'Gun-grabber,' one of the men called out. Tempted to confront them, Kerry hewed to the mission he had come for.
The stir of people noticing him rose to a din of protest. Moving down a corridor between two rows of tables, Kerry looked from side to side, feeling tension pass through him like a current from the hate-filled faces, the weaponry all around them—sniper rifles, handguns, swords, knives, bayonets, plastic guns designed to slip through magnetometers. One booth sold hand grenades; another hawked 'pre-banned AK-47s' and forty-round magazines; another offered freeze-dried survival rations and gas masks beneath the warning, 'You Can't Fight If You Can't Breathe.' A plethora of American flag decals competed with bumper stickers, one of which portrayed a black man anally penetrating another. 'Save Our Military' it admonished, 'Just Say No.'
'Patriotic,' Kit observed.
A crowd had massed around them. Behind a woman with two kids in a stroller, her mouth spitting venom he could not quite hear, Kerry spotted his objective in the dead center of the hall: a sign proclaiming 'Eagle's Claw Ammo.'
Imagining Bowden drawn by the words, Kerry felt his nerves twitch.
As the press of bodies slowly parted for the wedge of his security detail, Kerry moved forward. A bearded man stood behind a table displaying armor-piercing bullets; high-capacity magazines; and a row of black metal guns labeled, 'Lexington P-2—The Patriot's Weapon of Choice.' Beside him was a life-size cardboard image of Kerry and Lara with concentric circles imprinted on their chests.
Secret Service agents encircled the table. The Minicam followed Kerry toward its proprietor and his wares. 'Go back to Washington,' someone shouted, his rasp audible in the growing silence.
Stopping at the table, the President examined a forty-round clip; boxes of Eagle's Claw bullets; bumper stickers which read, 'Kilcannon— American Traitor,' and 'Lara—Traitor Bitch'; a tape on a portable television demonstrating how to convert the P-2 to automatic fire. As Kerry watched, the converted handgun vaporized a pile of watermelons into a spew of pink juice. G
At last, Kerry turned to the seller.
The rictus of a smile twitched on the man's face—agitated, hostile and sickly. Silent, Kerry scooped up a box of Eagle's Claw bullets in the palm of his hand.
He waited until the man's gaze was drawn to the box. With a soft underhand flip, Kerry tossed it in his face.
Startled, the man caught the box inches from his eyes. 'Lucky,' Kerry told him. 'You had time.'
The man's eyes flickered toward the camera. Kerry took a Lexington P-2 and pressed it into his other hand. 'Three hours ago you sold a friend of mine two boxes of Eagle's Claw bullets, a forty-round clip, and a Lexington P- 2—exactly what John Bowden bought. And you never asked his name, or anything about him.'
The man would not—or could not—respond. Stepping behind the table, Kit Pace lifted the cutout of the President and First Lady and laid it across the pile of bullets. 'But it seems you know who I am,' Kerry said. 'How much do you want for us?'
Still the man did not speak. Reaching into his pocket, Kerry pulled out his wallet and placed some twenties on the table. 'Tell me if you think it's not enough.'
Mute, the seller stared at the green bills. Then Kerry tucked the cardboard cutout under his arm, and turned away.
* * *
At home, Frank Fasano watched the last few minutes, telephone propped to his ear. 'Guerrilla theater,' Dane was saying. 'Most people will see this stunt for what it is—a President and his thugs, bullying Americans who believe in the Second Amendment for cheap political gain.'
But the SSA president sounded unsettled. On CNN, Kilcannon departed through the rows of weaponry, Lara's cardboard face still visible beneath his arm. Fasano had the sense of a conflict slipping out of control.
'What most people will remember,' he answered, 'is a man standing up for his wife and her murdered family. What's the antidote to that?'
Dane was silent. 'Trust me,' he answered with a renewed calm that Fasano found unnerving. 'There is one.'
* * *
In the limousine, Kerry gazed out the window. Softly, he said, 'He could have been the seller.'
The ATF would question him, of course. But Kerry might never know.
'You did enough,' Kit answered. 'At least for one day.'
EIGHT
For Frank Fasano, the first harbinger of change was Senator Betsy Shapiro.
A somewhat imperious moderate Democrat from California, Betsy had been caught between her advocacy of gun control and her ties to the high-tech overlords of Silicon Valley, an important base of financial support, for whom tort reform was fundamental protection from shareholder suits. Fasano had expected her to split the difference by supporting both Kilcannon's gun bill and Fasano's tort reform measure. But the film clip of Kilcannon confronting the seller dominated the morning news in a seemingly endless loop. When Fasano looked up from the color photo of Kilcannon at the gun show on the front page of the
As usual, Betsy looked buttoned-down, her dark brown coif as disciplined and controlled as she was. In
Across from him at the breakfast table, a weary Bernadette held Frank Junior, his small head with its sparse black hair resting at her breast. 'I'm not sure what I think about the politics,' she told her husband. 'Or the law. But that target of the Kilcannons was disgusting.'
That, Fasano thought, captured neatly what Betsy Shapiro was reacting to; with a stroke of intuition, Kilcannon had reduced gun immunity from the abstract to the personal. 'Anyone who makes or sells that kind of stuff is crazy,' he agreed. 'But that's got nothing to do with tort reform.' Excusing himself, he went to his den and called Lance Jarrett.
It was only six o'clock in California, but—as Fasano had known he would be—the president of the world's largest chipmaker was up and running. 'Is this about Betsy?' Jarrett asked gruffly.
'Yup. She seems to have forgotten you.'
'Betsy Shapiro hates guns,' Jarrett said. 'So do a lot of Californians. All your pro-gun, pro-life crap doesn't sell too well out here.'
Fasano laughed softly. 'As opposed to all your pro-business,
anti-tree-hugger stuff? We appreciate your financial support, Lance. But if we want to control Congress, we need to turn out votes in states you fly over on the way to St. Moritz—like Kansas or Maine or Arkansas— where pro-gun and conservative Christian voters make a difference. As for California, you've tried to play it safe by backing Democrats like Betsy. It's time to see if your strategy pays off.'
'In other words,' Jarrett rejoined, 'you want me to lean on our senior senator.'
'You're one of her leading fund-raisers. She might appreciate knowing how you feel, and hearing from your
