• • •
Beth came home half past midnight. Hood held open the door as she trudged across the gravel, and he saw the exhaustion in her. She still wore her work scrubs and Crocs and one of her loose white jackets with “Dr. Petty” stitched on, meaning a busy shift. She had a heavy knit scarf around her neck against the chill. She stopped briefly to pet the dogs. “Still in your gun dealer duds, I see.”
“Busy night. Erin’s fine. Bradley was here. How are you?”
They walked in behind the animals and Hood shut and locked the door, then hung Beth’s bag on the hat rack. She hooked the scarf next to Charlie Diamond’s straw gambler. “We lost a boy to the canal tonight. Second one this year. We did everything-oxygen, trach, paddles. Flat. Eight years old. Father and mother carried him in on a blanket. He looked asleep. Heading north for a better life and the boy was yipping up at the moon like a coyote and he slipped right in. You know how fast it is.”
“That’s a loss. I’m sorry, Beth.”
Her face looked calm but her eyes were bereft. “I am, too. Alright. So. Man. I need a long shower and I’m starved. What’s to eat?”
“Got you covered.”
6
In the bright cool of the morning Hood followed the red Commander from the Pueblo Lodge to Castro Ford. The El Centro traffic was light but enough for cover, and he drove past the dealership as the two Missouri cops and their young partner walked toward the showroom. They had parked up front, next to what looked like Israel Castro’s new Flex.
Hood drove a block and swung around and parked in the Desert Donuts lot across from Castro Ford. He looked out at the Flexes, which he liked, and the hot new Mustangs, which he also liked, and the new Explorers, which he liked, too. The new Taurus SHO was extra cool, and even the new economy cars had stance. Ten minutes later he saw the three men hustling down the showroom steps, Clint Wampler eating what looked like a maple bar.
He followed them three cars back to the other side of town and Buster’s Last Stand. He drove past and made a U-turn at the next stop sign and circled back. The three men were carrying in some of the boxes he’d watched them load from the motel room.
He drove to a convenience store where he bought a fancy coffee drink to go with the diamonds in his tooth. He wore a beige wool suit and the Borsalino gambler, and cap-toe, two-tone shoes that made an authoritative crack with each step as he crossed the parking lot of the gun store.
He strode inside Buster’s Last Stand sipping the coffee, then slid his sunglasses into his coat pocket. He paid no attention to the three men who were talking with Buster across the handguns counter, but he nodded to Buster and Buster nodded back. He noted the heavyset woman at the checkout stand and strolled by to see her purchase: She was taking delivery on a semiautomatic AK-47-style rifle, and apparently filling out the paperwork to buy another one.
Hood cruised the ammo aisles, perusing various calibers and loads, mostly handgun and larger-caliber rifle cartridges. He could hear Buster’s voice clear and loud: “I’m not interested in any of Granddad’s heirloom junk but I’ll take a look at what you got. Hey, Charlie Hooper! You come back for those forty cals?”
Hood ignored him. Let them come to you, he thought. This was a favorite rule of his old Blowdown boss, Sean Ozburn, a crack undercover agent, always cool and never made: Don’t be eager. Ozburn had been the best of them until Mike Finnegan tore him to shreds-mentally, spiritually, and finally physically. Oz’s lovely wife, too. All of that, without even touching them.
Hood continued to ignore Buster and look at the ammo, noting that prices were leveling off. They had gone up dramatically after the 2008 and 2012 presidential elections, as had the domestic sales of new weapons from every major American gun manufacturer. And it had all gone up in price again after the Newtown massacre. Hood thought of Obama’s first year in office, when the NRA and Fox News had told America that the new president, though possibly not a citizen, certainly wanted their guns-and America had listened. Hood had realized that fear was good for the news business, and for the entertainment and weapons industries as well. Fear drove sales. Fear of gangs, fear of government. Fear of terrorists, fear of gun control. Fear of Islam, fear of socialism. Hood wondered what the NRA’s next marketable crisis might be. He’d seen a scary and entertaining zombie movie recently, which depicted more ammo being shot up in two hours than Buster could sell in a year.
He went back to the entrance/exit and tossed his empty coffee cup into a trash can festooned with popular Zombie Bob targets. Eureka, he thought. The Bobs had been shot up pretty badly but what was left of them drooled and grimaced from the canister. The heavyset woman, now wearing rhinestone sunglasses, had finished her next purchase order and she now waddled toward him with the boxed assault rifle cradled in her arms and a black rhinestone-studded purse balanced on top. “Get the door,” she said.
“Con permiso.” Hood tipped his hat and held open the door for her, noting which car she was headed for and easily memorizing the vanity plates. Then he unracked a shopping cart and pushed it back to the ammunition aisle. He loaded in five ten-box cases of the.40-caliber shells. This would set ATF back some scarce money, but the western division had gone to.40-caliber Glocks, so the ammo would be useful beyond its moment here as a good stage prop.
He toured the store briefly, threw a package of Zombie Bob paper targets into the cart for good luck, and stopped where the four men stood looking at him. A small arsenal of used weapons rested on a folded camo-patterned blanket placed atop the counter to save the glass. Hood looked at the guns but not the men.
“Granddad’s heirloom junk is right,” he said.
“Except that nobody asked you,” said Skull.
“He has a point, Mr. Hooper,” said Buster. “And I’m glad you found some ammo. But weren’t you after a lot more than that?”
“At your price this is all I can afford. Luckily it’s for an immediate, short-term app. A mortal thing.” Hood smiled slightly.
Buster gave him a confused look. “Ring it up, then?”
Hood looked up from the guns and into the faces of three men one at a time. “So what happened to old Granddad, anyway?”
“None of your business, Twinkle Tooth,” said Brock Peltz. He was taller and heavier than Hood had expected.
Young Clint Wampler laughed. He wore a peacoat and had the same pageboy bangs as in his mug shot. “He died defending this country from people like you.”
“I have no idea what you mean by that,” said Hood.
“Grandpa’s goddamned dead is what I mean,” said Wampler.
“Gentlemen,” Buster said.
Wampler again: “I mean this country can’t live without no shitfaces but not principles.”
“Clearly,” said Hood.
“Mr. Hooper, why don’t we just step over to checkout and ring up those shells?”
Hood looked at Skull. “How much do you want for the saddle rifle?”
“Hey, hey, hey!” boomed Buster. “Posted private property so no trespassing! This is my store and I do the buying and selling.”
“You’d get your tithe, Buster,” said Hood.
“It’s a Winchester Ninety-two,” said Skull.
“It’s a Winchester Ninety-two knockoff made by Rossi. No shame in Granddad being value-minded.”
“Three hundred,” said Skull.
“I’ll give you two hundred if you throw in the scabbard.”
“Gun Trader’s Guide has it at two-fifty. Gun alone.”
Hood hefted the heavy little carbine, worked the lever, checked the chamber and magazine, lowered the hammer with his thumb. He brought a white handkerchief from his coat pocket, wiped the butt plate clean, then shouldered the weapon. “I always liked cowboy guns.”