made?”
I momentarily paused on the batter-covered thigh. “New Jersey.”
She began placing the folders, clipboards, and paraphernalia on the desk. She fanned the information she’d gathered across the surface and placed her chicken container on her lap, taking the lid off and sipping her iced tea. She never used a straw. “Italy. The damn things are made in northern Italy by some firm called Pedersoli.”
“Sounds dirty.” That got a look. I continued to eat.
She picked up a breast. “What?”
“Only thing I know about Italian war rifles is you can buy ’em cheap, never fired, only dropped once.” She cocked an eyebrow and bit into her own chicken. “Sorry, old World War II joke.” She stuck a hand out, and I tore off a paper towel. “It’s chess night with Lucian; got me thinking about it.” I nodded toward the desk. “What’ve you got, other than a nation of origin?”
She got that predatory look on her face, unimpeded by the way she was dismembering the poor chicken. “There are a few made in this country, the most famous being the Shiloh Sharps made up in Big Timber.”
“New Jersey?”
“Montana.” Her eyes flattened. “Are you going to behave so we can get through this in a reasonable amount of time?”
“What happened to your good mood?”
She wiped her fingers off on her pants and picked up one of the clipboards. “My boss gave me this shitty job to do.” She took another sip of her tea. “The Shiloh version is the top of the line, with a waiting list of about four years. The only one sold in our area as far back as registration goes is one to a Roger Russell, about two years ago.” I stopped chewing. “Bingo?”
“He’s on Omar’s short list, and he was in the bar the night you called.”
“Really? Who else is on the list?”
“I think me, but I’m not sure.”
She looked back at the clipboard. “Well, your name didn’t come up.”
“And Roger Russell?”
“Special ordered his from the Sportshop here in town, 45–70 caliber. Mean anything?”
“I’ll go talk to David Fielding; I was going to anyway.” Dave would be a better source of information concerning a particular caliber in the area than the FBI and ATF combined.
“Then Roger Russell?”
“Among others.”
She turned the plastic spork in her mouth, pulling it out to speak. “Sounds like Omar’s list is bothering you.”
I took a deep breath and was amazed at how quickly the weight of my chest forced the air out. “A little.”
“Who else is on it?” I told her as she worked on another piece of chicken. “Considering our earlier conversation, the Indian suspects worry me the most.” I agreed. “You’re going to have to get a federal search warrant to go out there.”
“You know, Balzac once described bureaucracy as a giant mechanism operated by pygmies.”
“What’d your buddy Balzac have to say about inadmissible evidence?”
“Not a lot. I think he considered the subject beneath him.” She shook her head as I continued to smile at her. “What else you got?”
“We’ve got a few registered bona fides.”
“Antiques and curio weapons?”
“Do you believe Omar has his registered?”
“That would be the insurance thing we talked about.”
“Mike Rubin was one.”
“Well that’s two on our list.” I put my chicken down and wiped my hands. “It’s really going to piss me off if Omar turns out to be right.”
“At least you don’t have to go on a fucking picnic with the prick this afternoon. What time am I supposed to be out there?”
I looked at my pocket watch. “Three.”
I didn’t catch the look, because by the time I got back to her she had returned to the clipboard; the coleslaw spork jutted from the corner of her mouth like a fishing lure. “You really did miss me.”
It was true. I had.
I parked the Bullet in front of the Sportshop. I was damned if I was going to be caught walking on Main Street again, it was too emotionally dangerous. I passed the fishing department, went through the acres of fleece wear, and stopped in front of the center counter. There was a skinny, redheaded kid reading the Courant, and it took a while for him to notice me. I was the only other person in the place. “Can I help you?”
“Dave around?”
“He’s in the back.” I waited. “Do you want me to go get him?”
“If you would.” He looked uncertain. “Don’t worry, I won’t steal anything.” He rounded the corner and hightailed it for the stock room.
I looked over at the gun rack along the right-hand wall and thought about the statement that guns made this country what it is today and wondered if that was good or bad. We were a combative breed. I was not hard on us, though; I didn’t need to be, history was. Ten major wars and countless skirmishes over the last two hundred years pretty much told the tale. But that was political history, not personal. I was brought up on a ranch but, because of my father, the romance of guns had somehow escaped me. In his eyes, a gun was a tool, not some half-assed deity. Guys who named their guns worried him and me.
I walked down the aisle and looked at the shining walnut stocks, the glistening blue barrels. There were beautiful hand-engraved, over-and-under fowling pieces next to ugly Armalite AR-15s that looked and felt like a Mattel toy. Small chains wound their way through the trigger guards with little bronze locks at the end of each row. It was like a chain gang for weapons. Some of them might be good, some of them might be bad, but there was no way to tell until somebody picked them up. By the time I got back to the front of the aisle, Dave was waiting for me.
Dave had a studious quality framed in the metal-edged glasses, which emphasized his pale eyes. He looked like a basketball-playing owl in an unbuttoned shirt. He was originally from Missouri and had a matter-of-fact quality to his speech that I had always found entertaining. He also knew how to keep his mouth shut. “You’re looking for a gun?”
“Naw, I got plenty.” I looked past him to the kid, who was hovering at the counter.
“Matt, why don’t you go help them unload the truck, okay?” He disappeared. “Something important?”
“Maybe.” I explained the situation without giving out any names, motives, or qualified information.
“Sharps?”
“Or anything pertaining to…?”
He held his chin in his hand and looked down the row of rifles and shotguns. “We’ve got a few of the replicas.”
“Italian?”
“Yeah.”
“Pedersoli?” I was showing off.
He released his chin and pushed the glasses farther up on his nose. “As a matter of fact, they are.” We walked down the aisle, and he unlocked the end chain. I expected them all to make a run for it. “These are early Pedersolis, not long after they bought out Garrett.” I nodded sagely. “I don’t believe they changed the production line much.” I nodded sagely some more. It was fun being an expert on Italian buffalo rifles, having a specialty. He handed the rifle to me. It was similar to Omar’s in size and weight, but that was where the similarities ended. The metal on this one had an antiqued, cloudy-blue appearance, and the wood stock seemed hard and plastic. Comparing it to the museum piece I had fired this morning was inevitable but not fair.
I set the hammer to the safety/loading notch before opening the action just as if there were a fired case in the chamber, preventing any unnecessary stress on the firing pin. Amazing the things you learned hanging around with Omar. It was smooth but nothing like the one from this morning.
