Andrew Gross - 15 Seconds

If Martinez had agreed with a bit more generosity of spirit, or at least a bit quicker, acknowledging his debt, Vance might have regretted how this “favor” would ultimately end for him.

But since he didn’t, Vance decided not to waste a whole lot of pity on him. A debt was a debt, and Martinez was no angel. No angel at all.

“Just make him soil those fancy pants of his, Bobby-boy.”

The last part came to him while he was working with his saw in the toolshed in back of his house.

The Mid-Carolina Gun Fair was at the town armory in Tracy that weekend.

Vance drove up. He’d been firing a gun since he was five. Knew how to handle a Winchester 70 hunting rifle, and an M24 bolt-action sniper’s rifle too. Sometimes, around his house, he would shoot off rounds at squirrels or possum, just to keep his eye sharp.

But this time he wasn’t here just to mill around.

There was a specific dealer Vance had come to see. One, he’d been told, he could deal with. The hall was ringed with long aisles of display booths. Gun dealers, small and large, their wares displayed on backlit walls. Lots of people with their kids milling around.

He found the booth he was looking for along the back row.

Bud’s Guns. Mount Holly, NC.

The owner was a ruddy-faced guy in a golf shirt with a thick red mustache. As Vance came up to him, he was occupied with a customer. Vance looked on the pegboard wall among the inventory, for something that might catch his eye.

He stopped at a Heckler & Koch USP 9mm.

Vance took it off the wall; it was attached to a metal wire that ran through the trigger guard. He put his hand around the handle. Nice. He checked the magazine and pulled back the slide, feeling the action. Light and smooth. He thumbed the slide release and gently squeezed the trigger. Click.

This would do the trick.

Bud freed up and came over with a salesman’s grin. “Looking for something compact and reliable, that’s a nice piece of equipment there.”

“Yeah, I am.”

“Accurate too. Less than one and a half pounds. H and K’s are used on several police forces around the country. Don’t hardly even need to sell ’em-they kinda sell themselves, if you know what I mean. I’m pretty sure I could work you up a dandy price.”

“It is a beaut.” Vance nodded.

“Shoots regular nine-millimeter ammo, or I got these custom, hollow-point, Hydra-Shok babies if you want to blow the door off the barn. I can do seven-forty, if you get me now. Show discount. I’ll even throw in a shoulder holster. You won’t find a better one here…”

“It’s nice…” Vance pursed his lips, thinking. “But I got this problem…” He set the gun down on the counter and looked the dealer in the eye. “Joe Tucker down in Waynesboro said you might be able to handle it for me. Lost my driver’s license, if you know what I mean. I was hoping to, I think you know… find my way around some regulations. That’s why I thought this show might be the right way to go.”

The dealer gave Vance a tight smile from underneath his mustache. “I know Joe.” He turned his back to the aisle. “I assume we’re talking cash?”

Vance shrugged. “If that can get it done.”

Bud scratched his walrus-like jaw and nodded. “How ’bout we say, eight seventy-five, and you can take it with you just as is. No questions asked.”

Vance picked up the gun and squeezed the trigger one more time. Do the trick just fine . “Lemme see that holster.”

Bud grinned. “You’ll have to fill out an invoice, though. That much there’s no getting around.” The dealer bent under the cabinet and came back out with a form.

“Got no problem with that,” Vance said.

“Here…” Bud handed him a pen. “Have a start at the paperwork while I box it up. Mister … ?”

“Steadman,” Vance said to him. “Henry Steadman.”

“Pleased to meet you, sir.”

Vance began writing Henry Steadman’s name under “Buyer” and his address in Palm Beach. Palmetto Way.

“And while you’re at it,” Vance said, reaching into his pocket and bringing out a wad of bills, “throw in a box of those hollow-points as well.”

From Summerville, I went north on Route 26 toward Columbia, the state capital. Two people on the list of license plates lived up there and another was on the way.

About an hour in I came into the town of Orangeburg. A James A. Fellows lived about twenty miles away in Blackville on Tobin Ridge Road. But I wasn’t exactly optimistic, as his plates expired two years ago.

I took the turn onto 301 West to Blackville.

The road wound through a bunch of backwater, roadside towns, basically shacks on the road with a church and a barbecue stand. A boarded-up market with an old sign for something called Knee High Cola actually made me smile. But not as much as the billboard I passed for the New Word Baptist Church, with the pastor pointing at you as you drove by, with the dire warning, referring to the brutal Carolina summer: “If you think it’s hot here…!”

That might’ve been the first time I truly let out a laugh in days.

I saw the sign for Blackville, and then for Blanton Road, which I knew from MapQuest fed into Tobin Ridge Road.

Truth was, Fellows didn’t hold a lot of promise for me, since plates had expired in August, two years back. As I drove out on the rutted, sun-cracked pavement, I couldn’t imagine anyone with any connection to me living all the way out here.

About a mile off the main road, the blacktop ended. There were houses-run-down farmhouses with low fields of lettuce and okra. A couple had aboveground swimming pools. Dog cages in the yards. The occasional Confederate flag.

I passed number 442. Fellows was 669, still a long way down. There was a bend in the road. A dog jumped out of nowhere, running out at me, barking wildly. As I passed, he dropped back and looked after my car like I was driving into hell. A mile farther along, I passed 557. Mostly woods and fields now.

I felt myself starting to grow nervous. Let’s say Fellows was the guy. How would I know? What would I even do? Take a picture of the famous blue car? I didn’t have a weapon, but it was likely he did! It dawned on me, a guy could get killed out here and no one would even know he’d disappeared.

Finally I saw a red house ahead on the right. On the mailbox was a hand-scratched number, 669. I blew out my cheeks. This was it! There was a beat-up, black pickup in the driveway. More like a rutted clearing in front of the house. There was a two-car garage, open, with tools everywhere, and another vehicle in it up on blocks.

I pulled in. Dogs started barking, and I saw three Dobermans jumping against the wire in a dog cage. Something told me, Henry get out of here… A huge elm shaded the front of the house. Laundry strung on an outside line.

I heard hammering.

A guy who was working on the front porch stood up when he noticed me approaching. He didn’t come toward me; he didn’t avoid me either. What he did do was give me a look like he wasn’t into visitors.

“Help you?” he said, putting down his hammer.

“Mr. Fellows?” I asked, opening the car door and walking toward the porch.

He nodded. Barely. He had on denim overalls, a sweaty white T-shirt, and a blue cap. He had a gaunt, angular face, a scrabbly looking, gray growth of whiskers, sharp, distrusting eyes, and as I got closer, a gap in his teeth.

He could have been anywhere from forty-five to sixty.

“My name’s Dawson, Mr. Fellows. I’m tracking down a license plate for an insurance company. It appears it was part of an accident.” Nervously, I checked my sheet. “South Carolina ADJ-dash-four-three-nine-two. It’s registered here to you at this address.”