by Adam Bender
Chairman Cornelius “Corny” Boone, looking five years from the grave tops, tapped a stack of papers against the table, which was his usual way of calling for attention. “Mr. Breck, this new gun of yours —” he began, before falling into a coughing fit. The old man had to smack his own chest to loosen the phlegm.
Gerard’s stepfather had been a longtime buddy of Boone’s, and it was Al who had given him the nickname Corny. He used to joke that it doubled as a description. They had met as fraternity brothers in college, and after graduation, they became business partners. Al had always been the ideas man, which was why he got his name on the company, but Corny had provided the sales acumen that had driven Breck Ammunition to the top of the gun industry, eventually pushing out its competitors. Corny always said he never minded that Al stayed away from the finance side of things because he always held up his end of the bargain with great products that were easy to sell. Gerard had yet to receive the same sentiment.
“The Breck 100X?” Gerard offered. “I’m happy to report the advance orders are on fire already. In just a few days, we’ve hit our goal for the quarter!”
Sally Gomes, a frizzy-haired director sitting to Boone’s right, broke in, “And how much, pray tell, will filling those orders cost the company?”
She didn’t look happy. Gerard nudged his CFO to answer.
Fran spread out his papers on the table and began to search. “Ah, are you asking for a total figure or do you mean per gun?”
“That was rhetorical. I know the figures,” snapped Gomes. “These super-guns of yours cost a fortune to build, and you’re selling them for peanuts. You’re going to be bleeding money on every sale.”
“Ah,” stammered Fran, “is that a question?”
Gerard intervened. “We’re selling at a loss, yes, but we’ve modeled for that. The guns eat through an incredible amount of ammo, so the cost of the shells will cover the money we’re giving up in … what was it, Fran? Three months?”
Anil Kumar interjected in his typically booming cry, “Aren’t you assuming people will actually use this gun every day?”
Fran tried to answer. “We —”
“You’re selling this as a hunting rifle, and it’s absolutely gigantic! The average customer is going to use this gun once or twice a year and the rest of the time keep it on a rack. I must ask, does your modeling take that into account, Mr. Cohn?”
“Um, ah …”
Gerard looked helplessly at his occasional ally, the fourth non-executive board member, Joe Watts. Watts was even older than Boone and a narcoleptic. As usual, he was stuck in a state of deep slumber.
“You know, Mr. Breck,” said Boone, recovered from his coughing fit, “there was a reason your stepfather did not try to reinvent the gun. He simply made more efficient arms. You, on the other hand, seem to think this company has something to prove.”
Gerard scowled at the other board members. He wasn’t going to stand for this. The Breck 100X was his baby, and it was glorious. Oh, if they could only see it in action. Then they’d understand.
“It’s an amazing gun,” he stated, holding up his hands to emphasize the point. “I was just at a test this morning and —”
“Yes, and about these tests,” sneered Sally Gomes. “You are spending a lot of money. I understand you commissioned helicopters for a media demonstration? Who are you trying to impress? We have the market locked up. This smells of showboating!”
Gerard could feel his blood boiling. “Look, this is my gun and my company. People want the 100X, and you can be sure as fuck we’re going to sell it to them.” To emphasize this last point, he stabbed at the air with his finger.
“There’s no need for this dirt-filled language!” shouted Kumar. “And tell us, Mr. Breck, what is this New West blog I have been hearing so much about? People are saying you have connections to the Red Stripe Gang! Is there any truth to this?”
Gerard gaped. “I … I’m handling the situation with that blogger. She’s not reputable.”
“Reputable or no, it’s affecting the stock prices!” Kumar replied.
“I’m handling it! Now, can we wrap up this meeting?”
Boone laughed heartily. “You may be CEO, Gerard, but you are not the chairman. This meeting will not be adjourned until I say it is adjourned. Now let me tell you what’s going to happen.” The old man paused to clear his throat. “The way I see it, you have three options. One, you can increase the price of the 100X. Two, you can reduce the cost of the 100X. Or, three, you can halt production altogether.”
Gerard managed to hold his composure. “We’ll make a profit.”
“I hope so, because in January, when you report your full-year financial earnings, you can expect we will be looking very closely at the numbers on this super-gun. If you cannot limit the losses, this board will be forced to look for new leadership.”
Gerard heard his own heavy breathing. Through gritted teeth, he sneered, “Errol is gone. He isn’t coming back.”
Boone shook his head. “I didn’t say a word about your brother, but now that you’ve brought him up, I know for a fact he wouldn’t have approved this gun for production. He was just too smart for that.”
Gerard felt his right hand tingle. He was clenching it so tightly it had turned white. Releasing it, he forced a smile. “Will that be all?”
*
Gerard sucked the whiskey off of his mustache and jingled the ice in his tumbler. He was sitting with his back to the desk, staring vacantly up at the portrait of Al Breck on the wall.
Before the car accident, his mother used to push him down to the pool to play with Errol. It usually happened when she wanted sex from his stepfather, which was often. Gerard hated it. The pool was rarely clean, and he didn’t like having to swim through all the dry grass clippings and dead flies. If he really thought about it, the only thing he could really say he liked about the pool was playing with water guns.
Gerard smiled. He and Errol used to have epic water gun fights. Errol might have been the better shot, but Gerard was the master of escalation. He had an arsenal of water balloons and the best Super Soakers his parents’ money could buy.
He remembered most fondly the big one he got on his tenth birthday. It was during the first year living in the estate after Mama’s marriage to Al Breck. The old man had clearly wanted to make a good impression, so he’d gotten Gerard a mammoth Super Soaker that actually attached to two big water tanks he could wear as a backpack. It had produced an incredible burst of water. The thing could wipe out an entire ant colony in five seconds — Gerard had timed it.
However, the gun’s shining moment had come the next summer, when eleven-year-old Gerard had spied fourteen-year-olds Errol and Helen eating ice cream by the pool. They’d been dangling their legs in the water and going on about the clouds or something similarly insipid. Gerard had strapped on the Super Soaker, come up behind them, and fired a stream of water into their backs so strongly, it sent the both of them straight into the pool. Fully clothed!
Errol had started yelling things at him from the water — really mean things. So Gerard had put the gun down, yelled “Cannonball!”, and jumped. His kneecap had landed with a thud on Errol’s head. Gerard’s leg had stung like hell, but the next thing he knew, he was the one in trouble. Dad had grounded him for weeks. He’d spend hours up in his room, watching through binoculars as Errol and Helen stole kisses by that damn pool.
Dad always took Errol’s side, even when his beloved Iris was still alive. When Gerard and his mother first joined the family, Al Breck had been kind to him. He learned later that this was only for the benefit of Al’s wife. As soon as Iris died, all of the old man’s love had dried up, and Gerard found himself the outcast of the Breck clan. Not even his old playmate Errol would have anything to do with him.
“Gerard, are you all right?”
He swiveled his executive leather chair around to face Elza. She looked worried, and he started to feel hard. “Those bunch of idiots on the board would se
em to have some ill-placed concerns about the cost of the Breck 100X,” he said. “They don’t believe I can make a profit on it.”
She licked her lips. “There are always doubters of great genius.”
That perked him up. He beckoned her toward him. When she was close enough, he hooked his finger around the low neckline of her blouse and reeled her in. A moment later, he felt her cool hand dipping into his pants.
He loved the way she stroked his ego, even though really it was Elza who had been the inspiration to build such a magnificent gun. It was shortly after he took over as CEO. No matter what he did, Gerard couldn’t shake the feeling that people thought he was just there to keep the Al Breck show running, or worse, to keep the executive seat warm until Errol returned. As usual, Elza had the solution — build a new gun, the most amazing gun anyone has ever seen, and create his own legacy. When he discovered O’Brien’s prototype for what would become the Breck 100X, he knew he had found the means to finally set himself apart from his stepfather.
Elza pushed him back on the leather chair and straddled him. Delighted to find she wasn’t wearing any underwear, he gasped, “I love you.”
A few breathless minutes later, she said, “Feel better?”
He nodded. “But I was thinking about the board meeting. Fran wasn’t very good. I think he’s going to be a problem.”
She smiled darkly as she slid off him. “I’ve already had Mr. Cohn dealt with.”
He looked up at her, impressed. “You mean he’s —?”
“We’ll begin the search for a new CFO tomorrow.”
CHAPTER NINETEEN
El Aspecto de los Muertos.
The sky looked huge and made the Wanderer feel small. But he didn’t fear the sky.
The rogue gunman surveyed the snaking river from the edge of a rocky foothill. Although they had come to the highest point in the immediate area, the mountains still loomed overhead. It wasn’t the most direct route to Founders Spring, but they needed to make camp for the night, and it was safer to be on high ground. They’d been easy targets for the lone wolf on the floor of the canyon. However, to get them up here, the sniper — or whoever else might be chasing them — would have to climb up and attack them at close quarters. And this time, the Wanderer would be ready.
He returned to the camp, where Rosa, Charlie, and Lindsay were busy warming their hands by the fire. The temperature always dropped at night, but it seemed to have downright plummeted at this high of an elevation. With the pines sparser up here as well, more of the wind got through to chill them, too. The Kid’s sporty track jacket didn’t seem to be cutting it, based on the way he was shivering. And Rosa was actually using her sleeping bag as a kind of blanket. Lindsay seemed the most comfortable, but she had her warm hoodie and what looked like a couple layers besides. Anyway, she had spent a lot more time out here in the wilderness.
“I’ll tell you what,” said Rosa. “You boys need a shave.”
Reflexively, Errol felt the stubble that had formed on his chin.
“Yours is coming in gray, Breck,” she added. “Makes you look plain old.”
Charlie whooped. “She’s right! You look about seventy, Wanderer.”
He scowled. “I’m barely in my forties!”
Lindsay went all bug-eyed. “Forties! Holy hell, and you’re still alive?”
The Wanderer changed the subject. “I reckon we should be able to make it to Founders Spring by tomorrow evening.”
“Thank fuck,” replied Charlie, slapping his neck and pulling off the juicy remains of a smashed mosquito. The bandage on his arm was brown with dried blood.
“Watch your language,” snapped Rosa. She glanced protectively at Lindsay, who promptly rolled her eyes.
“God, it’s like, I know the word fuck, okay?” the girl protested. “Fuck, fuck, fuck!”
Seeing that this was headed nowhere good, the Wanderer attempted once more to reset the conversation. “It’s good to talk. Makes the night not seem so cold. Rosa, maybe if you have another question, I could —”
“What happened that made you leave Vegas? Why didn’t you stay to take over the Breck company? When —”
“One question at a time, I said!”
Rosa grinned. “Okay. Why did you leave Vegas?”
They all looked at him. The Wanderer didn’t want to tell the story, but he’d already agreed to answer, and now that they were all staring …
“Helen and I — Helen was my wife — we were in bed when it happened. She was the one who heard the noise first. She woke me up, and then I heard it, too. Something downstairs was making a racket. Someone. She told me to lock the bedroom door and call security to deal with it, but I wouldn’t listen. I used to keep my Breck 17 in the second drawer of the bedside table, so I grabbed that and went downstairs.
“I remember the ground floor still smelling like our lasagna dinner. And then I heard a sneeze from the kitchen. I moved as fast as I could. Some of our floorboards are creaky, so I did my best to avoid them. I think I surprised him pretty good when I burst into the kitchen with my Breck 17 drawn. He had on a ski mask but I could see the fear in his eyes and that gaping mouth. He was going through the refrigerator —”
“Was he fat?” asked Lindsay.
“A little, I reckon,” said the Wanderer.
“Then what happened?”
He hesitated.
“Breck?” prodded Rosa.
“Sorry, I was just thinking how to tell it. Well, so I guess he saw me with my gun on him, and he just froze. I asked who he was, what he was doing in my house, but he just gave me this sloppy grin and licked a bit of tomato sauce off of one of his fingers. You know, from the lasagna. Like I said, he was a fat bastard. That’s when someone grabbed me from behind.”
Lindsay’s eyes widened. “Who?”
“Another one — big and thick, like a heavyweight boxer. He squeezed my arms against my body, so that I didn’t have a shot at anything but the floor. The fat one closed the refrigerator door and flashed his own Breck 17. He walked up real close and pointed it at my temple.” The Wanderer held a finger gun to his head to demonstrate. “That’s when I kicked the fat clown hard in the shin. It surprised the boxer, and he loosened his grip on my arm. I was still holding my gun, remember, so I pushed back my arm just enough to fire into his shoe.”
“Oh, shit!” exclaimed Charlie, reaching for his toes. “That’s fucked-up!”
“Cool!” added Lindsay.
“He screamed real loud and let go of me. I pulled myself free and fired a few more bullets into each burglar’s head.”
He noticed a skeptical look on Rosa’s face. She didn’t say anything, but still the Wanderer hesitated to continue.
“Then what happened?” said Lindsay, poking him with a twig. The girl’s eyes glowed, completely riveted by the story.
“I … heard someone behind me.”
“Another burglar?” asked Lindsay.
The Wanderer blinked. “Right, so I spun around and fired. But it was … it was too late. I found my wife. She was … she was already …”
He looked up at Rosa again and saw the former critical look in her expression had vanished. She smiled sympathetically, her eyes wide with understanding.
“Helen didn’t have any last words,” he said, his voice a low rumble. “She was alive one moment and gone the next.”
“But you got him, right?” demanded Lindsay. “Your wife’s killer?”
The Wanderer smiled weakly. “No. Not yet.”
“But you’re going to find him?”
Rosa interrupted, “Do you want to know why I started The New West?”
Errol nodded solemnly, happy she had saved him from having to explain anymore.
“It’s for my nephew, Pablo. He’s seven years old, and he’s my brother’s only child. A little more than a year ago, we were shopping for toys at Walmart. Something about the tennis balls caught Pablito’s attention — I guess how bright and furry they look — so we bought him one of t
hose cans they come in. We’d just made our purchase and were walking back to the car. It was a beautiful day, but of course my brother, Jack, and I were arguing about something. I don’t even remember what. Pablo didn’t mind. He was in his own world, tossing one of his new tennis balls up and down …
“I can still remember that heavy grinding — at first I thought it was a jackhammer. It wasn’t just the sound. I felt it right in the core of me. But then the screaming … it came from all directions. I fell to the asphalt and crawled behind a green SUV. I thought maybe I’d been shot.”
Lindsay looked alarmed. “Were you?”
“No, I looked and looked but didn’t find any blood. Even so, I couldn’t move. I didn’t want to breathe for fear that he would see me … I didn’t even want to look. But then the gunfire subsided, and I did look. I saw a tennis ball rolling across the parking lot, leaving this crimson streak on the pavement. I didn’t know what to make of it at first, but then suddenly I just knew. Jack knew it, too. He screamed like I’ve never heard him scream before. He was kneeling over Pablo …”
The crackling fire filled the silence. The Wanderer watched a tear slide gently down Rosa’s chin. He nearly choked up himself.
“The killer shot twenty-one people that day in Liberty before he was taken down,” she said. “All but four of them died. Pablo was one of the survivors, but he hasn’t been conscious since the shooting, and the doctors don’t know if he’ll ever wake up.”
“I’m sorry,” said the Wanderer. “Has your brother … ?”
She shook her head. “Jack’s … it’s not exactly denial, but we don’t talk about it. We don’t act like there’s anything wrong. But sometimes one of us slips, and I see it in his eyes. My papa had a name for that look — el aspecto de los muertos — the look of the dead.”