"No thanks," I said, still maintaining a wary distance.
Rhonda stepped closer and examined the snake curiously. "It does look like Ringo," she said before turning to the vendor. "Are you Zeke?" I had told her who we were looking for and why.
Zeke nodded slowly, giving her a lecherous up-and-down appraisal as he did so. "Sure am, ma'am. What can I do for you today? If'n you don't like snakes, how 'bout a Gila monster then?"
He paused long enough to spit an arc of brown tobacco juice over his shoulder where it landed unerringly in a two-pound Folgers coffee can several feet behind him. "Got me one of them, too. That'll run you 'bout tow hun'red even. Or somethin' a little smaller maybe-scorpions and centipedes. These here are s'posed to be plastic paperweights. Real classy if'n you work in an office."
The guy took off his hat and wiped a shiny bald pate with his red bandanna. When he put the Stetson back on, I noticed it was decorated with a rattlesnake skin hatband and several multicolored feathers. Considering his alligator boots and hand-tooled leather belt, this dusty overweight specimen was someone the Earth First folks should have picketed right along with all those fur-wearing, opera-going society matrons.
"We're more interested in guns," I said casually. He blinked. "I've got me some of them, too," he said tentatively. "What kind you lookin' for?"
He pointed me toward a second rickety table, this one covered with guns. The weapons, mostly aged specimens, were a collection of ten or so rifles and shotguns of various makes and models. Some were undoubtedly antique quality with ornate handmade inlay work on the stocks. Others were just plain old.
"Not any of these," I said, dismissing the entire table with a wave. "These are all too big. I was thinking of something smaller."
He looked at me closely.
"A friend told me about you," I added as a further reference, "a nameless, mutual friend. She said you had quite a collection, but if this is all you've got…"
Zeke, watching me closely, made up his mind. "I can't afford to put 'em all out," he said quickly. "Somebody might rip 'em off. Exactly what kind of gun might you be lookin' for, mister?"
"A handgun," I said. "Thirty-eight caliber."
"A. 38," he repeated thoughtfully. "I just might have one of them. It's small, though. Only a two-inch barrel."
"Small's fine," I said.
He nodded then called over his shoulder, "Hey, Carl. Would you keep an eye on my stuff for a while? I gotta go out to the parking lot for a minute."
Carl, a permanently sunburned blond, occupied a booth that advertised genuine Zuni hand-tooled silver jewelry, although Carl didn't look like any American Indian I'd ever seen. He waved a careless hand in response. "No prob, Zeke. Take your time."
Zeke led us through the parking lot to where a beat-out Volkswagen was parked. Someone with more patience than brains had carefully painted it so that it bore an uncommon resemblance to a mini-Greyhound bus. The inside, however, had been specially fitted with a set of custom mini-blinds which shut off the interior of the vehicle from any outside snooping.
Turning off an elaborate auto alarm system, Zeke unlocked the side door, heaved himself up into the van, and returned to the doorway carrying a heavy tool chest. With a grunt he set the chest down on the floorboard in front of us, opened one compartment, and extracted a cloth-wrapped package.
"This here one's a beaut," he said, lovingly untying the string and unwrapping the cloth to reveal a blued-steel Smith and Wesson Chief. "Five shots not six, and it comes complete with its own clip-on holster."
He handed me the gun with its stubby barrel, and I hefted the weapon in my hand. It was lighter than my old standard-frame. 38, but, depending on the kind of ammunition used, I knew it could be every bit as deadly. I snapped it apart and looked it over. It was clean and had been well cared for, either by Zeke or by its previous owner.
"Looks like you've handled one of them before," Zeke observed approvingly. "'Course, that thing ain't no good for shootin' rabbits."
"We both know what these are good for," I answered shortly. "I won't be hunting rabbits."
Zeke ducked his head and, with feigned interest, examined the scuffed toe of his cowboy boot. "Make you a good deal on it," he said at length, still looking down. "It's steal at one and a quarter."
"Is it a steal?" I asked.
Zeke looked up quickly, an offended frown on his face, "You mean is it hot? Hell no, man, it ain't hot. I don't fence shit for nobody. This is my very own private collection. I wouldn't be sellin' none of it, but the wife's been sick and had a lot of doctor's bills and all."
"Sure she has," I responded, "but this gun's not worth a dime over sixty bucks, so stop jacking me around."
Zeke yelped like he'd been stuck with a hot poker. After several rounds of negotiating back and forth, we finally settled on eighty-five dollars, cash-and-carry. Ten minutes later, without benefit of anybody's three-day waiting period, we were on our way.
Once we were beyond Zeke's earshot, Rhonda Attwood burst out laughing. "What's so funny?" I asked.
"Remind me to take you along if I ever decide to sell my Fiat. Now that I've seen you in action with Zeke, I'll bet you can handle car salesmen, too."
It's nice to be appreciated.
CHAPTER 18
On Zeke's advice we stopped by an army-surplus/ammo shop on Thomas Road and purchased a box of Remington 125-grain semi-jacket hollow-point shells. Hollow points aren't armor piercing, not much good for shooting through cars or doors, but when they land in a human body, they stay there. It's the kind of ammunition that keeps medical examiners in business.
Rhonda, walking with me through the shop, didn't question my purchase of the shells, but she raised an eyebrow when I asked for earplugs.
"Target practice," I explained as the clerk went to get them. "Guns are like women, you know. They all come with the same basic equipment, but you need to field-test each one individually to know exactly how it works."
"Right," she said, responding in a lighthearted, bantering tone. "And not all field-testers are created equal."
I was still worrying about that one when we left the store. As we drove south on Interstate 10, the extra ammunition was stowed in the trunk, but my new used. 38, loaded but still untried, rested in its leather holster, clipped securely inside the waistband of my pants and concealed under the folds of my sport jacket.
I hadn't bothered to ask anyone in authority if my Washington license to carry a concealed weapon worked in Arizona because I didn't want to know the answer. Instead, I welcomed the presence of the gun, the slight pressure of its shape molded against the flesh of my gut. I was armed once more, carrying a Smith and Wesson. For the first time in weeks, I felt completely dressed.
Above us the sky changed from metropolitan smoggy, hazy blue to brilliant azure as we cruised past a rocky citadel Rhonda told me was called Picacho Peak. She kept up a running commentary as we drove, pointing out the names of Indian reservations, mountain ranges, and small towns with the glib geographical ease of a native. As I listened to Rhonda's engaging patter, I wondered if she herself was aware of the defense mechanism at work, if she realized that the constant barrage of small talk kept other, more intimate or hurtful subjects at bay.
South of Tucson she insisted we stop at a truck stop, The Triple T, for coffee and hot apple pie. Forty miles south of there, we turned off I-10 near a place called Benson and headed down Highway 90, a secondary road leading to Sierra Vista and Fort Huachuca.