Using his phone, Hood checked his e-mail and social networks and his Mike-specific webpage but found only two new messages, chiding and familiar, from “Incipient Madness” and “Bonkers,” which he suspected to be Mike himself. Nothing else. Not one sighting, not one lead, not even a crank reply to his endless inquiries in the ether. In the last few months, roughly half of his contacts had asked him to cease and desist. But there were always new contacts. New hope. New blood. He turned off the phone and slid it back onto his belt. When he looked up, he saw Bradley on his feet, leaning over Erin to kiss the top of her head while she slept.
Bradley walked toward the door, then stopped and turned to her, and from where he spoke Hood heard his words clearly. “Let me make a home where we can begin again.”
He waited for her reply, but she didn’t move. He stared at Hood for a long moment, then came into the kitchen. He went to the cupboard and took down a glass, which he filled from the tap and drank down. Then another. “Have you talked to Warren?”
“No. I’m letting you hang yourself.”
“I appreciate that. An hour with Warren, though, and you could pretty much take me down. Isn’t that what you want? Or are you just going to let me turn in the wind a little longer? Really enjoy the show before you sell me out.”
“Sell you out. That’s funny. Wake up. My silence is for her.”
“Everything we do is for her.”
“She’s a good reason but a bad excuse.”
“I hated the way you tried to take over my mother. And I hate the way you’re trying the same thing with Erin. You’ve got the morals of a dog.”
“Suzanne took over me. And Erin I’m protecting.”
“From me. Protecting my wife from me.”
“Yes, from you—someone arrogant and selfish enough to almost get her and the baby killed. Or have you forgotten that already, in your rush to reacquire what you want? You also betrayed her trust and broke her heart. Now you have to let her put it back together. It’ll take time. And I’ll tell you one more thing—it’s not about Fudge Bars, bro.”
• • •
Beth came home half past midnight. Hood held open the door as she trudged across the gravel, and he saw the exhaustion in her. She still wore her work scrubs and Crocs and one of her loose white jackets with “Dr. Petty” stitched on, meaning a busy shift. She had a heavy knit scarf around her neck against the chill. She stopped briefly to pet the dogs. “Still in your gun dealer duds, I see.”
“Busy night. Erin’s fine. Bradley was here. How are you?”
They walked in behind the animals and Hood shut and locked the door, then hung Beth’s bag on the hat rack. She hooked the scarf next to Charlie Diamond’s straw gambler. “We lost a boy to the canal tonight. Second one this year. We did everything—oxygen, trach, paddles. Flat. Eight years old. Father and mother carried him in on a blanket. He looked asleep. Heading north for a better life and the boy was yipping up at the moon like a coyote and he slipped right in. You know how fast it is.”
“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 imm
ediate, 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.
“Don’t be. Lowball the living daylights out of them. And do let me know when something more substantial comes your way. My Virginia collector is still hot for those vintage machine guns. And you still have my card, I trust.”
“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.
The Famous and the Dead Page 5