“What the hell do you want?” George’s warm, affectionate greeting was par for the course, and didn’t actually mean that he was an abrasive old son-of-a-bitch, which he was, or that he didn’t want to see us-which he probably didn’t. He squinted at me through his coke-bottle glasses. Diabetes was killing him just as surely as high blood pressure and arteriosclerosis were likely killing me, and he leaned his heavy body against the counter, taking the weight off his ballooning ankles. His gaze locked on Estelle as she gently closed the door behind us.
“Showing your granddaughter around the big city, Billy?” Payton was the only person in the world who still used a nickname that had rested mercifully dormant since the days of Mrs. Lewis, my third grade teacher.
“George Payton, this is Estelle Reyes.”
“Yeah, yeah,” George said ungraciously. “I know who she is.” He nodded at Estelle, but didn’t offer a hand. “How’s the old man?”
“He’s fine, sir,” Estelle replied.
“So, what, you’re thinkin’ of workin’ at the funny farm now with these guys?”
“Yes, sir.”
He glanced at me, rheumy blue eyes twinkling, then back at Estelle. “You know, they never come in here unless they want something. And it sure as hell ain’t never to buy anything.” He pulled back a little, surveying the row of handguns on the top shelf. He selected one boxed specimen, pulled it out, and slid it across the glass to me. “Got you one,” he said. “Came in with a collection yesterday.” The stainless Smith and Wesson Model 66 four-inch appeared flawless, but I didn’t dare pick it up, knowing the instant it nestled in my hand, I’d have to own it.
“I’ll be back to talk with you about that,” I said.
“Got about eight other people who want that one,” George said.
“Well, go ahead and sell it to them, then,” I said. “I’d hate to barge in and cut my place in line.” That earned what passed for a smile.
“Are you doing any good?” I asked Deputy Robert Torrez. He towered over the three of us, darkly handsome, and most of the time overly serious. His face could stand a little smile cracking now and then if he expected a Hollywood talent scout to pay him any mind. He and Estelle would make a hell of a couple, but nature didn’t need any help, or even suggestions, from me.
“I was just telling the deputy that I don’t sell much Mountain States inventory,” George Payton said before Torrez had a chance to reply. He put the Model 66 away, and then slid a colorful brochure toward me with the Mountain States logo prominent across the top. “This was in my slush pile. They keep sendin’ me junk, even when I don’t order nothin’.”
“There’s always a chance,” I said.
“Hell, they got a good lineup, but I don’t sell five boxes of their stuff a year, all of it special order. And what’s the point of that? All a guy has to do is call their 800 number and order it direct.” He reached out and made a circle around the image of the 170-grain thirty caliber Mountain Slam flat-nosed bullet, just about in the middle of their product line-up. “The young fella is right, though.” He spoke as if Deputy Robert Torrez wasn’t standing right there at the counter. “That’s what you have.”
“Not popular, or what? Just pricy?”
Payton shrugged as if he was loathe to sound as if he knew something. “Expensive, mostly.”
“So who’s likely to use these?”
George shrugged. “They’re goin’ after some of the cowboy action shooters, maybe. Some of them get pretty serious. Maybe some of the more serious lever-action metallic silhouette shooters who want a bullet just a bit heavier than average.” His finger drifted down the row of illustrations, and stopped over a long bullet labeled for the.38–55 Winchester. “Not too many folks making this one commercially. Or the.40 caliber either.” He swept his finger all the way to the end of the line-up. “How many companies you think make the big.50? You got a handful of folks loading the.50-110, but not many. Now, if you’re going to hand load for some run-of-the-mill old rifle like a.30–30, like what you’re talking about, what’s the point of using premium, custom bullets?” He laughed a sort of choked-up huff, huff. “Especially when you’re going to go ahead and shoot the stuff out of the wrong gun.”
“Some folks like the best, maybe?”
George scoffed. “Hell, if I was handloading for an old.30-30-well, I wouldn’t do that anyway-but if I did, I’d just buy some cheap Winchester bulk stuff. That’ll shoot better’n me or the gun, either one.”
“As I remember, you’re not required to keep records of cartridge component sales.”
George shook his head and grimaced. “And even if I was…” he left the rest to our imagination. “That’s what this one was asking,” and he jerked his big round head toward Bob Torrez.
“So…what did you think of Robert’s experiment with the two rifles?”
“There’s easier ways to shoot somebody,” George said. “You really think this went down that way?”
“It’s beginning to look like it.”
“Well,” he said philosophically, and shrugged again. His eyebrow cocked at me.
“George, it might be helpful if we knew of any recent sales that might fit this pattern.”
George looked pained. He made his way to the battered swivel chair behind an amazingly cluttered desk and relaxed back in it, hands folded over his belly. “If you think that I’m going to turn over a list of all my customers, you’re nuts. I don’t care how much paperwork you bring over from old man Smith.”
“That’s not what we’re asking for.” I hadn’t even seriously considered the notion of a warrant from Judge Everett Smith.
“Well, that’s good, sheriff. Because I’m not going to list everyone I know who shoots a.30–30, or a.32 Winchester Special. I’m not going to give you a list of every Tom, Dick, and Harry who reloads his own ammunition, or who buys components.” His large head shook sadly, as if we’d asked him to trade his soul. “That just isn’t going to happen.”
“You wouldn’t be giving us much, George. For a village the size of Posadas, what are we talking about-ten people at most?”
“One’s all it takes, Billy. Word gets around that when you buy something from old George Payton, your personal information is handed over to the cops…I might just as well close the doors right now. Nope, I don’t see that as my job.”
I wasn’t in the mood to argue the point with George. Anytime someone purchased a firearm, the buyer filled out the yellow form required by the ATF, but that form stayed with the dealer. Other than that, nothing. Minors were prohibited from buying ammo or the like before sixteen or so, but no records were kept of sales.
“That’s not what we had in mind,” Deputy Torrez said, his voice just a notch above a whisper.
“Yeah, I could name a couple of guys who own Winchesters, including you and myself-and I suppose you could get a warrant and look through my books for recent sales. It ain’t going to tell you nothing. Trust me on that. You got something screwball going on here, that’s what I think. And by the way,” and he tapped the edge of his desk with his heavy ring. “The last lever gun I sold was a.444 Marlin, and that was months ago.” He caught Torrez’s trace of a smile and nodded with smug triumph. “And yeah, you bought that.”
“Did you know Larry Zipoli very well, George?” I asked.
“Nope.”
“At all?”
“Nope.” Apparently he realized how obstinate he was sounding, because he shrugged helplessly. “Look, if I knew something about all this, maybe I’d find a way to let you know. But I don’t. The whole thing is screwy, if you ask me. Nobody is going to intentionally put the wrong ammunition in a rifle. Just maybe in this case it was a dumb mistake that happened to have worked.”
“Well, we’ll figure out a way to track it,” I said.
“I suppose you will,” George Payton said helpfully. “Best of luck to you.”
While we were jawing, Estelle had drifted over toward the overloaded shelves of boxed bullets. Customers who hand-loaded could assemble their own favorite brew, selecting primers, empty casings, propellant and finally bullets. And George was right. With the attention that careful hand-loading required, it was improbable that the finished product would then be stuffed-intentionally-into the wrong gun.