T. Parker - Iron River

He lowers the gun and turns to me. “The run?”

“One thousand.”

“Shifts?”

“One. Our best people only.”

“Customer?”

“Private security firm, Paris, France -Favier and Winling.”

“Price per?”

“Nine hundred.”

“That pains me. More to come?”

“A thousand maybe.”

“How long until delivery?”

“Eight days. Ten.”

“I assume this is all off the books. No contract, no permits, no licenses. Cash payments to suppliers and labor, no taxes, no ATFE.”

“That’s right.”

“And no serial numbers on the guns.”

“Right again.”

“Ron?”

“Yes.”

“I’m somewhat proud of you. Reload it and put on the silencer.”

I screw on the noise suppressor and click in a fresh magazine. He fires left-handed this time, the group slightly looser than before. The bullets tap through the paper and patter against the sandbags two hundred feet away. Chester looks back at me, then past me. His smile is, as always, disturbing. I turn to see Sharon standing behind the partial wall of Plexiglas that fronts the spectators’ area. She comes around it and down to the stations. She frowns at me, then trains her eyes on Chester still at the firing line. She’s wearing a sleeveless white lace top and black trousers and nonsensible shoes. Her hair is swept up over her ear on one side and falls freely on the other.

“Hello, Mr. Pace,” she says to Chet.

Chester turns and faces her with all his mass, the machine pistol dangling from his left hand. “ Sharon. I have never in my life seen you so beautiful.”

She looks at me, then back to him. “Well, thanks. Sorry. I saw the light on my camera console and wondered what was going on down here.”

“Join us for lunch,” says Chester.

“I just had lunch,” says Sharon.

“We need your participation on a key front.”

She hesitates, cuts a look at me.

“We do,” I say.

She nods unhappily.

I get Chinese delivered and we set the little white boxes out on a card table in the third-floor conference room. We sold off the conference room furniture months ago, but last week Sharon presciently purchased a folding card table and four chairs. They are miniaturized by the big room and the tremendous size of Uncle Chester, who stands because the chairs are too small to support him. He cups a box in one hand and works the chopsticks with the other, a paper napkin tucked into his dress shirt and spread across a very small portion of his chest. I see the distress on Sharon ’s face.

“First things first,” says Chester. “We need to raise the price per unit. Our design is simple and efficient. The materials are sound. The gun performs well. We will not sell it for that price.”

“It’s been contracted at that price,” I say.

“There is no contract. There is only our word, and our word can be changed. Offer an incentive for an early commitment to the next thousand units. I suggest three percent off the renegotiated price of twelve-fifty. Next, we will renegotiate the cost of the sound suppressors separate from the gun. This feature is worth far, far more on the world market than you have guessed, Ronald, and good business is never guesswork. Believe me, your buyer is cackling to himself over the deal he’s made with you. I do not enjoy the sound of that cackling. Now, with the design work complete and some start-up capital coming in, we need to produce in much larger quantities. In spite of what you may have heard, fortunes are not made one penny at a time. They are made hundreds of thousands of dollars at a time. True opportunity does not whisper. It screams. We must answer it loudly. Sharon, this is where you come in. We need to contact all of our former like-minded customers. By like-minded I mean anyone who might be interested in such a clean, dependable, and value-priced killing instrument. We have designed a beautiful thing. There is nothing like it in the world, at such a price. The market out there is vast, I promise. I’ve seen it this last year. Our world is a different place than it was when I began with Pace Arms back in 1978. It’s even different than it was a short five years ago when you came to work for me, Ronald, and you, Sharon. Our world has blossomed. It has matured. It is famished for something like the Love 32. Sharon, you must find the people who need us. They are legion. It’s time you move from the reception desk to marketing and sales. Your salary will be increased commensurate with your performance. You can accumulate wealth, Sharon. You can do this job.”

She shakes her head and stands. Her face is calm, but I can see the anger in her eyes. “No. I can’t and I won’t. Good afternoon, gentlemen.”

She marches from the conference room and lets the door huff shut behind her.

Chester stares at the path of her departure, then at me. “Fire her or I will.”

“I’ll handle it.”

“Yes, you will. Is there a chance she’ll take one with her and try to sell the design as vengeance?”

“She wouldn’t do that.”

“Would she contact the authorities?”

“She’s completely trustworthy.”

Chet considers the door through which Sharon had gone, then turns back to me. “Consider the best ways to implement the other orders I’ve just given you, Ron. You have much to learn. I’ll be in close touch.”

With this, Uncle Chester sets his tub of pork and his napkin on the card table and places the chopsticks on the napkin.

I walk him to the elevator and ride down. No words, just the faint smell of baby powder and gun smoke and Szechuan pork. He keeps half a step ahead of me across the first-floor lobby and he pushes through the doors and into the soft Orange County sunshine without looking back.

Sharon is at her desk, aggressively tapping away on the keyboard. She does this when she’s angry, much as Mom used to slam pots and pans around in the kitchen.

I stand there and she glances at the security monitors on her desk. “Here’s what I think,” she says. “I think he can’t march back in here and take over. The Love 32 is yours. This buyer is yours. You’ve kept the doors open here for a year while he’s been out in the world doing, truly, God knows what. You pay his taxes on this place. Pace Arms is yours as far as I’m concerned. I want that man out of here. ‘We have designed a beautiful thing.’ You designed it, Ron. Not him.”

“He owns the building and the fixtures. He owned the company.”

“ Owned. There wouldn’t be anything left if it weren’t for you. I won’t let you give this away, Ron. You’ve worked too hard for it.”

“Mind if I sit?”

“Please do.”

“Coffee?”

“Sure.”

I pour coffees and make hers as she likes it, cream and sugar. I pull up a reception chair close to her desk and sit.

“What are you going to do?” she asks.

“I don’t know.”

“He knows. He’s going to take over the deal and take over the company.”

“I see that.”

“I will not work for him.”

“Why not?”

Sharon continues to look at me, and I see the anger come back to her eyes. She has good outward control over her emotions, but her eyes are a dead giveaway, status indicators, like the LEDs that tell you what your TV is doing.

“You haven’t seen the way he looks at me, have you, Ron?”

“Oh?”

“It’s an ugly thing. He looked at me that way the first week I worked here when I was seventeen. It felt like he was injecting a virus into my bloodstream. He’s looked at me that way a thousand times over the years. He looked at me that way today. But he held it longer. Ron, your Uncle Chester is an evil man.”

In fact Chester was once questioned in a rape but never arrested. This was hush-hush. It never got below the third floor. It was a long time ago. “Describe the look.”