Francisco Jose - The Samsons - Two Novels

“They already do that.”

“Make the fire hotter,” Puneta said, “and money is of no consequence, as you know. You can pick up my share at the Casino tomorrow.”

“The Army and Navy Club,” the other man said, “I have a lunch there.”

“All right then.”

“Anything new from Tondo or from Tarlac?”

“After that Huk commander in Tondo was disposed of, nothing new,” Juan Puneta said.

“Tomorrow then,” the man said, and hung up. I waited till Puneta had put the phone down; then I put mine down, too.

How neatly everything was falling into place. Mrs. Hortenso was right after all, and Betsy, too — one could depend on women and their intuition. But since men depend so much on logic and verifiable data, well, here they were. Betsy had told me how Puneta had traveled in style, the same way he had come to Tondo, in his big, fat Continental. He used a helicopter to ferry his ice, his caviar, and his pate to those distant and forgotten mountainfolds where he hunted — a reconnaissance of the battlefields of the future. His gun collection was public knowledge though few had seen it. How convenient it was for a rich man like him to have his arsenal right here, legitimate, open — all in the name of hobby.

I went to the cabinets where the saucers and cups were and started setting the table. The water had started to boil and I was taking it off the electric stove when he joined me.

“I am sorry for the interruption,” he said, “an important business call.” He saw what I had done and he smiled. “You really don’t waste time.” He brought the Nescafé. “A special European blend.” He continued, “We were talking about my favorite subject, sex. What have you got against boys?”

“Nothing,” I said. “Nothing really.”

“That’s good. We will have plenty of time. Now, I must show you my shooting range.”

We left the coffee cups in the sink. I followed him across the vast, carpeted living room to a corridor lined with paintings, on to the master bedroom and beyond, a mirror with a carved gilt frame that occupied the whole end of the corridor. He pressed a button behind a small picture frame and the mirror swung open to reveal a red-carpeted stairway. It led down to a brilliantly lit cavern underneath the house.

“Surprise, surprise,” he said, grinning. “Only my best friends know this place, Pepito. You are one of the anointed few. It is completely soundproof.”

“Thank you, sir,” I said.

“I have been collecting for a long time now,” he explained. A whole wall was lined with guns, carefully oiled. At one end of the hall were target frames, ever ready for shooting. He walked to the first cabinet. “There,” he said, “is one of the earliest guns used by the Spaniards in the eighteenth century. And that is a Mauser over there, used during the revolution. And yes, that blunderbuss over there. And lantaka —” he pointed to a Muslim brass cannon as stout as a coconut trunk.

“What is your favorite, sir?” I asked.

“Handgun or rifle?”

I didn’t know the difference.

“Well, these old ones — that Krag over there, those Garands, and these Thompsons. They are all serviceable. Even that Nambu machine gun over there—” a sleek, futuristic-looking gun, mounted on a tripod; it stood on a platform with six other machine guns. “You know, it is in working order. The Japanese made it, and according to ordnance intelligence it is the best machine gun the Japanese produced. The caliber is small, but its velocity is terrific.”

We walked over to a cabinet with more rifles and shotguns. About two dozen of them, and he paused before one particular long-barreled rifle. “This is the Winchester magnum,” he said. “It has range, power. It can stop a charging elephant in its tracks.”

“Have you shot one, sir?”

“Of course,” he said expansively. “I have been on safaris in Africa. In Ceylon, we hunted leopards. And, of course, Sumatran tigers—” He pointed to three tiger skins on the floor.

We stopped before a table case, glass-topped, and, within, an array of handguns — revolvers, automatics, and small-caliber pistols that could be held in one’s palm. He slid open the glass panel and picked out a revolver, its barrel a shiny blue. “This is considered the world’s finest revolver,” he said. “And I am partial to it. Revolvers don’t jam. Unlike automatics. Remember that shoot-out in a nightclub two months ago?”

He turned to me, the revolver in his hand. “The other fellow’s 45 jammed. That’s how he got killed. As you can see”—he held the gun before me—“it has a ventilated rib, adjustable ramp-type front sights, and it can use both the 357 magnum and the 38 special … and the magnum, of course, has great power.” He placed the revolver back in the case, then picked up the one beside it. He held it before me and this time, his face was really aglow. “And this … this is really my favorite. It’s the Smith & Wesson 44-caliber magnum. It has six bullets … here.” He let me hold the thing. It was heavy and massive. “The 8 3/8-inch barrel gives it great accuracy and power. The sights are adjustable. At a hundred yards, if you are really good, you can’t miss. It is the most powerful handgun in the world. I have six of them.”

He brought out another. “Loaded. All of them,” he warned.

We positioned ourselves at the shooting bar. After he adjusted my earmuffs his hands went down my arms and hips. I let him.

He moved away, stood at the bar, his feet planted apart, then he aimed and fired. Even with the earplugs, the roar was deafening.

He nudged at me. I aimed and fired and the gun almost jumped out of my hand. We raised our earmuffs.

“Actually,” he said, “the pros will tell you to shoot with both hands. It’s steadier that way.” We walked over to the targets. His was off center. Mine was a bull’s-eye. Beginner’s luck!

“Hey,” he said, squeezing my hand, “you are good!”

“The gun almost fell,” I said.

“Hold it tight,” he said. “And don’t breathe when you fire. Your finger should be light on the trigger. And don’t pull — squeeze.”

We went back to the shooting bar. “I can make bullets here,” he said. “I have gunpowder. So don’t throw away the empty shells.”

I asked what started him on this expensive and dangerous hobby.

“Fucking,” he said simply. “After shooting, I get a terrific erection and I feel like fucking till I am dead.”

Then I told him: “You should have done the shooting yourself at that Malacañang demonstration where so many were killed. You would have had a hundred orgasms.”

He looked at me surprised, puzzled.

“What are you trying to say?” He lowered his gun on the shooting bar. I still held mine.

“When you took that call I listened on the extension,” I said simply.

He drew back, the shock clear as sunlight on his face.

“What did you hear? You understand Spanish?”

“Everything, your contributions.” I went into the details.

He fumbled for words then straightened up, the smile still on.

“You know,” I said, my anger under complete control. “I was in the front when we were fired upon.”

“More will be killed,” he said finally. “What did you think it would be, a picnic?”

I repeated the cliché: “You can’t make an omelet without breaking eggs.”

“You may make the omelet but you won’t eat it,” he said patronizingly. He had regained his composure.

“Who will?”

“We will,” he said, the grin plastered on his face again. “Not only because we have the money. More important, with money, we have been able to develop the brains. And if we can’t have brains, we buy them.”