‘Yeah. We’ll see.’ Back to Parker, Yancy said, ‘Humboldt hasn’t had a drink since, not a taste. So he smokes instead, four five packs a day. And he eats, all the time. He put on seventy pounds so far, maybe more. Isn’t that right, Humboldt?’
Humboldt said, ‘I’m alive, ain’t I?’
‘Sure you are.’ Yancy laughed and pulled one of the other chairs out from the car table and sat down. Motioning to Parker to take the third chair, at Humboldt’s left, he said, ‘Humboldt don’t walk any more, he weighs too much. He’s tired all the time, and his mouth burns from all the weeds, and his stomach gives him a lot of trouble, but he’s alive. That’s the word he uses for it, alive. Isn’t that right, Humboldt?’
Humboldt said, ‘I’m stayin’ alive to give you pleasure, Yancy, that’s the only reason.’ The cigarette stuck in the corner of his mouth, he seemed more at ease and with less of a whine in his voice.
The bartender came in then with a bottle and two glasses. Humboldt shouted, ‘Get that garbage out of here!’
The bartender looked flustered. He said, ‘Yancy told me’
‘He wants to drink,’ Humboldt said, ‘he can go to the bar.’
Yancy waved his arm, saying, ‘Humboldt, you’re in a room full of the stuff. What’s with you?’
‘You and your booze get out of here, that’s all.’
Yancy shrugged and turned to Parker. ‘You need me right away?’
‘No.’
‘Come on, Eddie.’
Yancy and the bartender left. Humboldt said to Parker, ‘You want to go with him, come back when you’re full?’
Parker said, ‘I’m here to buy guns.’
In a different tone, Humboldt said, ‘You were with Yancy, I figured you were like him.’
There was nothing to say to that. Parker waited.
Humboldt made a small gesture with his right hand, brushing something away. ‘You want guns,’ he said. ‘No drink, no cigarettes, no conversation, just guns.’
There was still nothing to say.
Humboldt shook his head. ‘You and Yancy,’ he said. ‘Opposite sides of the same coin. What sort of guns you want?’
‘Four handguns, any kind. Two machine guns. Four hand grenades.’
‘Hand grenades? They didn’t say nothing about hand grenades.’
Parker said, ‘You people hustle around too fast out here.’
‘What is that, sarcasm? You want hand grenades, I got to make a phone call.’
Parker took one of Yancy’s cigarettes and lit it. Humboldt looked at him, as though waiting for something, and then shook his head and pushed himself to his feet. He was a lot heavier than he’d looked sitting down; most of the weight had sagged below the waist, front, and back. He said, ‘Come on along. They may want to talk to you.’
Parker went with him, across the hall and into the office on the other side. This was a smaller room, full of office furniture. Humboldt sat at the desk and made his call. Parker leaned against the wall, ignoring the conversation, until Humboldt extended the phone towards him, saying, ‘He wants to talk to you.’
Parker took it and said, ‘What is it?’
The voice was one he didn’t recognize. It said, ‘What the hell you want with hand grenades?’
‘What’s your name?’
‘Larris.’
‘Larris, you the guy sent Crystal to play games with me?’
‘What’s that got to do with hand grenades?’
Parker said, ‘Larris, you’re a moron. You fuss around me once more, I let Karns know what a moron you are.’ Larris was trying to say something, but Parker wouldn’t let him. He said, ‘I don’t even want to be reminded of you, Larris. Now, listen. I’m going to explain something to you for the first and last time. Karns wants that island levelled. I’m not going to level it with my hands.’ He tossed the phone to Humboldt, who bobbled it but finally caught it, and leaned against the wall again.
Humboldt looked worried as he put the phone to his ear. ‘It’s me, Mr. Larris,’ he said. ‘Humboldt.’ He talked some more, the whine strong in his voice, and Parker didn’t listen.
When the conversation was done, Humboldt got heavily to his feet again and said, ‘Well, you get your hand grenades.’
‘I know.’
‘You,’ Humboldt said. ‘You’re a hand grenade yourself.’
They went back to the storeroom and Humboldt led the way down an aisle walled with cases of liquor. ‘Handguns,’ Humboldt said. At the end of the aisle he studied the labels on the cases for a minute, then tugged at one and the cardboard side opened like a flap, showing three quarts of Philadelphia whisky and some cardboard dividers. ‘Rotten stuff,’ Humboldt said to himself, and took the three bottles out. He bent over with a grunt and put the bottles on the floor, then pulled out the cardboard dividers, and past the first row of three bottles there weren’t any bottles in the case at all. The interior had been lined with wood, to support the weight of the cases piled on top of it, and the hollow space was filled with smallish packages wrapped in rags.
Humboldt took one of the packages out, turned and turned it in his hands to unwind the rag, and inside was a revolver, a .32 Colt Detective Special with a two-inch barrel. He handed it to Parker, saying, ‘Used twice. No complaints.’
It felt all right. The front sight had been taken off and identification marks had been filed away. It had a new smell to it and a solid feel, though a little small for Parker’s hand.
The second gun Humboldt handed him was another of the same. ‘Used once,’ Humboldt said. The two guns were almost identical, though the removal of the front sight was a cleaner job on the first one.
Parker put these two on the floor, and Humboldt handed him a third, completely different from the first two. This was an automatic, a 9 mm. Beretta Brigadier, must bigger than the Specials, heavier, a mean-looking machine. It was scratched up along the barrel and the grip was cracked in two places.
Parker said, ‘This one’s no good.’
‘Don’t you believe it,’ Humboldt said. ‘It’s been used a dozen times out of here and everybody loves it. One kid, he asks for it every time, he’s had it himself four times now.’
Parker handed it back. ‘Save it for him,’ he said. ‘I’m not bringing these back.’
‘What? Nobody told me anything like that.’
‘Don’t make any more phone calls,’ Parker said. ‘Larris won’t like it.’
Humboldt looked up at Parker’s face. ‘It’s your business,’ he said. He took the Beretta back, rolled it in its rag again, and stuffed it back into its cache. He fumbled around in there a minute, brought out another bundle, and this time unrolled another revolver, a five-shot S&W .38 Special Bodyguard, a hammerless model that could only be fired double-action. The rear of the gun, above the grip, had a naked hunchbacked look with its curve of plain metal where the hammer would be.
Parker said, ‘You want to get rid of this one.’
‘There’s nothing wrong with it. We check them every time they come back, fire them, clean them. A bad gun doesn’t go back in here.’
Parker shrugged. The revolver looked all right. He put it on the floor with the other two.
Humboldt poked in the case awhile and came out with a Colt .38 Super automatic. ‘This is a good one,’ he said. ‘This is a first-class good one.’
Parker took it and it felt good. He turned his hand back and forth, holding the gun, and the weight was good, the feeling was good. ‘All right,’ he said. ‘That’s four.’
‘Now you want two machine guns. Tommys I can’t give you, but I got two Jugoslav-made Sten guns, they’re old but they’re reliable. You want to see them?’
‘No. I’ll take your word for it.’
Humboldt smiled; that pleased him. He said, ‘Now, about hand grenades. That’s what they call in the department stores a special order. When you gonna want this stuff?’
‘Within a week.’
‘By Friday,’ said Humboldt. ‘That all right?’