I'll remember that tip if I ever play him,' said Nimmo. Come on, let's get out of here. Before the coastguard asks us to open our bags.'
Where to now?' asked Mothballs.
Colt Maurensig's place, on Gun Club Road.'
It figures,' said Rosselli.
Colt Maurensig's Gun Shop, in West Palm Beach, was a pueblo-style building of pink concrete near a liquor store and a do-it-yourself centre. Maurensig had used his Christian name and the prefix and suffix of his surname to make an acrostic featuring three popular makes of gun: Colt, Mauser, and Sig. Parked on the near-empty car lot, in front of the shop, was a 1957 Chevrolet Stepside pick-up truck bearing the same design as the gun shop window.
The four men in the Pontiac Bonneville pulled up and sat in the shade of the pick-up, waiting to see if anyone went in or came out of Maurensig's store. Finally, when Nimmo decided there could be no customers in the shop, he said, No one says a fuckin' word except me. You all got that? Nods all round. 'Mothballs? You and me'll go in first. Johnny? You and Sunshine give us ten minutes, and then come in, and when I give you the nod, close the store up. Okay?
A bell rang as Nimmo and Mothballs went through the door of the gun shop. Behind a wide glass counter that was home to an extended family of automatics and revolvers stood a man the size of a gun safe, with red hair and a beard, and forearms that were the colour and shape of two rifle stocks. The man, who was on the telephone, looked part hillbilly, part baresark Viking. Mothballs hung back by the door, browsing some cartridge belts.
Nimmo went up to the counter and, as the man came off the call, flipped open his old FBI shield, the one he had told the Bureau he had lost. Sometimes it came in handy, and this was such a time. He didn't want to get into an argument with this guy about being out of his proper jurisdiction: it was fifty years since Palm Beach had been part of Dade County.
What can I do for the FBI?'
Is your name Colt Maurensig?'
Yes, it is.'
I'd like you to take a look at this picture, sir.' Nimmo showed him a photograph of Tom Jefferson, and said, We're checking gun dealers throughout the state to see if anyone recognises him as someone who might have come in and bought something.'
I keep good records here. If you've got a name for that face, I can look him up and check if he purchased a firearm.'
No, we don't have a name,' lied Nimmo. Not yet. If you could just look at the picture, sir. And tell me if you recognise him.'
Maurensig took the picture in his fingers and shook his head slowly. Nope. Can't say that I do. What's he done, this fellow?'
He's an assassin. A marksman. He uses a rifle with a scope to shoot a man in the back, like a dirty stinking coward.' Nimmo pointed at the rack of rifles behind Maurensig's broad back. Same as one of those rifles probably. Winchester. Springfield. He's not particular how he murders someone.'
I just sell 'em, mister. Where they point them is their own affair.
Take another look, sir. I'd appreciate it.'
Insolently, Maurensig looked at one side of the picture and then the other. Handing it back to Nimmo, he said, He could be the Sliphorn King of Polarou for all I know, mister. I've never seen him before in my life.'
Nimmo nodded wearily and pocketed the picture. Well, thanks a lot for your time, sir. I appreciate it.' He rubbed the back of his head and sighed. I didn't mean to be short with you. Only, so far, we're not getting very far with this inquiry. It's been one of those days. Thank God it's a holiday tomorrow.'
I'm working. Thanksgiving tends to be a busy day for us. Some folks like to go over to Okeechobee and shoot duck, hogs, or wild turkey.'
On Thanksgiving? Seems kind of late in the day to be shooting your turkey, doesn't it?' Maurensig shrugged like he didn't care if they shot the last passenger pigeon. Listen,' said Nimmo, you couldn't do me a favour, could you? I'd pay you, of course. You see, I carry a Military and Police Smith and Wesson nineteen oh-five Model thirty- eight-calibre revolver. Would you mind if I showed it to you?'
Be my guest. Always happy to help the John Laws.'
Nimmo took out his weapon and laid it on the counter. As you can see it's a five-inch barrel. Now my partner over there, he carries a thirty-eight Special. The shorter barrel makes it easier to draw. Lighter, too. I was wondering if you might be able to cut this down to a two-and-a-quarter-inch barrel for me, while I wait. I'd sure appreciate it.'
As you can see, I'm none too busy this afternoon. I guess I could do that for you. Just cut the barrel, right? Only, to turn this firearm into a thirty-eight Special, I'd have to rechamber it to accept thirty-eight Special ammunition. And that's a lot of effort, for not much result. 'Sides, you can't change the diameter of the cylinder.
Sawn off and smoothed up would be just fine,' said Nimmo.
Okay,' shrugged Maurensig, and took the gun into the smithing shop in the back.
I really appreciate it,' said Nimmo, following. Strictly speaking, agents aren't supposed to customise a weapon. Otherwise I'd have one of our own armourers doing it. But everybody does.'
Maurensig sat down in front of a bench, unloaded the revolver, and then fixed it into a vice. Wish I had a dollar for every one of these I've seen,' he said. Largest-selling quality revolver ever produced.'
Never let me down yet.'
Sniffing the Sweet's Solvent out of the air, Nimmo started to look around. The smithing shop was littered with all kinds of specialist equipment: reloaders, case-cleaners, case-media separators, eliminator scales, and rifle rests.
Thirty-eight Special ammo's smaller in diameter, but slightly longer than standard. Maybe a little more accurate over a distance, but less stopping power.'
Oh, I'll trade stopping power for accuracy any day of the week.'
Nimmo's keen eyes alighted on a single bullet that was lying at the back of another workbench. Careful not to be observed by Maurensig, he picked it up and examined the sharp end of what turned out to be a 30.06-calibre cartridge, closely. Until 1954, the 30.06 had been the official US military cartridge, which made it as ubiquitous as Fords. Only this particular cartridge had been modified, and by someone who knew what they were doing. Most likely Maurensig himself had removed the original bullet and fitted a small red plastic shoe, or sabot, in order to hold a smaller-calibre slug inside the larger shell casing. Using an accelerator was, Nimmo knew, an old sniper's method for achieving a vast increase in a bullet's velocity and striking power. From his coat pocket, he took out the 30.06 bullet he had found in Tom Jefferson's house. It had the same red plastic casing as the one from Maurensig's workbench.
The bell in the shop rang again. Nimmo knew it was Rosselli and Sunshine, but he let Maurensig get up from the bench and go back out front. It gave him time to reclaim his thirty-eight, and reload it. Having bolstered his weapon, he followed Maurensig into the shop.
What can I do for you, gentlemen?'
Nimmo caught Rosselli's eye and nodded. Rosselli turned the open/closed sign around in the door, saying, Here, let me do it for you. You're closed for the afternoon.'
Sensing trouble, Maurensig was already reaching for the weapon he kept handy under the counter. Nimmo saw him. The little flat slapper he carried inside his jacket, which was a leather-covered lead billy with a spring just above the handle, was, even now, swinging through the air. The first time on Maurensig's outstretched wrist. The second time against his elbow. And the third time, on the back of his thick neck. The gun dealer hit the floor like Terry Molloy diving for the short money and a one-way ticket to Palookaville. Even before he stopped moving, his hands were cuffed behind his back. Rosselli, Mothballs, and Sunshine were all made men, which is to say that they were men who had killed other men, but even they were impressed by the speed and dexterity with which Nimmo had handled the big man.
I'm glad he's not holding my rap sheet,' Mothballs told Johnny.
Come on,' said Nimmo. Let's take him in the back.'
In the smithing shop, they found some rifle straps, tied the unconscious man to his chair, and waited for him
