“Oh.” Volatile relationships did not appear to be within the scope of Ms. Snow’s experience.
Jimmy began writing a receipt. “You better tell me what this Borchard fella looks like ’case he tries to pass himself off as someone else.”
“That’s not his style. He’ll come right out with who he is. He expects everyone’ll be impressed.”
“Yeah, but . . .” Jimmy stopped writing. “Supposing he sends one of his men to buy it? Whyn’t you hang around, and I’ll buy you a cup of coffee? You can tell me if you spot someone familiar.”
Ms. Snow faded back from the table, clutching the purse to her stomach. “No sir,” she said. “I won’t deal with those people. That’s why I gave you the gun. So I won’t have to.”
“All right.” Jimmy finished with the receipt. “But I’m going to need your information. That way I can check with you when I get a buyer.” He handed her a business card and she scribbled down a number and an address.
Ms. Snow pivoted out from the table, smooth as a dance turn, then stopped and glanced back, affording Jimmy a view of a sleek flank sheathed in flimsy, flowered blue. “I should be home most of the weekend if you need to give me call,” she said, and smiled her cherry smile. “Thank you so much . . . for everything.”
“I’ll be in touch real soon,” Jimmy said.
* * *
It was in Cuba where the palm tree grew. Jimmy sat facing away from the table, head bent to the Colt, turning it in his hand. Cuba a long, long time ago. Ten years after the Spanish-American War. No, he’d have to make it fifteen years after, because John Browning had not even made a prototype of the Colt before ’09. The man who originally owned the gun, Col. Hawes Rutherford, had been posted as a captain to Havana in 1901, where he served as an interpreter . . .
Interpreter, Jimmy decided, wasn’t enough of a job for Col. Rutherford. He had to be a powerful man, or else he wouldn’t be able to manipulate people the way Jimmy wanted. A liaison, then, between various American missions and the Cuban government. That would do the trick.
Over the course of a decade, thanks to his nefarious dealings with the corrupt Cuban officialdom, Colonel Rutherford amassed considerable wealth and power; and in 1910, following hard upon his promotion to colonel, recognizing that his position required a suitable companion, he returned to his native Virginia and presented himself at the plantation home of Mr. Morgan Lisle—where his father had worked the fields as a sharecropper—pursuant to seeking the hand of the Lisle’s youngest daughter, Susan.
Jimmy stretched out his legs, cradling the Colt on his belly, and stirring the possibilities around. He believed Colonel Rutherford should have some leverage over the Lisles—he wasn’t sure why yet, but the narrative absence where that leverage would fit felt like a notch in a knife-edge, a place that wanted grinding and smoothing. He did not use logic to resolve the problem, just kept on stirring and letting his thoughts circulate. The character of Susan Lisle pushed forward in his mind, shaping herself and her circumstance from the whirled-up materials of the story, and as she grew more clearly defined, he came to understand what the leverage should be.
Mr. Lisle, a gentleman alcoholic renowned for his profligacy and abusive temper, had squandered most of the family fortune in a number of ill-considered business ventures, and the prospect of a marriage between Susan and Colonel Rutherford seemed to him, despite the colonel’s lack of pedigree, a fine idea in that it served to rid him of an expense and, most pertinently, because the colonel had offered substantial loans with which Mr. Lisle might renew his inept assault upon the business world. And so it was that the marriage was arranged and celebrated, whereupon the colonel then whisked Susan away to Havana, to an elegant two-story house of yellow stucco with a tile roof and an extensive grounds where flourished palms, hibiscus, bougainvillea, bananas, mangos, ceiba trees, and bamboo.
At the age of twenty-four, Susan Lisle Rutherford was an extraordinarily beautiful woman with milky skin and dark hair and blue eyes the color of deep ocean water. She was also a woman for whom the Twentieth Century had not yet dawned, having been nurtured in a family who clung stubbornly to the graces, manners, and compulsions of the ante-bellum period. In effect, by marrying at the urging of her parents, she had merely exchanged one form of confinement for another, emerging from the cloistered atmosphere of the plantation only to be encaged in a luxurious prison of Colonel Rutherford’s design. Since the ceremony, she had not had a single day she cared to remember. The colonel was a stern, overbearing sort who kept her fenced in by spying friends and loyal servants and tight purse strings. She had not grown to love him, as her mother had promised she would, but to hate him. His demands of her in the marriage bed, though basic, had become a nightmarish form of duty. For nearly five years, she had been desperate, depressed, prone to thoughts of suicide. Not until recently had any glint of light, of life, penetrated the canopy of the colonel’s protective custody.
Aside from the odd official function, Susan was permitted no more than three trips away from the house each week. Each Sunday she attended church in the company of the colonel’s housekeeper Mariana, a stately bulk of a woman with light brown skin. Tuesday afternoons she went to market with Porfirio, the colonel’s chef, and on Thursday evenings, escorted by the colonel’s driver, Sebastian, she would make an appearance at the weekly dinner given by the President’s wife for the wives of American and Cuban staff officers.
The dinner was held in a small banquet room at the Presidential Palace and was sometimes attended by other family members—it was on one such occasion that Susan struck up a conversation with Arnulfo Carrasquel y Navarro, the nephew of General Oswaldo Ruelas, currently employed by the Banco Nacional but soon, he informed Susan, to become the owner of an export company dealing primarily in rum and tobacco. Ordinarily Susan would have been reluctant to speak with such a handsome young man, knowing that Sebastian reported her every movement to the colonel. But Sebastian had formed a romantic attachment with one of the palace maids; after leaving his charge at the banquet room door, he hurried off to meet his girlfriend. Thus liberated, Susan . . .
* * *
“Excuse me!” Someone tapped Jimmy on the shoulder, making him jump. A tall middle-aged man with a bushy brown mustache, wide shoulders and an erect bearing. He wore a gray sport coat over a polo shirt. His face was squarish, a bit lantern-jawed, and his brow scored by what struck Jimmy as three regulation furrows, each the same wavy shape as the one above or below, like an insignia of rank in some strange army. He smiled broadly and stuck out his hand. “Raymond Borchard,” he said, sounding each letter in every syllable, as if expecting Jimmy might have a need to spell the name.
Jimmy didn’t care for being interrupted in the middle of a story, but he supposed he had no one to blame but himself for working on it in a public place. He gave Borchard a limp hand so as to minimize what he presumed would be a serious massaging.
“I want to inquire about a gun,” Borchard said. “The very gun you’re holding, as a matter of fact.”
Jimmy looked down at the Colt. “You after a Nineteen-Eleven, you can find one cheaper somewheres else.”
“I believe,” Borchard said, “that’s Bob Champion’s Colt.”
“Sure is.”
“I’d like to buy it.”
“Well, that’s good to hear,” said Jimmy. “But it just now come to me, and I ain’t had time to check it out . . . figure what it’s worth. None of that.”
“Four thousand,” said Borchard. “You won’t do better than four.”
“Hell you say!” Jimmy said testily. “You ain’t a dealer. You don’t have a clue what I can get.”
Borchard was big-boned and thick-waisted, and he surely went six-four, six-five. A man, by Jimmy’s estimation, accustomed to having his way. The Borchard smile quivered, as if it was a strain to hold. A sharpness surfaced in his polished baritone, like a reef showing at low tide. “I apologize,” he said. “I’m not usually so disrespectful. Chalk it up to eagern
ess.”
Jimmy opened a display case and laid the Colt in beside a dueling pistol fancied by gold filigree and an engraved plate on the grip.
Borchard spread his hands, inviting Jimmy to take his best shot. “Now you know how much I want the Colt, why not seize the advantage and name your price?”
“’Cause like I said, I ain’t had time to figure a price.” Jimmy locked the display case.
“Six thousand.” The Borchard smile had vanished.
“Six? This here gun must really make your eagle big.” Jimmy patted the case that contained the Colt. “Wonder how much you’ll want it tomorrow?”
Borchard folded his arms and stood there like he was Captain Authority without his crimefighter’s costume and mask. “I gather from your attitude you’ve heard of me.”
“Hasn’t everybody? Major Ray Borchard’s a damn household word where I hail from.”
By the uncertainty in Borchard’s face, Jimmy suspected that the major wasn’t sure whether or not to accept this statement as fact.
“You don’t much like me, Mister Guy. Is it my politics?”
“Naw, I deal with your kind all the time.”
“My kind?” Borchard chuckled. “And what kind is that?”
“Wanna-bes.” Jimmy locked the case, pocketed the key. “Old guys jerking off in the woods with twenty-man redneck armies and dreaming about world domination. Folks like you make up a good piece of my business.”
“Then why not sell me the Colt?”
Jimmy had to admit the man had control. Anger was steaming off him like stink from a sewer grating, but his voice kept steady.
“She told you not to sell it to me,” Borchard said. “Isn’t that right?”
“She?”
Borchard let his eyes roll up toward the fluorescents, as if seeking guidance. “I’m beginning to think you’re a fool, Mister Guy.”
“I ain’t the one who’s offering six grand for a piece-of-shit gun belongs to some trailer-trash Robin Hood.”
Borchard’s sigh implied that Jimmy failed to understand both the vast powers arrayed against him and the grand truth of which he, the major, was representative. “I’ll be back tomorrow,” he said. “Perhaps by then you’ll have assigned a price to the Colt.”
“Gee, I don’t know. Here you come offering six thousand. I better get me a second opinion before I move it. Might be worth way more’n I thought.”
“Tomorrow,” said Borchard sternly. “I want that gun.”
“I will try hard not to dream about you,” Jimmy said. “But I know I will.”
His story mood was broken, and after Borchard had gone he busied himself by cleaning the glass of the display cases. He wished he could have gotten past the conversation between Susan and Arnulfo Carrasquel before Borchard showed up. Conversations weren’t his strong suit, and he’d been on a roll. All in all, except for the Colt, it had been a shitty day, from arguing with Rita on down.
Arnulfo. He sounded the name under his breath. It didn’t feel right. Something more familiar might be preferable. Manuel. Carlos. Luis. Luis Carrasquel. He couldn’t make up his mind. Maybe, he thought, the thing to do would be to get someone to watch the tables and go grab one of those corn dogs. Food might settle him, put him back in the mood to work on the story. He was searching around for someone who wasn’t busy at their own table, when he saw the Russians coming back.
* * *
Brandywines was an ersatz English tavern with a sign above the door that depicted Henry the Eighth hoisting a cold one. Inside, there were paneled walls and waitresses in serving-wench costumes and black candle holders centering the oak tables, casting a dim light throughout, and a menu that advertised dishes such as Ye Olde Cheddar Melt and Steak Cromwell, a reference that probably eluded most diners. Not the sort of place Rita usually did her drinking, but the owner was hardcore NRA and had special prices for gun people. It looked like half the dealers in the show had folded early and were packed in around the bar. Several called out to her and waved, but nobody invited her over, which was how she wanted it. She flopped into a chair at a table next to the johns and told a chubby blond with pushed-up tits swelling from her peasant blouse to bring two Jack Black doubles neat, a Miller draft, and some fresh peanuts. While she was waiting for the drinks, a heavyset Latino wearing a Freitas Knives & Guns T-shirt came out of the men’s room, still in the process of zipping up. He caught her eye, grinned, and said, “Hey, Rita! How’s business?”
“Fucking sucks, Jorge,” she said. “How about you?”
The man shrugged. “About average for a Friday. But we’ll get that heavy Labor Day action. We’ll do all right.” He appeared to expect a response, so Rita said, “Yeah, well,” and looked blankly at him until he hitched up his pants, said, “See ya,” and left her alone.
The first whiskey evened her out, the second made her feel almost sociable. She regretted having blown Jorge off. She wanted to bitch about Jimmy to someone. She’d say, I walk back over the show, or the Red Roof, or wherever the hell he is, I’m going to find him setting there looking all moony-eyed at the Colt, telling himself one of his stories. I ain’t saying the stories don’t mean nothin’. It’s how he gets out what he has to, and it’s what what I need from him. I just wish he’d pay more attention to sales. Then Jorge would say, He’s a flake. So what? C’mon, Rita! The man baits a big sale better than anybody on the circuit. It’s the nature of your business to go up and down more than most. You want steady, do like me and sell two-, three-hunnerd-dollar weapons . . . Talking that way would make her feel even better. The Colt, now. That was a whole other ocean to swim in. The Colt and the story might cause them trouble, but they always skated through that kind of trouble. So long as she kept her hand on the controls, they’d be okay.
The waitress brought two more doubles. Rita sipped her whiskey and considered whether they should do the North Bend show or take a break till Yakima. It all depended on whether Jimmy sold the Beretta.
“Ms. Whitelaw?”
A tall white man with a thick mustache was smiling down on her; at his elbow, a younger guy with brushcut whitish-blond hair and a pink cherub mouth that looked as if it had been transplanted from some Italian angel painting to an otherwise apelike face. The big man offered his hand. Rita said, “You keep it. I don’t want it.”
He continued to smile. “I was speaking to your partner about an hour ago.”
The two of them. Like scoutmaster and scout. They pleased her, according with her take on white male orthodoxy. “Yeah?” she said. “What’d you think?”
“What did I think?”
“About Jimmy. What you think about the boy?”
The men exchanged a glance that Rita read as plain as if it were a sign saying We Got Us A Drunk Indian.
“To tell you the truth,” the big man said, sitting down opposite her, “I found him somewhat shortsighted.”
“Somewhat shortsighted.” She rolled the phrase around. “That don’t say it all, but I can’t argue.”
The young guy ducked into the chair beside the big man and sat still. The slyness of the move signaled to Rita that he thought he was doing something of which his leader might disapprove.
“I offered him four thousand for a Colt Nineteen-Eleven, and he turned me down flat,” said the big man. “I hoped we—you and I— might discuss an arrangement.”
She shook a finger at him, trying to dredge up the name. “The major. Borchard. I bet that’s you.”
“Raymond Borchard,” he said after a pause. “I suppose Loretta Snow told you about me.”
An uproar of laughter from the bar snagged Rita’s attention. Cory Sauter of Sauter’s Gifts and Guns was preparing to moon the establishment, standing with his pants held just below waist level, displaying the crack of his ass to a tableful of dealers, one of whom was holding up a fork, threatening to add of chunk of Cory’s butt to his chef’s salad.
“Loretta Snow,” said Borchard impatiently. “She told you things about me, didn’t she?�
�
“If she’s a little white hen goes around clucking to herself and getting weepy . . .” Rita said. “Yeah, that’d be her.”
Borchard’s right eyelid drooped as if he were lining up a sight, and his smile was sucked into his mustache. Rita had the thought he didn’t much care for anyone speaking ill of sweet Loretta. Which was odd, when you took into account the hen’s attitude toward him.
“Plump little thing,” Rita said. “You wouldn’t need to grease the pan, you wanted to fry her up.”
“I’d like to talk about the gun,” Borchard said.
“Talk.” Rita started on her fourth whiskey.
“I’ll give you five thousand for it. Here and now.”
She scooped up a handful of peanuts, tipped her head back and dribbled a few into her mouth. “Jimmy handles the buying,” she said after swallowing.
“And just what do you handle, honey?” said the younger guy in a suggestive tone.
Borchard jumped on him hard. “Randy! I’ll deal with this!”
Randy dropped his head and glowered at Rita through his albino eyebrows.
Rita said to the major, “Don’t go punishing your bitch on my account. Doesn’t matter what he says, I couldn’t think no less of you.”
Borchard leaned back, gauging her. “I realize Loretta must have poisoned the well, but in fairness, I’d like you to hear my side of things.”
“Don’t have nothing to do with Loretta.” Rita gave the name a frilly emphasis. “I just can’t stand white people.”
The jukebox was plugged in, starting up at the mid-point of “Glory Days” so loud it obliterated all hope of conversation. Cries of protest, and the box was turned down.
“And yet,” Borchard said, “you’re involved with a white man, are you not?”
“Jimmy’s not your typical Caucasian. He has visions, y’know. Kinda like my people.”
Colonel Rutherford's Colt Page 2