Ghouls

guess. You blew a cherry-juice line in an M60? Or did that C-4 get the best of you?”

Again he had to lie. It bothered him to lie to a friend. He couldn’t very well tell Wilson about the ghala. “Neither,” he said. “Though I did know a guy who got his lower lip sheared off on a 105 breechblock. No, I got mugged by some ’Rabs in Riyadh. When they took my wallet, I told them Saudi Arabians were proof that humans fuck camels. Guess the fellas couldn’t take a joke, ’cause then they gave me a little quick cosmetic surgery. With switchblades.”

“Yeah? But if I know this John Sanders, a couple of ’em went home minus cock and balls.”

Wilson poured two cups of coffee from a thermos that had Smurfs on it. “Police coffee’s the worst,” he said. “You’ll love it. Now if I remember right, your hometown is somewhere in Florida. I can’t believe you came all the way to Maryland to trade old times with me.”

Sanders looked down at open hands. “You’re right, Jack… I need a favor.”

“Name it. Money?”

“No, no. I’ve got five years of fifty-percent base pay in the bank, and I’m drawing more from VA than I would from straight retirement.” He paused. His face felt tight. “I need a weapon.”

Wilson understood instantly. Weapon here didn’t mean pistol, gun, cannon, or knife. It was the universal code to anyone who’d been in the Army. This is your weapon, the senior drill instructors would say on day one. This is an M16A1. You will know it, you will love it. You will be able to take it apart and put it back together, blind. It will be part of you, as vital to you as your brain. It is not a rifle. It is not a gun. It is your weapon.

Wilson appeared disappointed. “That’s all?”

“You have one?”

“I have plenty. You used to be an armorer, John. You know what kind of shit we can get away with. At Aberdeen, I was NCOIC of one of the largest gun vaults and ammo points in the U.S.” Wilson hunched forward and lowered his voice. “I do the same thing here. Permanent disposal of seized evidence is my 706. You name it, I see it. Everything from homemade blackjacks to factory-packed submachine guns. I’m not telling you anything new. When you get a chance at something, you pluck it. Armorers are the best-armed men in the world.”

“I know. That’s why I came.”

Wilson chuckled without a trace of guilt. “I’ll be honest with you, most of what I get in here is pretty dull, lots of brass knuckles, butterfly knives, SNS’s. But it gets hot once in a while. Summer of ’78, I think, narcotics seized a moving van full of Uzis and MAC’s. Colombians, you know? Sent them to the federal can for a thousand years. And two winters ago they caught some fence with an M2 and tripod in his garage. Can you believe it?”

“And you sent it to the crusher?”

“Not on your life,” Wilson said. ”A little monkeying around with the paperwork and presto—the fucker’s buried in my backyard along with 1,500 rounds of caliber-fifty. I’ve got enough guns and ordnance to rearm the Wehrmacht. Parts, too. Upper receivers, lower receivers, gas lines, bolts, barrels, clips, auto sears. Enough to fill a couple of bussel racks. Shit, John, my backyard would blow the top off a metal detector.”

“But why?” Sanders asked. “You’re not selling?”

“Oh, hell no. I’m no criminal, I’m just a thief. I’d never give or sell guns to the wrong people. I save ’em. Got a fortune invested in bury boxes, and I’m even thinking about a shelter. You just wait till World War III hits the fans. Be damned if I’m gonna get caught holding my lizard. I’m gonna live. And I’ll have the firepower to do it.”

Now it all made sense. Sanders was aware of the current survivalist movement, a legitimate school of thought were it not subverted by so many of today’s idiots. Nevertheless, the idea of living in the aftermath of nuclear devastation seemed pointless to him. Wilson’s fanaticism, though, had just become Sanders’s good fortune.

“So that’s all you need?” Wilson asked. ”A 16A1?”

“Or a facsimile.”

“I wouldn’t give a buddy anything but the real McCoy. That would be like asking for Coors and getting a nonalcoholic malt beverage.”

“I’ll also need rounds. I understand you can’t buy ammunition in Maryland without signing your name.”

“That’s a fact. Every punk in high school would be making guns out of mousetraps and car aerials. Don’t worry about rounds, I’ve got rounds.”

“And maybe some bangballs, or Hoffmann charges, if you happen to have any. Something good for some racket, that won’t do much damage.”

Wilson grinned, nodding. “Bangballs, then. I pinched a case at Aberdeen.”

Is there anything he doesn’t have? Sanders thought. He cleared his throat. “One thing, though… How cold is this stuff?”

“Colder than a bag lady in K-Town. Remember Use’s cooze? That cold.”

“I don’t want you to think I’m going to go out and snipe people,” Sanders said. “The only reason I ask is because if something, you know, goes wrong, I don’t want the shit coming back to you. On the off chance I have to dump the stuff. Or—”

“Kill someone,” Wilson finished. “Yeah, sure. But don’t fret. Ain’t no acid test in the world could get the serial numbers off my guns. Clean and cold as ice. Of course, I don’t have to tell you the rest. If you smoke someone and lose the stuff, my fingerprints ain’t gonna be on any of it. Yours will.”

“I’m careful, you know that. And if I get caught, I’ll take the wrap.”

Wilson kicked back and placed his heels on the desk. He looked at Sanders speculatively. “If you don’t mind my asking, what exactly are you up to?”

“I haven’t gone bad, if that’s what you mean,” Sanders said. At least I hope not. “A guy owes me money and an explanation for something that happened a long time ago. I don’t even care about the money, if you want to know the truth. I just want to see what this fella’s been up to for the last seven or so years, and he’s always been good in the way of surprises, so I don’t want to go in there without some decent heat. I swear to you, it’s just to be on the safe side, just in case I have to defend myself. I doubt that I’ll have to fire a single shot.”

“Why does he owe you money?”

“I can’t tell you that—just trust me. If I told you, you’d never believe me. It’s the kind of thing you’d have to see for yourself, which you’re welcome to do. If you want to cammie up and come along, I’ll split the money with you. It might be a lot.”

“Sounds like some party. But I’ll have to pass on the action. The hill’s way behind me now, and I’m going down fast.”

“Me, too, but what the hell? Just tell me how much you want. Like I said, I got cash.”

“Cash?” Wilson said. “Don’t insult me. You pulled my dick out of the fire once, or have you forgotten? It takes some kind of balls to go into a burning 88 and haul your buddy out. Everyone else left me to sizzle like bacon.”

“You’d have done the same for me.”

“At least I’d like to think so,” Wilson said, and laughed. “The fact remains—thanks to you, I’m the only man alive who knows what a direct hit from a Sagger sounds like from the inside. Any time you need something, you come to me. What’s mine is yours.”

“Thanks,” Sanders said.

“Now, here’s what we’ll do,” Wilson went on. “Meet me in the lobby at three; that’s when I get off. If you’re in no big hurry, we’ll grab a couple of Pollacks for dinner, and maybe stop by the 408 Club to belt down a few 7-Ups and gander the pussy. Then we’ll go back to my place, and I’ll fix you up with all the hardware you need.”

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