Blossom

'A pistol.'

'A pistol? What's that supposed to mean, pistol? I got more kinds of pistols than you've had birthdays. Give me the specs. Or give me the job, I'll pick one out for you.'

'Revolver. No more than three-inch. Thirty-eight or .357. Blue. Something decent, a Colt or a Smith. Ice- cold.'

'You want this for…?'

'Protection. Protection I can carry around with me.'

'Look, man, you're talking Stone Age stuff. Take a look at this little piece of perfection.' He opened one of the suitcases on the floor next to him. Came out with a dull gray automatic. 'This here's a Glock, ever hear of it? Designed by an Austrian. The guy's a genius, not a gunsmith. Started with a blank piece of paper. Plastic undercarriage, metal frame. Takes nine-millimeter ammo. Any nine-millimeter, see?' He held up a bullet, black-tipped. 'You know what this is?'

'Uzi.'

'Right you are, my friend. You put high-pressure submachine slugs like this in a regular semi-auto, you blow it up in your hand. But not the Glock. Holds sixteen rounds, fast as you can pull them off.'

'Automatics jam.'

'Bullshit. Some automatics jam. I do all the work myself. Custom. You got my personal guarantee.'

I didn't waste time explaining to him how I'd have trouble getting my money back if his toy jammed. 'I'm not going to be in a gunfight,' I told him.

His eyes shifted but his expression didn't change. 'Okay, I understand. I recommend you take the Glock, plus this Wilson suppressor I just happen to have machined for it. Instead of the Uzi ammo, we switch to subsonics. Makes a little pop, that's all. Never draw a crowd.'

'I appreciate it, but I got to use what I'm familiar with, okay? You got any revolvers in that case?'

'Three-inch max?'

'Yeah.'

He rummaged around. 'How about this? Ruger Speed-Six. I modified the trigger pull myself. It's so smooth you won't feel it go home even in double-action.'

I took the piece from him. Black rubber handgrips, blue steel. Looked new.

'This been around?'

'Virgil, you tell your brother anything about me or what? The pieces of this weapon, they've been around, you understand what I'm saying to you? This little unit has been hand-assembled from a wide range of similar units. Made it myself, from parts. You finish with this one, you mail it to the ATF, they won't be able to do nothing with it.'

'How much?'

'A piece like this, new, maybe four hundred retail.'

'But you don't sell retail.'

'Sure, I sell retail. I got me an FFL and everything. But over the counter, you know, there's a lot of paperwork. Besides, I got a lot of custom labor in this piece, like I told you.'

'So?'

'Seven-fifty. And I'll throw in a box of Plus P, hundred and fifty-eight grain. That's about all you want to load in this baby.'

I dragged on my cigarette. Some dealers like the bargaining part. This guy wasn't that kind— all you could do was wait him out.

'Or maybe you'd rather have an assortment. I got a few hand-loaded thirty-eights here. Mercury tips, hollow points, full metal jacket…'

'Got some wad cutters?'

'You got to be very close for those.'

'I understand.'

'We got a deal?'

I ground out my smoke. 'Tell you what. Why don't we make it an even grand. For the pistol, some ammo, and some advice.'

'I like it.'

I handed over the money in hundreds. He eye-counted it, passed me the pistol, sorted through his collection of shells, filled a box.

I lit another smoke. 'You hear anything about those sniper killings over in Indiana? The Lovers' Lane Killer, the papers call him?'

'Yeah.' Waiting.

'Let's say, just for a minute, that we know something about the guy who did it, all right? Let's say he's a Rambo freak. Lives at home, don't get out much. Likes to play dress-up in camo gear, that kind of thing. He's not military, not a cop. Not a merc either. Probably no training, no contacts, okay?'

'I'm with you.'

'So he's probably buying mail-order. He wouldn't have the cash for a really quality piece. What would he have?'

Arnold's face flickered, computing. 'Got to be one of those 'assault rifles,'' he sneered. 'Which is just about anything with a Kalashnikov action. The caliber isn't the problem. Damn near has to be .223. Could be Russian, Chinese, even Brazilian. Everybody makes a knockoff of the original. But your guy, he'd want the look, okay?'

'The look?'

'Like high-tech, man. Dark and evil. I figure him for a Mini-14 with all the goodies. Black plastic stock, flash suppressor, maybe even a bipod on the front for prone-position fire. Maybe an AR-15 but…I like the Mini. You can get 'em anywhere, real cheap.'

'Through the mail?'

'Hell, yes. Buy all the camo gear he wants too, boots to hats. Underwear, he wants it. The Mini, it'll take anything from twenty rounds up. Up to a hundred, he wants to go with a drum.'

'Silencer?'

'Now that's a different game, man. You can buy books on how to make them, but a good one, one that'd work, he'd have to know somebody. That .223 stuff, it pulls a high harmonic. Like a crack, you know? Not a boom.'

'Arnold, let me ask you one more question, okay? You sell a rig like the one we're talking about here in the last few months?'

'Oh, man. I don't sell junk.'

'But if some guy had only so much cash…?'

'Guy like you're asking about, he wouldn't know where to find me.'

76

WHEN WE CAME back to the table, Blossom and Rebecca had their heads together, whispering. We sat down. The waitress brought Virgil a bottle of beer, looking a question at me. I shook my head no.

Virgil looked at his watch. 'We need to pull out of here in a few minutes. There's another band coming on— we don't want to walk out in the middle of their set. Wouldn't look right.'

Blossom rested her fingertips lightly on my forearm as we walked to the car.

Just before we crossed into Indiana, Rebecca spoke from the back seat. 'Want to visit with us a bit, have some coffee?'

'Blossom has to work early tomorrow morning,' I told her.

The blonde woman's voice was sweet and soft. 'I'm a big girl now. I can get myself up in the morning.'

Virgil laughed. 'You as smooth as ever, Burke.'

I caught his eyes in the mirror. The Prof was right— once a Hoosier, always a Hoosier.

Blossom curled in her seat, looking out the window.