“Commonwealth Guns.”
Strange drove for another mile or so, found a cut in the median strip intended for official use only, and made an illegal turn. He drove north and made the same kind of turn a mile past the store. He drove into the graveled lot and parked beside the Avalon. These were the only two cars in the lot, and anyway, there wasn’t any place to hide his car. If the young man hadn’t made him yet, he’d be all right.
Strange walked about fifty yards up a path to the house. He stepped onto the front porch, where a Harley Softail was chained and padlocked to a post. He entered the shop.
It had the feel of a sportsman’s store at first glance. The displays showed rods, bows, and knives, in addition to rifles and shotguns. Signs supporting gun ownership and gun owners’ rights were hung on all the walls. Accessories, holsters, and cleaning kits crowded the aisles. The aisles led to the destination point, a glass case in the back of the store.
Strange went directly to the case. The young man and his companion were there, looking down at the handguns housed under the glass. A little white man stood behind the case. He greeted Strange and told him he’d be with him as soon as he finished with these folks. Strange told him to take his time. The young man glanced over, perhaps only registering Strange’s size, gender, and race, and returned his attention to the guns.
Strange stayed to the right side of the case and examined its contents. The guns seemed to be arranged by type and caliber, with brands kept together and graduated by price. Davis and Lorcin went to Taurus, S amp;W, and Colt; Hi-Point went to Beretta, Glock, Browning, Ruger, Sig Sauer, and Desert Eagle. Derringers moved into revolvers and then on to automatics. The highly priced, coveted Dan Wesson revolvers, long-barreled.357s and.44 Mags, were set off from the rest.
The young man was holding a Taurus revolver, hefting it in his hand.
“It’s meant to be heavy,” said the little man. “Thirty-four ounces, most of it’s in the barrel. Soft rubber grip. Good stopping power. Similar to what the police used to use before they went over to autos. Your basic thirty-eight special. This here is one of my most popular models. Perfect for protection. All those home invasions you hear about – in the city, I mean. I can’t keep these in stock.”
Strange knew the police pitch was intended to sell the young man. The rest was just bullshit. The little man wore an automatic holstered on his waist. It looked large on his narrow hips. Strange figured that big motorcycle outside was his, too. Big gun, big bike, little man. Wasn’t anything surprising about that.
“How much?” said the young man.
“Two ninety-five for the blue finish. The stainless will run you another fifty.”
“I’ll take the blue.”
“It’s for you?”
“Nah, it’s for her.”
The young woman smiled. She was pretty and looked innocent enough. Strange wondered if she knew, exactly, what she was doing. If she thought this was just a favor for her boyfriend, or if she imagined herself to be a player in some kind of adventure.
“You’re a Virginia resident, right, sweetheart? Over twenty-one?”
“Yeah,” said the girl.
“You’ll need to fill out a form, and then I have to call it in. Instant check. I can have you out of here in ten minutes. The government hasn’t screwed that part up yet, not in the commonwealth, anyway.”
The little man got the form, and while the young woman was filling it out, he approached Strange.
“Can I answer any questions for you quick?”
“I’m lookin’ for some home protection myself. But right now I’m just scouting around.”
“I’ll be finished up here soon and we can talk.”
Strange resumed his browsing. The little man was right. Didn’t take but ten minutes after the girl had filled out the form, and the transaction was nearly done. The part left was the money. The young man removed some large bills from his wallet and handed them to the girl, who paid the merchant and got a receipt. Then they walked out of the shop with a handgun and a box of ammunition.
Obviously the gun was for the young man. He had paid for it with his own money in plain sight. But the form had been filled out by the girl, who was of age and had no prior convictions. That was all that was required for the two of them to make the straw purchase. The merchant had done nothing illegal and technically had obeyed every law. Another handgun would now be circulated in D.C. It would end up being used, most likely, in some kind of violent crime.
“Now,” said the little man, coming back to Strange. “What can I do for you?”
“Nothing,” said Strange, looking into the man’s eyes.
Strange left the shop.
QUINN tailed McKinley to the house on Yuma and kept driving as the Benz came to a stop. There wasn’t a turnoff nearby, and he had gotten too close to their car. The only option was to keep moving, just plow straight on ahead.
Passing by the Benz, Quinn did not look their way. But he felt the eyes of McKinley and his sidekick on him as he went by. It wasn’t a surprise to Quinn that he’d been made. Strange had been riding him to get a work vehicle less conspicuous than his Chevelle for some time now. And he was white. Unless he was some kind of cop, or buying drugs, there was no good reason for him to be in this part of town. Still, he was angry at himself for not paying full attention to the street layout as he’d neared their house.
Quinn looked in his rearview as he prepared to make a left at the next corner. McKinley was getting out of the passenger side of the vehicle, staring at the Chevelle.
Quinn punched the gas, going up 9th. He headed for the salon off Good Hope Road.
The strip center was quiet as Quinn entered the lot. He parked his car two rows away from the salon, facing it. From this space he could look through its plate glass storefront. Even with his poor long vision, he could make out the tiny owner, talking on the phone. The Stokes girl was there, looked like she was working on a customer. He could see her son, walking around and then dropping to the floor, in there, too. All of them were secure in the shop. It didn’t look to Quinn that the girl or her boy was in any kind of danger.
Those couple of hours of weekday activity, people getting off work and grabbing groceries and fundamentals on their way home, had come and gone. Until now, Quinn had not even noticed that the day had passed. The rumble in his stomach told him that he had not eaten anything since the meeting at the diner. The sun was dropping fast, lengthening the shadows in the parking lot as it fell.
The customer came out of the shop, examining her nails in the last light of day before dusk. She walked out into the lot and got into an old green Jag. Quinn sat for a little while longer, then phoned Strange.
“Derek here.”
“Where you at?”
“Someplace on Richmond Highway, near the city. I’ll tell you where I been when I see you. I’m gonna catch the Beltway and come around now. Where are
“Baby-sitting Stokes, like you told me to. McKinley’s at his place on Yuma.”
“Was wondering when you were gonna make that connection.”
“I’ll be there in about a half hour.”
“I’m gonna roll over to Naylor, check on that Welles lead.”
“Your call. You think the girl’s okay, go ahead.”
“Looks like business as usual in there. She looks fine.”
“I’ll meet you back there, then,” said Strange. “In the lot.”
