had anything but syntho-gin for as long as I can remember.' He took a hearty pull, brought the bottle down, and stared at the label admiringly. 'V.S.O.P. What the hell's that mean?'
'It means it's worth its weight in diamonds,' Hamp said. 'Cloddies like us can't afford it. It's forced on me by admiring women who lust for my body. I brought it along as medicine—never know when I might get sick. How about the range, Tom?'
Tom had finished screwing the shorter aluminum rod into the back of the breech. It stuck out at a shallower angle, so that the two rods looked like two sides of a narrow triangle. Joe handed him the short, curved base, padded with holes drilled into it near both ends. There was no threading now. Tom simply inserted the aluminum rods in the holes and gave the base a whack with the heel of his right hand, driving it tightly home.
He said to the black, 'It's not important. This scope we've got is an Auto-Range. Latest thing. Combines a range finder with a regular telescopic sight. No sweat. Hand me that silencer, Joe.'
'You're sure?' Hamp said, pushing the back of his left hand over his mouth.
'Sure I'm sure,' the other told him. 'Take a minute or so to get it all sighted in again.'' He took the long tube Joe handed over and began screwing it into the barrel. It projected about a foot and a half when he had it tightly fitted. The silencer was about two and a half times the diameter of the barrel.
Tom said, 'Where'd you get this sweetheart, Hamp? It's a handmade work of art.'
'News reporter I used to know. Used to collect offbeat guns. He picked it up in one of the bush wars over in Africa. Assassin gun. For all I know, it's the only one ever made.'
'He was crazy, giving this away,' Tom said. 'It's a real collector's item.'
Joe handed him the telescopic sight. There were grooves gouged into the metal top of the barrel. The Indian carefully eased the sights into them. On the top and right-hand side of the instrument were small vernier screws for adjusting the crossed hairs inside the scope.
'Where's the fuckin' trigger?' Tom said, holding out his hand.
'Mind your fuckin' language,' the Chicano told him. 'I'm a lady on my mother's side.' He brought forth from one of the attache cases a twirl of tissue paper, unwrapped it, and handed the contents over.
The sliver of a trigger was slightly curved and there were threads on one end. Tom Horse began screwing it into place below the breech.
'Why couldn't that have been built in?' Joe said.
The Indian took up the assembled gun and handled it admiringly. 'Same reason there's no protruding bolt. This whole thing is constructed to disassemble into parts that any man could carry around while wearing an overcoat. Most of it would go into deep pockets. The barrel would be the only thing that's clumsy. You'd have to suspend it from your belt, or maybe by a strap under your shoulder.'
Hamp took another slug of the cognac and looked at his watch. He said, 'The governor and his committee ought to be showing up any time. Let's move this table over to the window.'
While the others were doing that, Tom went to one side of the room and selected a straight chair. He put the chair next to the end of the table, which now stood against the middle window, and took from one of the attache cases a very light, bipod rifle support. It was of aluminum, held in place by an elastic strap. He slipped it over the end of the rifle and its attached silencer.
He said to the black, 'How does it look now, Hamp?'
Hamp had his monoscope to his eye again. 'Wizard. They're filing onto the speaker's stand, everybody shaking hands and smiling at each other. Very jolly. They've really got a turnout. The crowd must have come from all over the county.'
'The more the merrier,' Joe growled. 'Bastards will have something to see this time.'
Hamp said, 'Now here's the setup, one last time, Tom, just to be sure. The speaker's stand is about twenty- five feet high. Old Drive 'Em Out Teeter stands way above the assembled mob so that they have to throw their heads back to gawk at him. He likes to speak with a rail before him so he can lean on it and thump it from time to time. Somewhere along the line he must have seen some of the old historic films of Mussolini hassling the wops from his balcony.'
'All right, all right,' Tom said impatiently, bringing forth from one of the attache cases a black rubber block in which were stuck three long, pointed cartridges. They were of small caliber but necked down from a large casing. He pulled one round out and put it on the table next to him. The brass casing gleamed softly in subdued light.
Hamp was saying, 'Teeter doesn't like to speak directly into a mike. Instead, he has two of them hooked into the railing to each side of him, about two meters apart.'
'Right,' Tom muttered, brushing the window curtain slightly to one side so that he could see up the street. 'So I focus a meter beyond the mike nearest us.'
Hamp pushed his left hand over his mouth again. 'Wizard.'
Joe had stationed himself at the window behind where the Indian was setting up his assassin rifle. He said, 'You better get your ass in a hustle. Here comes the chairman.'
'Plenty of time,' Tom said evenly.
Hamp took up the small bottle of brandy, now nearly empty, and took a quick swig before setting it down on the table. Tom shot him a disapproving glance but said nothing.
The Indian glued his right eye to the telescopic sight. It had already been sighted in, but he reached out delicately and adjusted the focus. The chairman's face leapt into clarity before him.
The marksman took the nub of the bolt in his thumb and index finger and gave it a counterclockwise twist, pulling the bolt back in its groove to reveal the trough for the long bullet. He took up the cartridge and inserted it, thumbed the bolt back home and flicked it clockwise, smoothly locking it into place.
He settled comfortably into his chair, pushed the curtain of the window back a little more.
'Open it,' he said softly.
Hamp pushed the window up sufficiently to make room for firing.
The Indian snuggled into position behind the scope eyepiece. 'All right, Governor Teeter, last of the racist rabble-rousers,' he murmured softly. 'You've sounded off once too often.'
On the outskirts of the teeming crowd which had gathered to hear Teeter, two blacks stood inconspicuously in the shade of an ancient live oak, near the trunk. From their distance, the white-clad speaker was hardly distinguishable, but the loudspeaker system brought his words clearly enough and his fist-shaking gestures of emphasis could not be misunderstood.
One of the blacks said softly, 'Old Drive 'Em Out is in full voice today. I'm beginning to suspect he doesn't like bloods.'
Without warning, the figure on the speaker's stand came to a shocked stiffening; red blossomed out in a large blot on his white shirt. He staggered for a moment and then slowly crumbled, falling out of sight.
One of the blacks shook his head. 'Drunk as a lord,' he said.
The other surreptitiously brought a transceiver from his pocket, activated it, and said softly, 'Bullseye.' He put the communication device back into his pocket and said urgently, 'Let's get the hell out of here, Jackie.'
In the run-down apartment, Hamp picked up the assassin rifle by its fore end, its bipod still hanging free, and took it into the bedroom. He pulled the bipod off, held up the aged mattress with one hand, and stuck the gun and stand under it. He smoothed out the bed neatly and returned to the other two.
Joe said, in deprecation, 'It won't take them long to find that.'
'Who cares?' Hamp said. 'It's untraceable.'
He picked up the rubber container holding the two unspent rounds and dropped it into a side pocket, then took the small flask of brandy. After offering it to both Tom and Joe Zavalla, who shook their heads, he finished it. 'Let's drag ass,' he said.
He unlocked the door, let them precede him, and then relocked it. They headed for the stairs, unhurried as before. They'd left the cane and attache cases behind.
Down in the parking lot, they stopped before a waste receptacle, stripped the gloves from their hands, and dropped them in. Hamp also discarded the empty bottle and the unused ammunition after wiping them.
They got into their hovercar, all three in front, the black driving, and unhurriedly left the parking area.
They emerged onto the main street and headed away from the park where the rally had been taking place. Even at this distance, they could hear the swell of shouts and screams, though almost drowned by police sirens.
'Couldn't have happened to a nicer guy,' said Joe, who was sitting by the window, his vague smile on his lips.
