Guns [John Hardin 01]

by Phil Bowie

  After checking in, Davis called Cowboy’s room and said, “Mr. Strake wants you to have a drink in the Orinoco Lounge for about an hour. Says he’ll call you there if he needs you. After that you’re on your own. You might want to watch where you go after dark. Some places you could get cut and rolled in a heartbeat. Be a real shame.” And he hung up.

  Cowboy showered and dressed in white jeans with a silver-studded belt, black boots, and a gaudy-flowered silk shirt he’d bought in Miami a year before. He went down to the lounge and took a seat at the bar. At this hour the only other customers were a young man and a woman engaged in low amorous conversation in a booth. Salsa music surged softly through the speakers. The bartender was a portly man with a ready smile and excellent, though thickly accented, English. He asked the usual get-acquainted questions as he polished glasses and slid them into racks above the high-gloss padded bar, and offered advice about what to see and do in the city.

  After forty-five minutes a young woman in a white summery dress put a beaded straw purse on the bar and took a stool three down from Cowboy, smiling at him politely as he nodded to her and smiled, the bartender hustling to take her order.

  “I think I want something that will make me just a little bit dizzy,” she said playfully. “A big, big frozen margarita.” Her skin was deeply bronzed and her black hair was pulled tightly back into a neat bun pinned with a single white flower. She wore large looping earrings made of delicate braided gold chain. Peach lipstick set off her white-toothed smile, and she had used eye makeup to good effect. Cowboy estimated she was in her middle twenties.

  “Sir, you have the pallor of an American tourist,” she said with a mischievous grin and a raised eyebrow. “Are you here with a group of overweight gringos covered with cameras?”

  “No. Actually, I’m working.”

  “Oh, I see. And what kind of company employs you to sit and drink in the Orinoco Lounge? I would like to apply for such a position, I think. Do they have any openings?”

  “I’m just a pilot for a gringo from New York. What brings you here?”

  “An advertising convention. I am from Maracaibo. I arrived one day early to renew my romance with Caracas. I grew up here and I love my city.”

  “What little I’ve seen of it is impressive. Maybe you’ll let me buy you that margarita and in exchange you could tell me what I should see and do this afternoon.”

  She appraised him as she ran a long-nailed clear-glossed finger around the rim of her glass, making it sing. “Do you know I am feeling just a little bit adventurous today? My name is Maria Elena Ortiz.”

  “They call this one the Cowboy,” the bartender said affably.

  “Aren’t all American men cowboys at heart? Well, Cowboy, if you can take some time off of the busy schedule of your sitting-there-and-drinking job, and if you will promise to buy me a most huge dinner, I will be your tour guide for this afternoon and show you some of the very best things in Caracas. What do you say to that?”

  “That sounds great. I can always come back here later and put in some make-up time.”

  They began by walking across the street to the Teresa Carreno Cultural Complex. Landscaped buildings in the area included the Museo de Bellas Artes, which was actually two museums in one, the National Art Gallery featuring the works of Venezuelan artists such as Alejandro Otero, and the Fine Arts Museum where there were Goya etchings and a surprising variety of Egyptian pieces. She took him on a whirlwind tour and as soon as she got him interested in one painting she would pull him by the hand along to another that caught her fancy. She was like a happy schoolgirl.

  Outside, they walked a ways in Los Caobos Park. “It means mahogany trees park,” she said. “Isn’t it beautiful here?” She flung her arms wide and pirouetted, her straw purse swinging on its shoulder strap, swirling her skirt out to display lean bronze thighs. There were profusions of scarlet bougainvillea and richly-scented orchids amid the tall trees and palms. The vegetation was sheened with the vivid healthy greens of the tropics. “This place is a refuge for joggers and for old people walking. And for lovers,” she said with a contrived shy smile.

  “Do you know any Spanish?” she said, switching streams of thought abruptly.

  “Not really.”

  “Oh, but you should. It’s such a pretty language. I will give you a lesson. Repeat after me. Hola means hello.”

  He repeated it dutifully as they held hands and walked in the cooling shade. “Please is por favor. Thank you is gracias. You are welcome is de nada. Sorry is disculpe. Excuse me is con permiso or perdon. Buenos tardes is good afternoon. Repeat after me, please, and pay attention to the subtleties of accent. That’s it. Very good, sir. Do you begin to feel the beauty of it? One of my most favorite words is estralita. Roll the R on the tip of your tongue and try to say it as I do. Yes. That is close. When I have a stunning daughter I will name her Estralita. My perfectly beautiful little star.”

  She tugged him out to the Avenida Colon to wave down a taxi. “You should get one with a fixed sign on its roof,” she explained. “The others with stick-on signs are piratas.” When an incredibly battered light blue cab stopped for them she held him back from getting in and she dickered with the gesticulating driver in rapid Spanish through the open window, finally nodding that they could climb into the shabby backseat. “You must set the price before you get in,” she said in a low voice. “This one’s meter is conveniently broken right now. The driver will put the money into his own pocket this time.”

  The ride was wild, the driver palming the horn frequently, swerving violently from lane to lane, narrowly missing other horn-blowing vehicles and driving much too fast the whole way. Somehow they were deposited unscathed at the Plaza Morelos, where the air was redolent of grilling meats and there were many stalls loaded with bright clothes, garish trinkets, and costume jewelry that glittered in the hot sunshine. From a grinning wrinkled old woman he bought Maria a delicate silver bracelet and she was inordinately delighted with it. She made him buy a felt vaquero’s hat with a red feather stuck rakishly in the beaded band for himself. “With those mysterious gray eyes you are a dashing mountain bandito leader,” she said as she appraised him with her head cocked and her hands on her hips, a mix of happy Caraquenos and tourists milling around them.

  She took him to Plaza Bolivar to show him the magnificent 1674 Catedral Metropolitan de Caracas with its graceful scroll designs on the exterior and the baroque altar inside gilded with 300 pounds of gold leaf, and to the Panteon Nacional with its ornate domed towers, enshrining the remains of Simon Bolivar, who in the early 1800s led ragged armies in a fourteen-year campaign to free Venezuela, Colombia, Ecuador, Peru, and Bolivia from Spain’s colonial stranglehold, only to watch much of the freed territory dissolve into years of bloody internal conflict. But the memory of him was still vibrant and revered throughout the countries where he and his men had fought.

  By the time the sun was low, setting the western flanks of Mount Avila ruddily aflame, they had worked up ravenous appetites so they went back to the Hilton and took a table in a dim corner of the well-appointed L’Incontro Restaurant. They ordered a lavish five-course meal and took their time enjoying it. They lingered over desserts with strong coffee and an excellent nut-flavored wine, both of them acquiring a pleasant glow. They laughed and touched hands and smiled knowingly and it seemed the most natural proceeding in the world for her to go with him to his room.

  She showered and came out dressed in a hotel terry-cloth robe, her hair undone and brushed back. He went in to shower and before too long he heard her coming into the bath. She slid the frosted glass door aside, smiled mischievously, stepped out of her robe, and joined him. She took the soap out of his hand and began lathering his chest, humming some tune softly.

  In bed she was laughingly energetic and fresh, teasing and prolonging, making of it a wonderfully innocent lark, and he responded strongly. It was close to midnight when they finally fell asleep exhausted in a tangle of bedding, a Latin ballad playin
g low over the stereo, the room washed softly by the bright lights of the city coming in the balconied sixth-floor window.

  In the morning they enjoyed a hearty room-service breakfast and they made love again. Then she said she must go to register for the advertising convention and she quickly showered and dressed.

  He said. “Will I see you again? Is there a number where I can reach you?”

  She smiled brightly and kissed him softly on the cheek. “I will be very busy for the next few days, but we will see. I have much enjoyed showing you some of my city. Hasta luego, my llanero.” And with a smile, a swirl of her skirt, and a wave, she was gone.

  That evening as he sat in the Orinoco Lounge having a margarita, hoping she would show up, Montgomery Davis took a stool beside him and ordered a draft. He said, “How about that Maria Ortiz twist. She’s something, isn’t she?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “You must have done something Strake really liked. She was a little present to you.”

  “Are you trying to say she was bought and paid for?”

  “Don’t look so surprised,” Davis said. “She’s strictly a high-class whore. Probably clean enough. I think I might try her myself tonight, maybe tell her to bring a friend. Make it a three-way.”

  “Do you have some kind of problem with me?”

  Davis shrugged and looked at himself in the bar mirror. “Why would I have a problem with you? You’re just the pilot. From what I’ve seen most pilots are a little too cocky for their own good. Sooner or later they step on their own dicks.”

  He finished off the margarita and got up without a word, leaving Davis at the bar. He took a taxi—settling on the fare up front—to a parrillera that the bartender had recommended, a restaurant where he watched his steak cooked to perfection on a table-side grill and where he got mildly dizzy on margaritas.

  19

  FLIGHTS BECAME MORE FREQUENT OVER THE ENSUING months, mostly within the States but also several times to Central and South America—Panama, Argentina, Ecuador, and again to Venezuela. Strake would often take the co-pilot’s seat and talk about various aspects of the business. Cowboy listened and learned.

  On a Saturday morning Strake called him to the office. He placed a manila envelope on his desk and said, “I have to stay in New York for the next several days. I would like you to fly the plane to Chicago on Monday. I have a stock of bayonets in the warehouse, World War Two items for the most part. The complete list is in this envelope. Look it over. I’ve had samples drawn from inventory to take with you. They’re in a briefcase in Margaret’s office. Meet with the owner of the catalog company that is outlined in the envelope; he will be expecting you at one o’clock. He sells military surplus, collectors’ items, and survival gear. There’s also a list of other items we have in inventory. The catalog company might have an interest in some of them. Don’t let anyone else see that list. Make the best arrangements you can. There are suggested retail prices in here. You’re free to make a contract for us, but don’t let anything go for less than the minimum wholesale prices listed. Do you have any questions?”

  “Why are you trusting me to do this?”

  “I believe you will show an aptitude for it.”

  He spent the rest of the weekend going over the inventory list and reading through books he got from a library. The bayonets included the model for the famous bolt-action M-1 Garand of World War II, a Swedish Mauser blade, the Soviet AKM, the 1907 Enfield that looked more like a sword with its 17-inch blade, the 1909 Argentine Mauser, an 1895 Chilean Militia blade made in Germany, the Yugoslavian K-98, and half a dozen other models, most with scabbards. There were tens of thousands of them in stock.

  There was a sample catalog from the Chicago company in the envelope. They sold military field and camping gear, surplus camo outfits, stun guns and pepper sprayers, karate weapons, a wide selection of gun magazines and ammo, replica swords, holsters, paintball guns, black powder rifles, crossbows, and a variety of shooting accessories such as scopes, laser sights, and hearing protectors. The catalog was glossy, sharp full-color, and well designed. Somebody had devoted considerable thought to the photography, graphics, and copy writing.

  At the meeting in Chicago the florid overweight owner of the company leaned back in the big leather chair behind his desk, lit a large greenish-looking cigar, and said through the smoke, “So why should I pay you people thirty percent more than I’ve been paying for some of the same items from other suppliers?”

  “Our prices are fair for several reasons. First, we have a larger inventory than any other supplier so we can guarantee to fill all the orders you get. You won’t be stuck with an item listed in your catalog and no inventory to back it up. All of these bayonets are packed in cosmoline. They’re NRA rated to be in ‘very good to excellent’ condition and that’s something you can put in your catalog listing. It’s a good selling point. Let’s take the M-1 Garand bayonet. You sell it with a scabbard and with a frameable certificate of authenticity that will cost you what, a few cents? You tell your customers these aren’t replicas. These blades have seen real action from the Ardennes to Korea. The same bayonets their fathers or grandfathers carried. Put your catalog people to work on the certificate and on a good presentation for the bayonet, maybe with a genuine World War Two recruiting poster for a background. You’ll get top dollar for them.”

  The big man blew a small mushroom cloud ceiling-ward, smiled, and said, “Where did Strake find a slick bullshitter like you? No offense. I like your style. The certificate’s a good idea. Let’s see those samples you brought. Then we’ll get my manager in here and work out a realistic deal. You got any other ideas to help make my accountant happy? I don’t need old uniforms or helmets; I’ve got plenty.”

  “As a matter of fact, I was looking over your latest catalog and thought of a possible cover item for your next one. Something that will really command attention.”

  The man raised a thick eyebrow, squinting in the smoke, and said around his cigar, “And what will that be?”

  “A machine gun. A Browning M1919 A4 .30 caliber machine gun, mounted on its tripod. You feature it big on the cover, with an actual greyed-out background combat photo showing it firing. Your graphics people can do a great job with it. We’ll replace the receiver with a dummy so it’s non-firing and can’t be converted to fire, so it’s entirely legal. You sell it as a show piece, a collectors’ item, in this case with a framed certificate. You could even offer a two-foot belt of dummy ammunition for it as an extra. The gun and tripod should sell for a thousand dollars, maybe more. It’s a genuine war relic that was used from the 1930s to the 1960s all over the world, even in the early days of Vietnam. It fired eight rounds a second, air cooled. It was an infantry favorite. They’re rare today, but we happen to have a good stock of them. Again, they’re all in excellent shape.”

  “You know you just might have something there. Even if we didn’t sell all that many it would make a dynamite cover. Tell you what, you get tired of working for that thief Strake, you come see me. Let’s get my manager in here.”

  The deal with the catalog company was profitable for Worldarms and was eventually expanded to include a stock of old Thompson submachine guns, modified with aluminum dummy receivers, that would list for $495 each in the catalog.

  Strake sent him on other errands, several times in the King Air and twice on commercial flights. He surprised himself with his own confidence and small successes, and realized Strake was gradually feeding him more and more details about how the far-flung business functioned. And was testing him.

  Strake scheduled a trip to an arms exhibition in Budapest. They left Teterboro before dawn on a humid summer day with Montgomery Davis and another taciturn man who was introduced only as Gordon and who looked like an ex-prizefighter. They flew northeast in the gathering light over New England and beyond the Bay of Fundy, the mouth of the St. Lawrence, and Nova Scotia to land in lush and cool Goose Bay, Newfoundland. After refueling, Cowboy set a course for
Iceland that would take them over the southern tip of Greenland, offering the possibility of a landing at Narsarsuaq if any problem developed with the plane, but the sleek King Air performed flawlessly and they passed over the tip of the frozen continent at 23,000 feet.

  Greenland was anything but. Clear air made the stark white mountains blindingly brilliant. Giant blue-green icebergs formed a defensive fleet around the shore and the sea was a deep cold blue. Black rock showed through the ice cap here and there and the coastline was scarred and cracked with barren steep-walled fjords. It was a forbidding land.

  At Reykjavik the airport was in the middle of the town, which was a random assortment of spaced-apart low buildings on a plain by the water. It was a perfect summer day there with light winds, the temperature a balmy 59, and only a few scattered fair-weather cumulus decorating the clear hard sky. The approach end of Runway zero-two began close by a rock wall at the water’s edge. There were some grassy patches among the buildings, and purple mountains were strung out along the horizon. They ate lunch in the Loftleider Hotel right beside the FBO and then took off on the next long over-ocean leg to foggy Glasgow, where the King Air was refueled before they pressed on in clouds and light rain for an instrument approach into Budapest. The flight consumed the entire day.

  The arms exhibit had an incredible variety of weaponry and accessories on display and was thronged with intently interested people from the European countries, Africa, and South America. They stayed for three days and Strake went off with Davis and Gordon for lengthy periods to handle business that Cowboy was told nothing about, which was not at all an unusual situation for a corporate pilot, most of whom certainly knew far less about their employers’ affairs than he did about Strake’s dealings.

  A month after the Budapest trip, Strake told him to plan a flight to Vancouver. When the departure day arrived, Strake’s wife Elaine came to the FBO at Teterboro along with Strake and Montgomery Davis and half a limousine full of luggage. It was the first time Cowboy had seen Elaine. She was a doll-beautiful blonde at least fifteen years younger than Strake, with shoulder-length hair, green eyes, and a remote smile. She wore a vividly multicolored skirt and a sheer ruffled blouse. She seemed subdued around Strake. There was no affection evident between them. He seemed to treat her as he would another of his prized possessions.