“That’s a loss. I’m sorry, Beth.”
Her face looked calm but her eyes were bereft. “I am, too. Alright. So. Man. I need a long shower and I’m starved. What’s to eat?”
“Got you covered.”
6
In the bright cool of the morning Hood followed the red Commander from the Pueblo Lodge to Castro Ford. The El Centro traffic was light but enough for cover, and he drove past the dealership as the two Missouri cops and their young partner walked toward the showroom. They had parked up front, next to what looked like Israel Castro’s new Flex.
Hood drove a block and swung around and parked in the Desert Donuts lot across from Castro Ford. He looked out at the Flexes, which he liked, and the hot new Mustangs, which he also liked, and the new Explorers, which he liked, too. The new Taurus SHO was extra cool, and even the new economy cars had stance. Ten minutes later he saw the three men hustling down the showroom steps, Clint Wampler eating what looked like a maple bar.
He followed them three cars back to the other side of town and Buster’s Last Stand. He drove past and made a U-turn at the next stop sign and circled back. The three men were carrying in some of the boxes he’d watched them load from the motel room.
He drove to a convenience store where he bought a fancy coffee drink to go with the diamonds in his tooth. He wore a beige wool suit and the Borsalino gambler, and cap-toe, two-tone shoes that made an authoritative crack with each step as he crossed the parking lot of the gun store.
He strode inside Buster’s Last Stand sipping the coffee, then slid his sunglasses into his coat pocket. He paid no attention to the three men who were talking with Buster across the handguns counter, but he nodded to Buster and Buster nodded back. He noted the heavyset woman at the checkout stand and strolled by to see her purchase: She was taking delivery on a semiautomatic AK-47-style rifle, and apparently filling out the paperwork to buy another one.
Hood cruised the ammo aisles, perusing various calibers and loads, mostly handgun and larger-caliber rifle cartridges. He could hear Buster’s voice clear and loud: “I’m not interested in any of Granddad’s heirloom junk but I’ll take a look at what you got. Hey, Charlie Hooper! You come back for those forty cals?”
Hood ignored him. Let them come to you, he thought. This was a favorite rule of his old Blowdown boss, Sean Ozburn, a crack undercover agent, always cool and never made: Don’t be eager. Ozburn had been the best of them until Mike Finnegan tore him to shreds-mentally, spiritually, and finally physically. Oz’s lovely wife, too. All of that, without even touching them.
Hood continued to ignore Buster and look at the ammo, noting that prices were leveling off. They had gone up dramatically after the 2008 and 2012 presidential elections, as had the domestic sales of new weapons from every major American gun manufacturer. And it had all gone up in price again after the Newtown massacre. Hood thought of Obama’s first year in office, when the NRA and Fox News had told America that the new president, though possibly not a citizen, certainly wanted their guns-and America had listened. Hood had realized that fear was good for the news business, and for the entertainment and weapons industries as well. Fear drove sales. Fear of gangs, fear of government. Fear of terrorists, fear of gun control. Fear of Islam, fear of socialism. Hood wondered what the NRA’s next marketable crisis might be. He’d seen a scary and entertaining zombie movie recently, which depicted more ammo being shot up in two hours than Buster could sell in a year.
He went back to the entrance/exit and tossed his empty coffee cup into a trash can festooned with popular Zombie Bob targets. Eureka, he thought. The Bobs had been shot up pretty badly but what was left of them drooled and grimaced from the canister. The heavyset woman, now wearing rhinestone sunglasses, had finished her next purchase order and she now waddled toward him with the boxed assault rifle cradled in her arms and a black rhinestone-studded purse balanced on top. “Get the door,” she said.
“Con permiso.” Hood tipped his hat and held open the door for her, noting which car she was headed for and easily memorizing the vanity plates. Then he unracked a shopping cart and pushed it back to the ammunition aisle. He loaded in five ten-box cases of the.40-caliber shells. This would set ATF back some scarce money, but the western division had gone to.40-caliber Glocks, so the ammo would be useful beyond its moment here as a good stage prop.
He toured the store briefly, threw a package of Zombie Bob paper targets into the cart for good luck, and stopped where the four men stood looking at him. A small arsenal of used weapons rested on a folded camo-patterned blanket placed atop the counter to save the glass. Hood looked at the guns but not the men.
“Granddad’s heirloom junk is right,” he said.
“Except that nobody asked you,” said Skull.
“He has a point, Mr. Hooper,” said Buster. “And I’m glad you found some ammo. But weren’t you after a lot more than that?”
“At your price this is all I can afford. Luckily it’s for an immediate, short-term app. A mortal thing.” Hood smiled slightly.
Buster gave him a confused look. “Ring it up, then?”
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.
“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.”
“Walmart public enough for you? If so, be in the parking lot at noon. I’ll call with details. What car will you be in?”
Hood told him and clicked off and called Yorth.
“Right on, Charlie,” he said. “Make the buy and ask for more. I’ll have the cash and wire waiting.”
7
An hour and fifty minutes later Hood’s Charger growled into the Walmart parking lot. He drove to the far end, near the home-and-furnishings section, and parked. The wire was built into his cell phone, invisible and impossible to find without destroying the phone. The cash was a messy booklet of small bills folded over once and shoved into the left butt pocket of his trousers. Before leaving the Buenavista field office, he had locked his Glock and holster in the trunk and made sure his ankle gun was loaded and ready. The winter noon was cool and blustery, but Hood felt hot and edgy and he ran the AC on high.
Skull called ten minutes later and told Hood to pull into a handicap space in front of the market section, near the main entrance. When a red Jeep Commander drove past behind him, Hood was to pull out of the space and follow.
“I’m not leaving the lot,” said Hood.
“I’m not asking you to.”
“Keep the monkey on his leash.”
“He’s my secret weapon.”
“Is he for sale, too?”
“Hooper. We’re going to back into our parking space. You don’t. You park face in.”
Hood pulled into the handicap space, left the engine running. An old man limping toward his truck glared at him, and from behind his sunglasses, Hood placidly gazed back. Seconds later the red Commander had rolled past him and Hood pulled out and followed. The Jeep rolled along hesitatingly, as if the driver couldn’t decide his course. Hood wondered if they were arguing. He knew that these men were as much on edge as he was because, as Ozburn had often noted, all gun deals had one dangerous thing in common: guns. Ozburn had also told Hood that on an undercover buy, if something could go wrong, it would. If Plan A failed, then go to Plan B, and there was never a Plan C.
The Commander wandered toward an exit then turned out into the far and uncrowded recess of the lot. A low painted concrete wall ran the perimeter and the Jeep backed into a space where a paloverde tree cast a small pool of shade on the asphalt. A sun-blanched Chevy Astro van slouched in the next spot of tree shade, several parking spaces away. Hood waited and watched. The Commander’s windows were blacked out, but through the windshield he could see Clint Wampler behind the wheel and Skull riding shotgun. If Peltz was in the back, Hood couldn’t see him. Hood figured he was in the raised F-150 he’d seen at the hotel, and when he looked around for it, there it was, not two hundred feet away, beyond the Astro, backed against the same wall. He pulled in and shut off the engine and got out as the Commander backed to a stop. On the far side of the Commander, Skull’s door slammed and a moment later the liftgate wa
s wheezing open on its pneumatic risers.
“Come on over, Charles.”
Skull lifted a dirty green blanket and Hood looked down at the Lewis Gun. The pan magazine was in place and the worn bipod legs were extended. “Must weigh thirty pounds.”
“Twenty-eight,” said Hood.
“It’s not loaded.”
Hood looked up through the smoked Commander windows to see a small stout woman pushing a stroller toward them. She wore a pale yellow dress and her skin was dark. Plastic shopping bags of merchandise dangled heavily from the stroller handles. Three small children followed in tight formation. She seemed to be looking toward the Astro. The driver’s side door of the Commander swung open and Clint Wampler slid out with a smile on his face and a pistol in his hand. He looked at Hood and jammed the gun into his belt, right up front where it would show, then walked a line that would intercept the woman with the stroller.
“Go ahead,” said Skull. “Pick it up if you can.”
Hood swung the gun up and out and pointed it at the wall. It was very heavy and not balanced well, and Hood knew that it had been made to be fired from a prone position or mounted to an airplane. The best he could do while standing was to hold the grip with his right hand and let the butt extend beneath his armpit and hold on to the cooling shroud with his left. He wondered how many seconds of fire it would take to melt his hand to it. Not many. He looked past Skull’s shoulder at Wampler, nearing the woman and children.
“What’s the imbecile doing?” he asked.
“He’ll just run them off.”
“She’s heading for the van. Probably trying to go home.”
“I’d agree.”
“Then why doesn’t he just let her go?”
“He won’t hurt her. He gets results because he looks cute but isn’t very nice.”
“Can you control him?”
“Not really. So what do you think of the machine gun?”
“Have you fired it?”
“Heavy rain, man. It’s a thirty-aught-six, but it feels more like a fifty cal. You’re talking six hundred rounds per minute, and it’s accurate at a thousand yards.”
The Famous and the Dead ch-6 Page 5
