by Jim Wilsky
The younger guy slid his drink while walking down to where the other man sat. His back was to Sam and the two men exchanged words in a hushed tone. He heard a couple of quiet fuck yous but that was about it.
It was an interesting little side show and Sam was soaking it in. Broke up the boredom, if nothing else.
The young one laughed quietly about something, straightened up and tipped the brim of his cowboy hat up a little. “Alright, well, I’m out.” He finished his drink and set it down with a thunk. He walked away, but then stopped. “Oh, and hey, let me know if ever need a loan ’kay? Your gravy train is gonna switch tracks someday, just a matter of time.”
The old man just stared at him. One arm on the bar and one on his chair. He looked ready to stand up.
Mr. Cowboy Hat laughed and did leave this time. Sam looked at the old man’s eyes as he watched the guy walk out. Those eyes were blazing with red hot hate.
Giving it a minute or two, Sam finally leaned one elbow casually on the bar and turned slightly in the guy’s direction. He caught the man’s eyes and shook his head. “I swear, some people are just a waste of skin. No respect for anything and always have to be running their mouth.”
“Yup.” The old guy looked like he was going to say something more but instead ate the last French fry on his plate.
Sam gave it one more try. He pointed at the screen with the soccer game playing. “Seventy minutes and it’s one-oh. Game drives me nuts.”
The man looked at him again and then up at the screen. “Yeah, I hear you. I’m a football guy…well, American football that is.”
“Only kind there is,” Sam answered easily.
That brought a pinched half-smile. The guy was cooling down, but still pissed off. He stood up, got a healthy money clip out of his pocket and peeled out a Franklin. Holding it out to Amy, he said. “Keep twenty of that for yourself darlin’ and bring me the rest.”
Sam raised his bottle to him, “One more? Hell, I’m buying. Humor me, I got nothing else to do. And more importantly, I’m not some rich little smartass with no manners.” He gave his best smile.
The old guy stared at Sam, measuring him and what he’d just said. Then a slow small smile appeared. “You judge people well.” He nodded toward the open lobby and paused. “But I probably shouldn’t. Got an early wake up tomorrow and I’m not staying here, anyway.” He nodded at the side exit. “I’m actually over at the Lex, next door.”
“Gotcha.” Sam nodded. “I’ve heard The Lexington is a real nice place…good bar, too.”
“Oh yeah, definitely, but right here was better for me tonight. I’m laying low—or was trying to. Got a big gun show at the convention center down the block. Starts tomorrow. The Lex bar is damn nice but too close to my buyers and sellers, if you know what I mean.”
“Yeah. Yeah, I think I do, after seeing that guy’s little show earlier.”
He grinned at Sam and took a last pull from his Corona. “I wanted a little calm before the storm thing, but that didn’t quite work out. I mean, hell, the bar over there tomorrow night and the next will be all I’ll be able to handle. I’m gettin’ too old for all this shit.”
The radar pinged again. Probably nothing, but what the hell, Sam thought he’d give it a try anyway. The guy was a big-time talker and he probably didn’t want to go yet anyway. Plus, the argument. That was begging for more details.
The man started to walk past him but then stopped next to Sam. “I’m Rand Wilson, by the way,” he said while sticking his hand out.
“Well, hey, Rand. Cullen Scott, nice to meet you.” Sam smiled at him and stood up, shaking the man’s hand. “Have a good show tomorrow…and, you sure?” He raised his eyebrows and held up the Heineken.
“Thanks, appreciate it but I…ah, what the hell, I’ll have one more.” Wilson laughed and pulled out the barstool next to Sam. “This ain’t my first rodeo. I think I can handle it.”
Sam held two fingers up. “Amy, get this gentleman a Corona please. One for me too.”
One more beer had turned into five more, then they switched to bourbon. Wilson’s suit jacket was off and his tie was too. He told Sam that he’d been to a relatives wedding earlier and then came straight here for a few beers. In fact, he’d told Sam a lot in the last hour and a half. It was clear the man liked to hear himself talk and there weren’t many gaps in the conversation.
Rand Wilson was a gun broker, both buyer and seller. His business was called The Armory. He was born and raised in Little Rock. Divorced. Twice. Lived on a small farm about five miles out of town. He’d been coming to this show for over fifteen years and attends others all over the Southwest, year-round. His son was a senior in college over at Fayetteville. And on and on he went.
He also made it clear that he hated the Coopers. Ty, the guy earlier with the white cowboy hat and his old man, Blake Cooper. Hate was probably not a strong enough word.
It was now after eleven and they were the last two customers. Amy was starting to close the bar up, so they had ordered one last time. Wilson had picked up the tab and tipped her again. She left soon after, telling them they were welcome to still sit around if they liked. The two had moved to one of the small tables looking out at the deserted lobby and that was when Sam got an offer.
Sam grinned at Wilson and leaned back. “Yeah, well, I mean, I used to hunt deer and pheasant when I was growing up, but I haven’t shot a gun for years. First question I get, I won’t be able to answer. Trust me, you don’t want me in that sales booth.”
“Doesn’t matter. You just give me a hand setting up. Then meet and greet a lil’ bit.” Wilson was drunk and his words showed it. “Plus, you got a way of connectin’ with people. My son, whose majoring in finance, can’t connect a fuckin’ lamp cord to a wall socket.”
They both laughed at that and the sound of it echoed down the empty hotel lobby.
“Alright, Rand…alright. I’ll help you out however I can, but don’t count on me for much.”
Wilson clapped him on the shoulder. “Hey, with my boy missing the show this year and probably from now on, it was gonna be me and myself setting up and standing at those fuckin’ tables for two days. You’ll do fine in the booth.”
“Done deal. I’ll do my best.” Sam sipped his Maker’s Mark and smiled at his new employer.
“Good! When you told me earlier about the losing streak you been on, losing your job, the divorce, living out of a hotel room…all that. Well, it struck a chord. Been there, done it.” Wilson took a healthy drink of his bourbon. “Two hundred bucks a day won’t solve anything but it’s something. Sound okay?”
“Appreciate it, Rand, and listen, it’s a hundred percent more than I’m making right now.”
Wilson leaned across the table and held up a finger. “One more thing that’ll ease your mind about the show.”
“Yeah? Sure, I’m all ears. Anything that’ll help me not make a fool out of myself.”
“My main business is not in my booth, displayed on tables and in glass cases. Not even close. Those are mainly just for show and to have a presence, just shits and grins, so to speak. Sure, I’ll sell something but…” Wilson stopped, leaning back in his chair. His eyes bored into Sam. Different, colder eyes than a second before. He took a much smaller sip of bourbon and swirled what was left in the glass.
Ping. Sam just nodded. Time to shut up and let the horse run. He waited patiently and was rewarded. The guy couldn’t help it, he loved to pound his chest.
“My point is that you shouldn’t feel any pressure to sell. None. I’m mostly a buyer, son. I buy for someone who pays me.” His face went dark then. “Like I said, the Coopers do the same thing. They own a piece of shit gun store here in town called Calibers, but that’s just a side business, more and more every year. To say we’re competitors is sayin’ it lightly.”
Sam leaned in, “Yeah, I’ll tell ya what, that guy was a real asshole tonight. He was pushing it pretty hard. I thought there was probabl
y some bad history there between you and him.”
“It’s not just him. His father is worse. Blake Cooper fucked me over about two years ago. Double crossed me on a deal we had. Lately, he’s also been trying to steal back his old customer. The same buyer who pays me now. Cooper used to have him and wants him back. Trust me, there isn’t a day goes by that I don’t think about ’em. I try to screw ’em whenever I can, same as they do me. I’ll take ’em all the way down someday. You can take that to the bank.”
“Hey, I believe you.”
“But, anyway.” He pointed at his chest. “My customer, that Cooper is trying to steal back, is from out of state. He likes hard to find items…and I fucking find them for him. And I’m not talking about some rusty ass Henry repeating rifle from the Civil War.” His voice lowered, and his eyes were still locked on Sam’s. Wilson’s look turned dangerous and intense, like the stare of a big cat. “Ninety percent of my yearly income comes from that one client.”
Sam lowered his voice too, “Well, damn.”
“Yeah, he’s loaded. Spooky as shit, but hey, you know? When I say loaded, I mean it. Let’s put it this way. I have two bank accounts, mine and business. The business account is funded by this guy’s money and it always has a healthy balance for me to use for a buy I might make for him.”
Sam gave him an amazed expression, “Holy shit.”
“Yeah, and I have a monthly salary that’s pretty damn generous. It’s a kickass arrangement…as long as I keep doing my job, that is. Lately things have really dried up, I need a hit soon. Just a hit, doesn’t need to be homerun.”
There was a rare silence between them. Wilson finished his drink and sat down his tumbler. His eyes never left Sam’s.
Sam didn’t look away. He just waited, hoping for more.
Wilson didn’t disappoint. “But anyway, I’m just cryin’ in my beer. Not your problem, its mine. Also want to be clear here, Cullen. Nothing too illegal is goin’ on, and to be honest the gun laws vary state to state, anyway. What’s illegal in one state, isn’t in another. So, you know…bottom line, what my customer wants and why he wants it? That’s his business, not mine.”
Sam took a chance, “Like what? What’s this guy collect?”
Wilson shook his head slow, then sipped again. “I already said way too much.” He raised a hand and smiled crookedly, “I’m fuckin’ drunk, pardner.”
“Me too, and sorry, Rand. None of this is any of my business, anyway.” It was Sam’s turn to sip.
“Oh hell, it’s all right. We’re just talkin’ here.” Wilson waved it off with an exaggerated gesture. He leaned in again, “Truth is, my guy ain’t collectin’ shit, he’s probably moving it on down the line. Let’s put it this way, my short list with this client runs anywhere from heavy caliber military ordnance, to land mines, and pod launchers.”
“Serious?”
Wilson gave Sam a loopy, drunk smile and kept going using his fingers to count, “New gen’ration MANPADS, MAWS or hell, fuckin’ weaponized drones if I could find them. You don’t go deer huntin’ or defend your property with what he wants. No, sir. I’m talkin’ military grade weapons. Big stuff.”
Sam laughed. “I don’t even know what most of those things are.” He put a hand on Wilson’s shoulder. “…And you know what, I’m wasted. I gotta go get some sleep.” He stood up and purposely, clumsily, pushed his chair away to lighten the situation up.
“Yup. You’re right…me, too.” Wilson chuckled to himself and stood up with a definite sway. “You know what, Cullen, I like your damn style and you’re absolutely fucking right, I’m beat, too.” He pointed at himself then at Sam. “Plus, we got a show to work tomorra—”
“What time in the morning?”
“Tell you what, show starts at noon, goes to seven, so meet me in the Lex lobby at…uh…I don’t know. How ’bout ten? We’ll have some coffee, set the display tables up and get you registered, get you an exhibitor badge and…” He waved his hand sideways and grinned. “…and all that shit.”
“Sounds like a plan.” Sam reached a hand out. “And thanks again for helping me out, Rand. See you in the morning, ’kay? Ten sharp.”
Wilson threw the suit jacket over his shoulder and grabbed his tie. “Hey, now, my pleasure. Nothin’ else, you earn a little cash and see what a gun shows’ all about. Something new…see you in the mornin’.”
With a half wave, he turned and walked to the side exit door of the small lobby. Sam went to the window, watching him weave a little at first but then he got straightened up and walked down the sidewalk toward the Lexington hotel.
Upstairs, Sam opened the hotel room door. It was dark except for the muted television that was still on. Her back was to him and she didn’t move as he quietly closed the door. He started unbuttoning his shirt. “I know you’re awake,” he said softly and smiled in the darkness.
Rachel rolled over and looked at him. “Of course I am, you know I just toss and turn without being lulled to sleep by your snoring.”
“That comes…that coming from a freight train snorer in her own right.”
“You’re drunk and smell like a Lynchburg distillery.” Her face, lit by the screen, at least had the touch of a smile.
Sam looked at her and leered, “You know you want me.”
“Drunk.”
“Almost drunk. You should see the other guy.” He hung his shirt up and looked back at her. “I think we might have something going, babe. Dropped right in my lap.”
“Well, well.” Rachel sat up. “God knows we need it. Desperately. We have enough money for two more nights here. That is, if we don’t eat. We eat, then we have one more night. Talk to me.”
“I will, but how about a recap over an early breakfast? I need sleep. Just know this, I’m working on it tomorrow. You only have one more day off, but you have some homework and prep to do tomorrow.”
“Can you give me a hint of what the opportunity is before you pass out?”
“We’re getting back in the game. Plan isn’t firmed up yet. Don’t know the amount yet either. It probably won’t be big but it should be a no cost, short one. We need a win, babe, and we need it now.” He threw his jeans over a chair and came to the edge of the bed.
She looked blankly up at him and then at the screen, smile gone. “That’s an understatement. We’re in trouble, Sam.”
There were no more words he could say to that and he crawled into bed. They held each other tightly. When she turned off the television, the darkness swallowed them up.
Chapter 3
“So, that’s the recap and that’s a rough plan for us to get something out of this. Gotta sharpen it up a little. It won’t be slick or fancy and there’s no super clever ass plan here.” Sam shrugged and he raised his eyebrows.
Rachel didn’t say anything for a moment, then said, “I’m starved.”
“This won’t be some Hollywood movie about an incredible plan carried out by two brilliant grifters,” Sam told her. “The take will probably be small to medium and as always, we’ll need some things to break right for us.”
“I get all that, Sam. I know where we’re at and what we need. It’s okay. I think it’ll work.”
“No, it’s not okay. It sucks. But yeah, we need something and need it now. So, what do you really think about this?”
“I’m starved.”
He leaned over the small table and she met him halfway for a small kiss. “Be right back with something. Think of some questions. Think about the gaping holes and problems. Reasons it won’t work…shouldn’t be too hard.” He gave her a sad grin and walked out of the room.
Downstairs, the selection of stuff that Sam chose from at the free breakfast buffet downstairs was typical. No custom-made omelets with mushrooms and bacon being prepared by a chef in this hotel. They had oranges, bananas, boxes of cereal, oatmeal, muffins and bagels. So, he piled some of it on two plates, along with some coffee and juice and used a small tray to carry it.
Upstairs, he kicked the door lightly twice. It didn’t take Rachel long. She opened the door wide, letting him in.
“Hey, this is just the beginning.” He looked down at the tray. “The eggs benedict and Belgian waffles will be brought up in a minute, along with the champagne.”
Rachel grabbed a banana as he walked by and started peeling it.
He sat the tray on the table and wasted no time taking the cover off the coffee cup. Sam always needed coffee in the morning and especially after last night. He took a sip and it wasn’t that bad. “So, I have about an hour before I head over to meet my new employer and then go to the convention center. Let’s keep going here.”
She was sitting on the edge of the bed and finishing the banana already. Holding a finger up she swallowed and walked to the plate, picking up a muffin. “Did you say I was making an appearance today or not?”
“Just a quick one, right at the end of the show, maybe six or six-thirty…setting up the big second visit tomorrow.”
“Eastern European or American, you said?”
“Well, you won’t talk to him today, you just make sure he sees you talking to me. But, what do you think? You’re great with the Russian accent thing or you could be an American seller working for a Russian. Or keep the whole thing American. I don’t know. Think about it.”
She looked at a list she had scribbled on a pad. “Okay, you said my things-to-do list included buying two large soft-sided canvas type or hard-cover tactical cases…what the hell would those be?”
Sam nodded. “Like a rifle carrying case but longer and bigger. Just get something maybe four or five feet long and a foot wide. Two of them. Cheapest you can find. We might not even need them if things go really good, but get them anyway. Never know.”
“Well, where do I get them?”
“Any sporting goods shop or outdoors store will have them.”
“Alright, let’s see, how about my clothes? What the heck do you wear to these shows?”
