“That’s the way my income tax will read,” Littlefield told him.
“Income tax?” Grofield stared at him. “You pay income tax?”
“On every penny.”
“I bet yourreturn shakes them up.”
“I account for every penny of income,” Littlefield told him, “but I am forced, of course, to invent my sources.”
“Why bother?”
Littlefield leaned closer to him. “You’re a young man, you can still learn. Pay attention to this. You can steal in this country, you can rape and murder, you can bribe public officials, you can pollute the morals of the young, you can burn your place of business down for the insurance money, you can do almost anything you want, and if you act with just a little caution and common sense you’ll never even be indicted. But if you don’t pay your income tax, Grofield, you will go to jail.”
“Oh, sure,” said Grofield. “Sure thing.”
“Parker knows I’m right. You pay tax, don’t you, Parker?”
Parker nodded. Under the Charles Willis name he owned pieces of a few losing businesses here and there and they gave him the background to cover his income on his tax return.
Grofield shook his head. “I don’t get it. You’re putting me on.
“Income tax is Federal,” Parker told him.
“So’s a bank, for Christ’s sake.”
“I don’t mean Federal offense, I mean Federal, whose money it is. A bank is stockholders, but income tax is government money.”
Pop Phillips said, “Those are words of wisdom, Grofield. I only fell twice, and once it was income tax. I got three years, and I’m still paying the back taxes. Why do you think I’m not retired?”
“I’ll put you on to my accountant,” Littlefield said. “He’ll get you straightened out.”
Grofield got to his feet, looking agitated. “That’s a lot of crap. Don’t talk to me about that. Income tax!”
Littlefield shrugged. “You’ll go to jail,” he said.
Parker saw Grofield getting mad, and said, “Back to business. We got a lot to set up tonight.”
3
“Machine guns,” said the blind man. “They’re expensive, machine guns.”
“I know,” said Parker.
“And hard to come by.”
“I know.”
“The government tries to keep tabs on them. It’s tough to find one without a history.”
“I need three. And three rifles. And eight handguns.”
“Rifles, handguns,” said the blind man. “No problem. Machine guns, that’s a problem.”
Parker shook his head in irritation, though the blind man couldn’t see it. He’d come to the blind man because he was the one to talk to if you wanted machine guns. Parker would have preferred to go to Amos Klee, in Syracuse, but Klee was only good on handguns. It was the blind man, called Scofe, who should be able to supply the machine guns.
Parker said, “You don’t have them? You can’t get them?”
“Sit,” said the blind man. “Sit, sit. Let me think.”
Parker sat, and let him think.
They were in the filthy back room of a cluttered hobby shop on Second Avenue in Albany, New York. Scofe owned the hobby shop, and it was run by a sloppy woman with red hair who didn’t trust anybody. The filth and the clutter and Scofe’s blindness and the woman’s surliness combined to keep customers at a minimum. Scofe didn’t need much to support himself anyway and he got most of his income from guns. He was good with his hands, could disassemble and reassemble a rifle faster than most men with eyes, and was even a good shot. He fired at sound targets, a small bell hung up in a breeze or his favorite kind of target a child’s toy of the click-click type.
Scofe scratched his chin. He hadn’t shaved for a few days, and his fingernails made a harsh dry sound against his beard stubble. He said, “Shotgun no good? I got good shotguns, sawed-off or what you want.”
“Machine guns. Three.”
“You know what the Germans call a machine gun? Kugelspritz. Bullet squirter. All noise, no accuracy.”
“Three.”
Scofe shrugged, and made a motion as though washing his hands. “Not my affair. I got a Schmeisser, a burp gun. Old, but in good condition.”
“That’s one.”
Scofe chuckled, his shoulders rising and falling. “Parker,” he said. “Parker, Parker. I hear you got a new face, but your voice don’t change, or your style. You don’t like me, do you, Parker?”
“I don’t give a damn about you.”
