ostentatious homes above the town. The town was expensive faux western with wooden sidewalks and places with names like The Rattlesnake Cafe and the Coyote Grill. There was a three-story hotel that called itself The Jack Rabbit Inn. It had a wide front porch. Inside, the first floor had a registration desk, a restaurant and a bar in the lobby. To the right of the registration desk there was an open stairway leading up to the bedrooms. My room was one flight up and my window looked down on the main drag. The street was nearly empty. A man and woman wearing cowboy hats over two-hundred-dollar haircuts crossed the street below my window. They got into a Range Rover complete with brush gear. The spirit of the old West.
One of Spenser's rules of detection is: Never poke around on an empty stomach. So I unpacked, got my gun, and went down for a club sandwich and a draft beer at the near-empty bar in the lobby. The bartender was a slim guy with a ponytail. He was wearing a western-style shirt, and kept himself busy slicing lemons and putting them in a jar.
'I hear you have some trouble around here,' I said.
He stared at me as though I had just told him I was going to shoot myself in the forehead.
'Like what?' he said.
'Like the gang from the Dell,' I said.
'I don't know anything about it,' he said.
'You know The Preacher?' I said.
'Nope.'
'Guy named Steve Buckman got killed awhile back. You know what happened?'
'You a cop or something?'
'Or something,' I said.
'I already told Dean all I know-which is nothing.'
'Dean?'
'The chief of police.'
'So you don't know anything,' I said. 'Got any guesses?'
'No.'
The bartender went back to his lemons. I finished the club sandwich.
'Do you know how to make a vodka gimlet?' I said.
The bartender finished slicing a lemon and looked up at me.
'Sure,' he said. 'You want one?'
I got up from the bar.
'No,' I said. 'I just wanted to end the conversation on a positive note.'
Outside, the heat was astonishing. I walked past a sporting goods store with fishing rods and nets and waders and tackle boxes in the window. I went in and felt the welcome shock of the air-conditioning. The front of the store was devoted to fishing tackle and hunting knives. In the back it was guns. There was a rack of expensive hunting rifles across the back wall. Along the side wall was an array of shotguns. And in the glass display case under the counter was a collection of big-caliber single-action western-style handguns. There were elaborate tooled leather gunbelts and holsters for sale. And ammunition and self-loading equipment and cleaning kits.
The clerk wore a red plaid shirt with a string tie held by a silver clip. I leaned my forearms on the counter above the handgun display.
'Sell many of these?' I said.
'Some.'
'I'm new around here. What do I need to have in order to buy a handgun?'
'Proof of residency,' the clerk said. 'Like a driver's license.'
'Same for the long guns?' I said.
'You bet. Care to look at anything?'
'My driver's license is from another state,' I said.
'We can ship anything you buy to a dealer in your area.'
'Who buys the handguns?'
The clerk frowned.
'Hell,' he said. 'I don't know. They got a local driver's license, I sell them a gun. I don't care who they are. Why would I?'
'No reason,' I said. 'I was just wondering who would want to pack one of these Howitzers.'
The clerk shrugged.
'Maybe the guy who killed Steve Buckman,' I said.
'He was shot with a nine,' the clerk said.
'By whom?'
The clerk shrugged. 'Why you asking me?'
