He believed her. He walked to her, took her hand, and they started toward the house. 'Stay with Little Sam. You have your pistol; you know how to use it.'
There was no fear in the tall young man. He had faced the Beasts before. He had faced almost everything Satan could hurl at him in black fury. And he had been victorious. While it was something he hoped he would never have to do again, if it had to be, then so be it.
In his heart, Sam had always known he would be called upon to fight again.
Sam unlocked his gun cabinet. Chief of Police Draper had visited the Balon house several times, enjoying the young man's company for one thing, but the main reason for the visits was that the young man fascinated Monty. He had no past that police computers could punch up, other than the most mundane. And Monty Draper, with a cop's instinct, knew there was much more to Sam Balon.
Chief of Police Draper always shook his head and clucked his tongue at the sight of Sam's arsenal. He was like any good liberal New Yorker who had grown up under the most asinine of gun control laws: The Sullivan Act. While Sam displayed no illegal weapons (those were carefully hidden), the weapons visible were awesome. Of course a cap pistol is frightening to many screaming liberals.
Sam was his father's image, physically and mentally. He stood well over six feet tall, stocky, with a naturally heavy musculature. His hair was dark brown and usually unmanageable. His jaw square. And he despised even the thought of any type of gun control.
'If I ever need a one-man riot squad,' Monty had remarked dryly, 'I certainly know where to come.'
'At your service, Chief,' Sam had cheerfully replied.
His curiosity heightened by the sight of the most impressive arsenal he'd seen since leaving the NYPD, Chief Draper ran—or attempted to run—a check on the young man named Sam Balon.
He found out what almost anyone could have discovered. The young man had graduated from high school in Whitfield, Nebraska (why did that name ring some sort of bell in Monty's mind, he wondered?) Sam had been an honor student, his mother a teacher, his step-father a doctor. His real father had been killed back in 1958. Sam Balon King—he had since dropped the King—had spent three years in the army, a member of the Rangers.
And there the information stopped. Dead. Cold.
Monty had run into a stone wall.
He called old friends on the NYPD and asked them to run young Mr. Sam Balon. Run him hard, push for answers. Call in markers if they had to.
He received a phone call late that same afternoon from a precinct captain.
'Monty,' the captain had shouted in his ear through the long lines. 'What the goddamn hell are you trying to pull up there in that hick town?'
Monty was speechless for a few seconds. 'Captain—what do you mean?' Monty had known the man for years.
'Sam Balon King. That's what I mean. Why are you running this guy so hard?'
Monty came very close to losing his temper. 'Well—goddamn it, Captain, because I want a make on him, that's why.'
'Not good enough, Monty.' The man was adamant. 'What's the guy done to warrant all this attention?'
Monty had never before encountered this much stonewalling. 'Nothing,' he admitted. 'That I can prove. Except he's got the finest collection of guns I've ever seen in the hands of any civilian. Especially one this young.'
Down in New York City, the captain's sigh was audible up in Logandale. 'Monty, my boy, listen to me. I won't bullshit you. Get off this young man's back. I've had CID and CIA and FBI and NSC people all over my ass this afternoon. Whatever this Sam Balon King did in the paratroops, it was something special.'
'Rangers,' Monty corrected.
'Haw?'
'The guy was in the Rangers, Captain.'
'I thought those people took care of trees!'
'I think these Rangers eat the goddamn trees, Captain.'
'It wouldn't surprise me, Monty.'
'And they are trained to kill.'
Another long sigh from the Big Apple. 'Yeah? Well, so are Green Berets, marine Raiders, navy Seals, and lots of other service people. Not to mention the Mafia and other assorted crazies running around. Whatever, Monty. This kid is to be left
'You can't tell me anything else, Captain?'
'No.'
'Can't, or won't?'
'Take your pick, Chief.'
'Good talking to another member of the law enforcement field, Captain.'
The line went dead.
So the mystery—if there was any mystery about Sam Balon, and Monty felt there was—was never cleared up to Monty's satisfaction. But it would be cleared up. Shortly.
