In the few brief minutes that he’d spent outside this miserable aluminum refrigerator over the past three days, he’d personally seen more cops per mile of road than anywhere he’d ever been. It was like a convention of them. He saw local police, sheriffs from God knew how many California and Arizona counties, Highway Patrol, Tribal Police, even Fish and Game had units out looking for him. And of course ICE and Border Patrol in their SUVs. And then there were all the unmarked-but-still-obvious cars the feds were driving-Mercs and Chevys with little whippy antennas on top: FBI, ATF, DEA, U.S. Marshals. Even the U.S. Postal Service investigation service was after him again because of that post office fire back in Missouri, is what the TV said. He had also seen unusual numbers of small helicopters and low-flying aircraft. He had almost been trapped at a CHP checkpoint that, as if by a miracle, had shut down when he’d advanced to fifth in line, a pistol lying under a rag on the passenger seat of his second stolen car, his cool and clarity settling over him.
Looking out past the junked cars he saw the rutted dirt drive and the Jackalope Lounge sign, and beyond that the Jackalope Lounge itself, an almost windowless, low brick box decorated with Christmas lights. Quiet, this time on a Sunday. It sat just off a wide dirt road. Beyond the road was a white expanse of what looked like sand or maybe salt, then the flat silver mirror of the Salton Sea. The whole place smelled of dead fish and foul water, and there were screeching goddamned birds everywhere you looked. Bombay Beach, Wampler thought. Worse than anywhere in Russell County. Plus he was hungry and worried about going out for groceries and his money was running low. And his left middle finger might be getting infected because it got redder and hurt more every day. The pain made him think of spectacular ways to return it to its rightful owner: Charlie Hooper.
Thinking of revenge on Hooper gave Clint just a taste of that cool, clear feeling he liked. So he went to the middle of the small “living room” and practiced his draw. He was a pocket man, not a holster man-easier to conceal and easier to draw fast if you had the right jacket, which he did. The peacoat had wide slit pockets at perfect angles. He whipped out twenty quick lefts, then twenty rights, then twenty doubles. On the two-gun draws he alternated bracing left over right, then right over left for steadiness, none of that waving-’em-around bullshit like in westerns. Wampler liked short-barreled guns with flush or internal hammers that wouldn’t catch on things. He turned around and went through the routine again. Not a snag or fumble. Gotcha. The best was doing it live, out in the woods by Little Creek, using the skinny poplars and willows for targets-if you could hit them, you could hit a man practically with your eyes closed. Plus it sounded great. Clint did another twenty draws each way.
Then he stepped into the “kitchen” and instead of drawing a gun with his right hand he whipped out his hand-made blackjack and rapped it righteously against one of the wooden cabinets. The weighted end left a quarter-size dent in the wood, just like it would leave on a skull, Clint thought. He hit another cabinet, harder, and this time the sap went all the way through and he had to wrench it back out through the ragged hole. When he finished his workout, his pulse and breathing were right up where he liked them and his vision was clear and sharp.
Half an hour later Castro called to say he could go the full forty thousand on a new crated Stinger. “And he’ll front the money on the next two, at thirty-seven five.”
“Fine. Deal. See how flexible I can be?”
“I vouched for you, Clint. I think you understand what that means.”
Wampler felt flush and lucky, though still hungry. “Oh. And I want five thousand of my money to be in the form of a dependable used car, Mr. Car Dealer. A good one, not some fucked-up little economy car. I want it legal and mine. I also want a sawed-off shotgun and some ammo and a blanket to cover them up with. The gun, the car, and thirty-five grand gets you the missile. And seventy-five thousand more gets you double trouble. Or is it triple?”
“I’ve got a secure place we can meet.”
“That’s good, but I’m not moving one inch until I’ve got my money.”
• • •
Five hours later Wampler parked his ’09 Sebring in the Denny’s parking lot in Fallbrook and stepped out into the cool winter air. He left the sawed-off shotgun on the backseat, covered in a bright yellow-and-black serape. The pistol under his Windbreaker felt useful and he was assured by the flat, hard combat knife strapped to his calf. His fingertip throbbed in the cold, same beat as his heart.
Skull’s two Pendleton friends were older than Clint had expected. One short and one medium. They had tattoos and military haircuts and moved with brisk authority. They reminded him of Skull. The parking lot was dark but busy enough, and the friends had told him that Fallbrook had some sheriffs for patrol but not many. Wampler saw a security guard who seemed not to notice them. His heart rate always fell in dicey situations like this, and he saw things in a slowed-down kind of motion. For the two Stingers he handed over $50,000 in the backpack in which it had come to him. The other $25,000 was his end, already stashed in the car. The Sebring had a big trunk and the crates fit fine alongside the plastic bags of his cash.
Wampler shut the trunk and got back into his new $5,000 used car. The balance of $35,000 from Castro for the first Stinger sat on the front passenger seat in a steel navy ammunition box covered with the heavy wool coat he’d brought from home. He wondered again if he should keep Skull’s and Brock’s shares. With the blood of a murdered federal agent on their hands, it might be a long, long time until they saw the light of day. There was a question of honor, however. He had honor. Up to a point. One of the men was coming to the car so he drew his.44 and kept it in the dark and rolled down the window.
“More where those came from,” said short, who called himself Skip.
“All the business I’m giving you, Skip, seems the price might come down some.”
“Take a thousand off the next two, if that helps.”
“Off each one or both?”
“Off each of however many you want, my friend. We aim to please. Where are these babies going?”
“If it mattered to you, you wouldn’t be selling them.”
“It’s a big world out there, partner.”
“That’s why you need me. ’Cause I know where the customers are.”
“You know how to find us.”
Wampler rolled up the window and slid the big pistol under the coat on the passenger seat. With this part of the deal done he headed south again for El Centro. He stopped at a motel on the edge of Fallbrook and used the pay phone to call Mary Kate Boyle. “I got some money in my pocket now, Mary Kate. Where are you at? You there? What’s that clicking sound?”
“It’s my damned phone falling apart. I got to get something better.”
“Where you at? Are you coming out here to California to be my girl or not?”
“I’m coming to California to see some friends. There’s nothing in this about being your girl, Clint.”
“But you are coming, now, aren’t you?”
“Didn’t I just say that?”
“I made the biggest deal of my life today. I got a new used car and thirty-five thousand dollars in it, every cent of it mine if I want it to be. All I got to do is deliver two more missiles and I’ll have even more. I think I might be in the missile business for a while to come.”
“I don’t understand how you can make so much money so fast. Thirty-five thousand dollars and a car, Clint? Skull never made money like that in one day.”
“Then you know it’s Clint can take the best care of you.”
“Where do you get ’em? You can’t just buy missiles in El Centro, can you?”
“Like I’d tell you?”
“Did you go to El Centro like Skull said you were going to?”
“Maybe. Why are you asking so many damned questions?”