“He’s getting ready for a meeting. Man’s got enough guns, he don’t need yours.” The man made a flicking gesture with the rifle. “You trespassing, y’know that?”
“He sure acts like he needs this gun,” Jimmy said. “Offered me six thousand for it.”
The man’s blue-eyed squint seemed to be inspecting him for flaws. “You the one holding Bob Champion’s Colt?”
“Sure am.”
Disappointment in his voice, the man said, “Awright, come on. I’ll walk you up.”
At the end of a steep and crooked path lay a ramshackle hunting lodge, two stories of split logs with a screen porch, bounded by secondary-growth fir, chokecherry bushes close by the steps. Old filmy, fly-less spiderwebs tented the leaf tops. The white-haired man parted with Jimmy inside the door and went upstairs to fetch the major, leaving him in a room as big as a lobby, furnished with groupings of brown leather chairs and brass lamps with Tiffany shades and crocheted throw rugs. Jimmy took a stroll around. Mounted on the walls were imitation Currier and Ives prints and display cabinets containing dozens of guns, including a fancy dueling pistol of Eighteenth-Century design that snagged his interest until he identified it as a copy. Brass ashtrays on the end tables. The back wall was dominated by a fireplace you could have parked a Volkswagen in. A crackling blaze gave off a blood-orange radiance and a spicy smell of burning spruce. Jimmy dropped into a chair to one side. Above the mantle hung a framed photograph of five men in tiger fatigues standing on a dusty plain. Its surface was glazed with reflection, and he couldn’t tell if Borchard was among the men, though he supposed he would be. He didn’t much care for the room. It looked like set decoration, your basic split-rail Hollywood rustic getaway, and not a place that bespoke the personality of its owner. There sure as hell was nothing that brought Bob Champion and his sorry life to mind.
He started thinking about his story again. Susan at her writing desk, several weeks after the previous scene, translating another of Luis’ poems:
I am no longer content to be a tragic figure / in your sky, an imaginary valentine, / ten memories in a manila folder, / or a handful of dry poetry— / for there is between us more / than all these maudlin trinkets signify. / Matters that require majesties of resolution, / energy that demands expression, / gold tides of it, evangels of an important glory . . .
It was a brave statement. Demanding. She could not fault him for being so. God knows, she deserved worse for all she had caused him to endure. Each time she reread the poem, she was forced to consider breaking things off, but she knew that were she to bring the subject up, all his bravery—and hers—would go glimmering. With a sigh, she returned to the last stanza, upon which she was currently working:
. . . the first pre-conscious glimmer / that started up the Beast from hibernation, / and goaded it with the memory of your skin / beneath its shaping hands, / and so encouraged it to draft an obsessed design / of death and people, claws and stings, / that provided me these words of doubtful worth / with which to sing and charm you, / and set a stag with ruby eyes/ to guard the treasure of your birth . . .
She didn’t like the word “provided,” but “gave” was too plain and “sent” untrue to the meaning. “Impart?” No. Perhaps, she thought, she should change the entire construction and that would permit her to find a better choice. A knock at the door jarred her. The maid stuck her head in and said, “Señora, una carta para usted.”
“¡Pase!” Susan said.
The maid brought her the letter, then, with a curtsey, left the room and softly closed the door.
When she saw her cousin’s name on the envelope, Susan’s heart leapt. She opened it hurriedly:
Dearest Susan,
I must confess that my initial reaction upon reading your letter embodied all those harsh emotions that you have asked me to put aside. You must understand that while I cannot forgive myself for my regrettable actions that long-ago evening in my uncle’s garden, or for having nurtured the feelings that provoked those actions, neither have I been able to forgive you for rejecting me. I’m certain this will make no sense to you. It makes none to me. Your reception of my overtures was far more kindly than I deserved. Nonetheless, I seem for the moment incapable of completely purging myself of anger and disappointment. Does this mean that I continue to harbor some shred of the inappropriate desire I once felt toward you? Perhaps so. And this being the case, I wonder if it is such a good idea for you to confide in me. However, when I recall the closeness of our relationship prior to that evening, the confidences we exchanged, the laughter we shared, and further, when I consider how I have missed talking to you these past years, I find I have no will to deny you my full attention and a friendly ear.
That said, I can only view the intimate details related in your letter with horror and outrage. Why you have kept the fact of your husband’s degrading treatment of you from your family, I cannot guess. But now that you have revealed this sordid secret, I have not the least hesitation in advising you to do that which you say you cannot: you must leave Rutherford. Do you think that your father, for all his significant failings, would urge you to do otherwise? I assure you that he would not. Nor would any of us who love you want or expect you to continue in this depraved mockery of a marriage . . .
A tromping noise broke Jimmy’s concentration. Major Raymond Borchard, outfitted in fatigue trousers, jacket, and infantry boots, was descending the stair, followed by the white-haired man.
“Mister Guy!” Borchard’s smile was so expansive, Jimmy figured if he kept it up, the corners of his lips might wind up meeting behind his head. “I’m told you had a change of heart about the Colt.”
“You might say.”
The white-haired man posted himself at the foot of the stair. Borchard crossed toward the fireplace. “Six thousand, then?”
“Hold on,” Jimmy said. “We got us some talking to do.”
Borchard’s smile lost wattage; he took a parade rest stance and folded his arms. “About what?”
“About Susan, for one thing.”
“Susan?” Borchard chewed on the name a second. “You can’t be referring to my ex-wife’s sister? She’s the only Susan I know.”
“What about ol’ Susie Corliss?” asked the white-haired man. “Y’know, Mike Corliss’ wife?”
“Sorry . . . my mind was drifting,” said Jimmy, making a gesture that mimed erasure. “Loretta Snow’s who I wanna talk about.”
Borchard absorbed this. “Randy,” he said to the white-haired man. “You’d better go down to the gate. The boys will be arriving soon.”
Randy beat a sullen retreat, like a dog yelled at for barking, leaving the front door ajar, and Borchard settled in the chair opposite Jimmy’s. He arranged his features into those of a forbidding judge with a comical mustache. “Proceed.”
“Okay. Here’s the deal.” Jimmy leaned forward and rested his elbows on the arms of the chair. “I’m going let you bid on the Colt, but I got a condition.”
“Wait a second,” Borchard said coldly. “Bid?”
“That’s right. I got another interested party. Only fair thing is to let you two bid it up.”
“I made you an offer.”
“Did I accept it?”
“No, but I thought I made myself clear.”
“Ditto,” said Jimmy. “Thing is, I come to change my mind. I’m a businessman. I need to move that Colt. But I ain’t about to give it over ’cause you say so. You wanna hold it in your hot little hand, you can just bid on it.”
Borchard stared at Jimmy. The snapping of the fire seemed to register the percussion of his angry thoughts. “Who will I be bidding against?” he asked.
Jimmy gave a wry chuckle. “Well, I ain’t going tell you who. You might start intimidating him the way you tried to do me and Rita.”
“Then how will I know the bidding is fair? Or that you even have another buyer?”
“ ’Cause that’s how I do business. Fair. You ask around about me if you want.”
&n
bsp; “I know your reputation,” Borchard said after a few more snaps. A log rolled over in the fireplace, sparks showered, the flames licked higher. “This condition you mentioned . . . ?”
“I want you to keep away from Loretta Snow till the money’s changed hands.”
Borchard nodded, as if in response to an inner voice. “What has she told you about me?”
“That’s between me and her.”
“All right. Then tell me what your interest is in Loretta. Or is that between you and her as well?”
“I’d like to see the lady catch a break is all.”
“Very high-minded,” Borchard said. “You’ll pardon me if I don’t accept it as being completely forthcoming.”
The man’s pomposity was putting an edge on Jimmy. “I don’t give a damn what you accept! That’s what I’m telling ya.”
Borchard let out a sigh that seemed to express a sadness arising from the foolishness with which he was being confronted. “You don’t know Loretta, Mister Guy. She’s not as innocent as she pretends, and her connection to reality is at best tenuous. She plays the victim in a story she likes to tell herself about her life. She may be borderline psychotic.”
Jimmy’s face grew warm, and in his mind he felt anger slide forward, like a beast sneaking on its belly close to something tasty. He shook a forefinger at the major for emphasis as he spoke. “See, that’s another thing I don’t give a damn about. What you got to say about her and what she got to say about you. Just you keep away from her, and we’ll get this done. But I hear about any trouble, I’m cutting you out, and that’s a fact.” He folded the finger into his fist, tapped the knuckle against his jaw. “We good?”
Jimmy could hear voices coming through the open front door. Five or six men walking up the path, it sounded like.
“I think we can do business,” Borchard said, getting to his feet smartly; he beckoned to Jimmy. “Why don’t we take this out back.”
He guided Jimmy along a dimly lit corridor, through a screen door, down some steps, and out into a grassy, well-lit space that had been fixed up into a shooting range. Four pistols, a pair of binoculars, and an auto-loader lay on a crudely carpentered stand behind which shooters would position themselves. Targets were bull’s-eyes affixed to a backing of sandbags at the far end. The reek of cordite mixed in with the scent of sweet resins. A thin crescent moon made glowing smoke of the treetop mist. Dark evergreens stood grave and winded all around, as if in judgment over the place.
“I’d like you to understand why I want the Colt so badly,” said Borchard as they approached the stand. “Do you know much about Bob Champion?”
“Ain’t important what I know,” Jimmy said. “You the one’s got the urge to explain himself.”
The major folded his arms, lifted his eyes, as if contemplating a distant source of light. “Champion was a racist in the beginning, it’s true. But unlike others of his stamp, he outgrew his beginnings and came to recognize that racism was simply a perversion of a greater struggle—the struggle to protect individual liberties. He was not an educated man, yet his writings display an eloquent sense of the core meaning of justice. He took up arms in the hope of drawing attention to the principles involved.”
“Uh-huh,” said Jimmy, running a finger along the trigger guard of a Glock .357 that was resting on the stand.
“He was carrying the Colt when he died,” the major went on. “His ammunition was gone except for a single round chambered in the Colt. He might have killed one of his assailants with that bullet, but I believe he knew what a powerful symbol the gun and its one remaining bullet might someday prove to be. He hid it in the house, where only Loretta was likely to find it, then walked out into the fire of the F.B.I. This”—he fumbled in his pocket, extracted a ring box, and opened it to reveal a brass-cased bullet resting on red velvet—“this is the bullet. Loretta gave it to me during better days.”
Repressing a smile, Jimmy pretended to examine the Glock.
“I intend to marry this bullet to the Colt once again,” the major said, using a sonorous tone such as a preacher might use to announce his decision to harrow a demon from a possessed child. “I intend to bring Bob Champion’s spirit to the world.”
“Speaking of Ms. Snow telling stories,” Jimmy said, “appears you got a pretty good fairy tale going yourself. Bob Champion died alone. ’Least that’s what Rita says. For all you know, he mighta gone out pissing hisself and squalling like a baby.”
“Then why hide the gun?”
“Hell, I don’t know . . . and you don’t, either. Maybe he’d lost his mind. Thing I can’t figure is whether you come to believe your own bullshit, or if you just jerking off till you can scoop up a better grade. Y’know, one’ll have more mass appeal.”
“Have you read any of Champion’s writing? Or is that just a knee-jerk reaction?”
“Never read the writing on a roll of toilet paper, but I know it’ll wipe my ass.”
Before the major could respond, Jimmy said, “Look here, man. I don’t care if Bob Champion wrote the goddamn Magna Carta. I sell guns. That’s what I care about.”
“You’re not concerned that an American hero, a martyr who laid down his life . . .”
“Hero?” Jimmy held the Glock barrel-up. “Any loser can play hero with one of these. If Champion was such a hero, how come his wife was wanting to run away all those years?”
Laughter issued from the house. The major hearkened to it, then turned back to Jimmy. “Is that what Loretta said? I’m afraid she’s misled you again, Mister Guy.”
“Now, y’see . . . this is where we’re getting into that area I don’t wanna hear about.”
“What would you like to hear? Apparently I need guidelines if we’re to have a conversation.”
“I got something you can tell me.” Jimmy sucked on his teeth, made them squeak. “You think you talk at me long enough, this ray of light’s gonna come shining into my brain, and I’m going to kneel down and offer you the Colt on a pillow? Maybe one matches the color of that pretty little ring box?”
Major Borchard gave out with a tired noise. He indicated the Glock. “Care to try your hand?” he asked.
Jimmy shrugged, said, “Sure.” He hefted the gun, checked to see if there was one in the pipe. He took the stance, sighted, then pulled off four rounds. The detonations seemed to stir a little extra sighing from the surrounding trees. Borchard peered at the grouping through the binoculars. “Not too bad,” he said
“Pretty damn good considering the junk I was shooting with.” Jimmy eyed Borchard expectantly.
“You didn’t finish the clip,” Borchard said.
There was a slyness to the words that rankled Jimmy. He laid the Glock down. “I keep getting this feelin’,” he said, “you think you can play me. Drag me into some kinda mind game.”
“Maybe you’re paranoid.” Borchard picked up a revolver from the end of the counter. “Happens all the time.”
“Jesus!” Frustrated, Jimmy punched at the stand. “What? You gonna show me how good you shoot, now? Threaten me? You ain’t hearin’ me, man. You can’t fuck with my head. Either I’m too damn stupid, or else you just ain’t that slick. About a minute, I’m hopping in my van and heading east. So you got anything more to say relates to business, you best spit it out.”
After a silence Borchard set down the revolver. “I want the bids in writing . . . and notarized.”
“I can get them faxed,” said Jimmy. “Maybe my bidder’ll take the time to get ’em notarized. But I ain’t going to hold him to it, he doesn’t want to. You wanna see them right when they come, I’ll call you and you can pick them up yourself.”
Reluctantly, Borchard said, “Agreed.”
“Well, I believe that about takes care of things, then.” Jimmy pointed off to the side of the lodge. “Can I get to the path through there? Wouldn’t wanna disrupt your meeting.”
“You’re welcome to attend.”
“Naw . . . Y’know how it is. I gotta go polish my
toothbrush.”
“I understand,” Borchard said smoothly, coldly. “You can only put some things off for so long.”
Jimmy threaded his way through bushes to the front of the lodge, stopped to brush off flecks of leaf that had caught on his shirt and trousers. Despite his ridicule of Borchard, he’d had a whistling-past-the-graveyard type of feeling when he turned his back on the man, and he wasn’t easy with being alone in the middle of the White Paradise with disciples inside ready to heed their master’s call. As he started down the path, passing beyond the light shining from the windows, into the shadow of the old-growth fir, he heard the major shout, “What is the name?”
“Bob Champion!” answered a ragged chorus.
“Who is the enemy?” shouted the major.
A long gust of wind shook loose a groaning vowel from the assembly of boughs, outvoicing the response; a night bird sounded a loopy, flutelike cry, and visible through a cut in the treeline, the sickle moon sailed free of the mist and stood on its point directly between two mountains in the west.
* * *
To honor the sabbath, the gun show did not open its doors until noon on Sunday. Rita and Jimmy stayed in bed late, watching HBO, breakfasting on cold pizza and diet Sprites from the vending machine next to the office. The carpet strewn with crumpled cans, clothing, take-out cartons, receipt books, magazines, candy wrappers, sections of newspaper that had been stepped on by shower-wet feet and gotten stuck and had to be kicked off. Rita had removed a dresser drawer, placed it by the bed, and was using it to hold a bag of ice. Potato chips floated in the melt at the bottom of the drawer.
They were watching a movie called The Education of Little Tree. The TV Guide billed it as “an evocative tale of an eight-year-old Cherokee orphan who has come to live with his Native American grandmother and white grandfather.” Rita thought it was for shit. The Cherokee orphan was played by an Indian boy who resembled a cute white kid, and the grandmother was the stereotypical wise old woman in touch with the nature of corn and the Buffalo Spirit—a repository for the secret wisdom of an ancient race. When she used traditional herbs to draw rattlesnake poison from her husband’s hand, which was swollen up like a Mickey Mouse hand, and started talking to the cute kid about his warrior heritage, Rita lost patience.
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