

“I have no idea what you mean by that,” said Hood.

“Grandpa’s goddamned dead is what I mean,” said Wampler.

“Gentlemen,” Buster said.

Wampler again: “I mean this country can’t live without no shitfaces but not principles.”

“Clearly,” said Hood.

“Mr. Hooper, why don’t we just step over to checkout and ring up those shells?”

Hood looked at Skull. “How much do you want for the saddle rifle?”

“Hey, hey, hey!” boomed Buster. “Posted private property so no trespassing! This is my store and I do the buying and selling.”

“You’d get your tithe, Buster,” said Hood.

“It’s a Winchester Ninety-two,” said Skull.

“It’s a Winchester Ninety-two knockoff made by Rossi. No shame in Granddad being value-minded.”

“Three hundred,” said Skull.

“I’ll give you two hundred if you throw in the scabbard.”

“ Gun Trader’s Guide has it at two-fifty. Gun alone.”

Hood hefted the heavy little carbine, worked the lever, checked the chamber and magazine, lowered the hammer with his thumb. He brought a white handkerchief from his coat pocket, wiped the butt plate clean, then shouldered the weapon. “I always liked cowboy guns.”

“I’ll go two-fifty,” said Skull. “And twenty for the scabbard, which I got no use for without the gun. That’s the price the guide says.”

Hood lowered the gun and with his hankie wiped what he had touched, then set the gun back on the blanket. “Sell it to the guide, then.”

“Beat it, fruit loop,” said Peltz. “We’ve got some business to do.”

Hood glanced up at him, then back down at the guns. He studied them for a long beat. “I do have some homosexual clients.”

“In New York you could marry one of them,” said Skull. The other men laughed heartily.

Young Clint Wampler’s face was filled with glee. “That’s because you want to be one.”

Hood smiled. “I’m sorry, young man, but I have trouble grasping your ideas. Just let me say that my customers, homosexual or not, need more than these rusty, small-bore playthings. Buster, let’s cash out these targets and ammo.”

“You got her.”

Hood turned the cart around in a wheelie and headed for the checkout counter. “That fucker’s fuckin’ fucked,” he heard Wampler say. At the register he paid cash.

“Sorry, I guess,” said Buster.

“Don’t be. Lowball the living daylights out of them. And do let me know when something more substantial comes your way. My Virginia collector is still hot for those vintage machine guns. And you still have my card, I trust.”

“Got it somewheres.”

Hood gave him another one.

• • •

Thirty minutes later Hood was at the El Pueblo waiting for his breakfast. He checked his e-mail and website and Facebook page and found one potentially legitimate message: We need to talk. Lonnie R . Hood didn’t recognize the name. Lonnie had not included his phone number or a return address of any kind. The waitress poured him more coffee. After breakfast his phone rang and he was hoping for Lonnie R. with a red-hot tip on Mike. The voice was rough and familiar. “My name is Dirk Sculler. We met at Buster’s half an hour ago.”

Lyle Scully , Hood thought. “The wild bunch.”

“Sorry. They get excited.”

“I’ll recover.”

“Buster told me you want an operational machine gun. For a collector. Full size, not a sub.”

“Plural if I had my way. And vintage. World Wars I and II. For a history buff.”

“I might be able to do that. I checked out your website. Good enough. And your card says licensed but there’s no federal number. Maybe you can explain that.”

“I don’t put it anywhere some fool might try to use it. I put it on the FTRs if I have to.”

“If you’re licensed you do have to.”

“Some things are easier without paperwork, Mr. Sculler. If you’ve never filled out an ATF firearms transaction form, take my word for it.”

A pause, then: “Forms are deal breakers for me, Mr. Hooper.”

“The seller is always right.”

“Maybe we understand each other.”

“Possibly.”

“I might be able to get you a Lewis Mark I.”

“I might be able to buy an operational Lewis Mark I.”

“Oh, it operates.” Skull chuckled.

“Condition?”

“Very good.”

“Would it come with the pan magazine and front bipod stand?”

“Both.”

“How much?”

“Five thousand cash.”

“That’s too high.”

“Four thousand. Try getting a quote from the Gun Trader on that old thing.”

“Try someone who deals in Class Three, such as myself. It’s not worth over twenty-five hundred unless it’s gold plated or never been fired. The gold-plated part is meant as humor.”

There was a long silence. “Let me think about it.”

“You could ask the chimp in the peacoat what to do.”

“He only looks harmless. Don’t call him a chimp to his face.”

“Keep a leash on him.”

Hood finished his breakfast. The restaurant was nearly empty and the jukebox played a narcocorrido in which two corrupt U.S. lawmen gun down a fourteen-year-old Tijuana drug courier who had tricked them out of a thousand dollars. The two young narcos that Hood had seen here the night before were one booth over from where he’d left them, in their ostrich boots and python belts and black Resistols. They looked skinny and weathered and out of place. Sinaloans , thought Hood, straight from the mountains, here in the Estados Unidos to do some business. Hood read The San Diego Union-Tribune and had more coffee. He was just counting out his tip when the rhinestoned assault-rifle woman barreled from the lobby in to the dining room and settled into the booth next to the businessmen, who self-consciously ignored her. Hood slipped out and in the parking lot he looked again at her car. It was a black Caddy with vanity plates that said YO YO 762, the numbers suggesting the popular 7.62 mm round for which the AK assault rifles are chambered.

Skull called as Hood was crossing the parking lot. “Three grand.”

“I’ll look at it with twenty-seven fifty in mind.”

“You’ll like it. I’ve got a couple of AR-fifteens, Czech made, full auto, two MACs, and an Uzi. Sweet, sweet stuff.”

“Not at this time. What else?”

“Else? Well, the pharmacy is always open.”

“Not my deal.”

“Terrific crank and lots of good prescription downers. Mexican heroin, strong and black. Hash that’ll melt your face.”

“I’ll think on that.”

“People are strange. Who do you supply? North Baja? Sinaloa? Whoever pays best?”

“Door number three,” said Hood.

“Are you a cop?”

Hood chuckled. “I only get accused of that by people who watch too much TV.”

“That’s not an answer.”

“You sound like you’re preparing an entrapment defense. I like that. It makes you seem trustworthy.”

Hood leaned against his Charger and watched the entrance of El Pueblo.

“I’ve got access to fine, fine things,” said Skull. “I just need a good man to lay them off to.”

“Let’s just date for now, Dirk. Get to know each other. I’ll look at the Lewis, and if I like it, I’ll have the money. Somewhere public.”