'Meanwhile, I will notify the doctor that we suspect mischief afoot.
If he feels threatened, he will conjure the highest powers of the state in self-protection. Our mission is to protect his mission; that is what gives all this nobility as well as necessity.' it was a long flight. It was hard to find a cab. The city was rundown, seedy, like the worst parts of Little Rock, but it had crests of low mountains running through it. The local businesses seemed mostly to be pawn and doughnut shops, though car washes were numerous as well, and restaurants serving what Mexicans ate. But mainly: doughnuts. It was the cake doughnut capital of the universe, Earl thought.
But eventually, he got there, an even more run-down section of town, and he stepped out of the cab, felt the blast of heat, the movement of pedestrian traffic. He glanced about: palms stood, but they were far from the majestic ones he'd seen in the Pacific; these were bent down, brown at the edges, and looked as if they'd breathed in too much automobile exhaust for anybody's good. You could catch cancer from a palm like the sorry specimen that grew crookedly in a patch of dry dirt out here in the flats of an unlovely place called the San Fernando Valley, where Hy Hooper had his gun shop.
In the window it said: home of the.357 atomic!
Earl shook his head. Instinctively he didn't like California generally, and Los Angeles specifically, its brown hills, its sense of thickness filling the air, like they were burning rubber somewhere nearby, the arid little neighborhoods of bungalow amid burned-out shrubbery, its heat, but most of all: its showiness.
This was where they made the pictures, and Earl didn't like the pictures a bit, except for that John Wayne fellow or one or two other cowboy-style heroes. He could never remember their names. But there was something sinister about the picture business, and it seemed to have been reflected all through the Los Angeles he'd just traveled, and here it was again: the.357 atomic! What the hell would that be but some slightly jacked-up.357 Magnum, which had been around since '35, but now some slick boy was trying to make it showy by connecting it with the atom bomb!
Yet this is where he had to go. Grudgingly, carrying his valise, straightening his fedora, he stepped in. He found himself in what might be called more showiness yet: a cavern of guns.
There were guns everywhere. Unlike other gun stores, where the guns were in display cabinets, in this one they lay there, but not only there; hundreds, it seemed, had been mounted on the walls, and as Earl looked up, he saw that the guns rose to and spangled the ceiling as well. The low firmament was filled with cheap break-top.32s and.38s from the first part of the century, most of them looking unshootable and unsafe.
'Sort of takes your breath away, doesn't it?' asked the man behind the counter, who was florid and heavyset, with his hair slicked back. He had a cowboy belt on, much carved, with an elaborate silver buckle, and his khakis were cowboy-style as was his shirt, which had some kind of floral inscriptions on the chest. He wore a white Stetson and had a car-salesman's smile to him.
'Quite a few guns, I'd say,' said Earl.
'And you'd be Earl Swagger, I'm guessing. You look like someone who could handle one of these things.'
'Yes sir, I am. Mr. Hooper?'
'I am that, sir. Please, it's an honor to shake the hand of a Medal of Honor winner.'
He reached and Earl complied.
'You'd be surprised who drops by here once in a while. Why, just the other day I had a nice chat with Marsh Williams. You know him?'
'Fellow that designed the carbine?'
'Designed in prison no less. How's that for genius. He was up for manslaughter in North Caroline. To keep his mind free he concentrated on guns, which he knew well, and that way he figured out a way to get a semiauto into a much tinier amount of space than anything be fore. Six million M-l carbines later, he's a national hero. They say they're going to do a picture about Marsh, with Jimmy Stewart.'
'Won't that be a thing,' said Earl.
'Did you carry a carbine, Mr. Swagger?'
'No, Mr. Hooper. I was a tommy gun man. We did a lot of up-close work, and I liked the thump of the Thompson. I didn't mind a little extra weight for the extra thump. But you can bet a lot of our boys did. It was a right handy little number.'
Earl would keep his actual opinion of the carbine to himself.
'Then, Mr. John Wayne. I'm trying to get him to carry our.357 Atomic in his next Western picture. That'd really move them off the shelves.
But you didn't come to talk about picture stars, did you, Mr. Swagger?'
'Only the one I wrote you about, Mr. Hooper.' 'Well, like I told you on the phone, I know him well, and he's a fine young man. He's a wonderful young man, though he has a touch of that Irish melancholy to him. But I called him, and gave him the invite, and maybe he'll show and maybe he won't.'
The youngest of the old men, but also the oldest, was late, of course.
But not by much. Earl watched him arrive. He pulled up in some bright English sports car, red as blood, gleaming and slick. He wore sunglasses, a cowboy hat, an elaborate gentleman cowboy rig of buckskin coat and pressed dungarees, a white shirt with pearl buttons and a string tie, and finally a pair of handmade, three- hundred-dollar boots.
He looked like somebody playing at being a grown-up and the grown-up he was playing at being was Hoot Gibson.
He came in shyly, and Earl could sense reticence in him. He wasn't one of those fellows, like Hooper here, who grew larger in the presence of others. He grew smaller, waif like lost.
'Well, Audie,' said Hy Hooper, 'I'm glad you dropped by. This fellow's come a long way to meet you. He's one of your own kind.'
Even in his sunglasses, Audie Ryan wouldn't look at Earl. The older, larger man's presence seemed to have him unhinged a bit. There was quite a war going on between the California fancy cowboy swagger of his style, and the pale, diffident boy it concealed. Finally, he took off his glasses, and Earl saw almost a gal's eyes, soft and gentle and sensitive and a face startling in its beauty.
Hard to believe this little perfect angel was the most decorated soldier of the Second World War and had killed close to three hundred Germans, at least fifty of whom he got with a.50-caliber machine gun atop a burning tank destroyer as they came in to wipe out his unit and break out into our lines. He killed them all, and single- handedly drove back the tanks in support, and was given the Medal of Honor for that day's work, which was only one of many good days he'd had across Europe.
'Major Ryan,' said Earl, 'I'm Earl Swagger, sir. It's an honor to meet you.'
Audie Ryan smiled shyly, embarrassed. He almost giggled to be reminded of the rank at which he left the Army in 1946.
'Gee, Sarge,' he said, 'nobody's called me 'Major' in five years. It's just Audie. And I didn't do anything you didn't do, Sarge, from what I hear, so the honor's just as much mine as it is yours.'
'I think we were both lucky bastards,' said Earl, 'and the real heroes didn't make it back.'
'If I had a drink, I'd drink to that, as that's the truest thing I've heard in months.'
He had a soft accent from his native Texas, in whose northwest corner he'd grown up hard scrabble and poor, where it was his rifle alone that put meat on the table for a large, fatherless family. He learned to shoot well and early, and in the war his hunter's skills had paid their dividends.
'So, Sarge, Hy tells me you've got some sort of proposition or something?'
'That's right,' said Earl.
'Say, fellows,' said Hy Hooper, 'why don't you step on back and use the office.'
He led them back, and in the little room the heads of various beasts killed the world over stared at him. It reminded Earl of his father's study; his father had been a mighty hunter, too.
'You haven't got the buffalo back yet, Hy?' Audie asked.
'No, it takes a bit. I got back from Africa some weeks ago,' Hy explained to Earl. 'Took some fine trophies, including an eighty-four inch horn-spread Cape Buffalo.' 'Wow,' said Earl.
'Yep, proudest moment of my life, and listen to me talking about what I'm proud of in the presence of two men who've won the Medal of Honor.
I ought to be skinned alive. I'm butting out. You go ahead. There's Scotch and bourbon in the desk.'
He scurried out.
