Colonel Rutherford's Colt (3 page)

Jimmy opened a display case and laid the Colt in beside a dueling pistol fancied by gold filigree and an engraved plate on the grip.

Borchard spread his hands, inviting Jimmy to take his best shot. “Now you know how much I want the Colt, why not seize the advantage and name your price?”

“'Cause like I said, I ain't had time to figure a price.” Jimmy locked the display case.

“Six thousand.” The Borchard smile had vanished.

“Six? This here gun must really make your eagle big.” Jimmy patted the case that contained the Colt. “Wonder how much you'll want it tomorrow?”

Borchard folded his arms and stood there like he was Captain Authority without his crimefighter's costume and mask. “I gather from your attitude you've heard of me.”

“Hasn't everybody? Major Ray Borchard's a damn household word where I hail from.”

By the uncertainty in Borchard's face, Jimmy suspected that the major wasn't sure whether or not to accept this statement as fact.

“You don't much like me, Mister Guy. Is it my politics?”

“Naw, I deal with your kind all the time.”

“My kind?” Borchard chuckled. “And what kind is that?”

“Wanna-bes.” Jimmy locked the case, pocketed the key. “Old guys jerking off in the woods with twenty-man redneck armies and dreaming about world domination. Folks like you make up a good piece of my business.”

“Then why not sell me the Colt?”

Jimmy had to admit the man had control. Anger was steaming off him like stink from a sewer grating, but his voice kept steady.

“She told you not to sell it to me,” Borchard said. “Isn't that right?”

“She?”

Borchard let his eyes roll up toward the fluorescents, as if seeking guidance. “I'm beginning to think you're a fool, Mister Guy.”

“I ain't the one who's offering six grand for a piece-of-shit gun belongs to some trailer-trash Robin Hood.”

Borchard's sigh implied that Jimmy failed to understand both the vast powers arrayed against him and the grand truth of which he, the major, was representative. “I'll be back tomorrow,” he said. “Perhaps by then you'll have assigned a price to the Colt.”

“Gee, I don't know. Here you come offering six thousand. I better get me a second opinion before I move it. Might be worth way more'n I thought.”

“Tomorrow,” said Borchard sternly. “I want that gun.”

“I will try hard not to dream about you,” Jimmy said. “But I know I will.”

His story mood was broken, and after Borchard had gone he busied himself by cleaning the glass of the display cases. He wished he could have gotten past the conversation between Susan and Arnulfo Carrasquel before Borchard showed up. Conversations weren't his strong suit, and he'd been on a roll. All in all, except for the Colt, it had been a shitty day, from arguing with Rita on down.

Arnulfo. He sounded the name under his breath. It didn't feel right. Something more familiar might be preferable. Manuel. Carlos. Luis. Luis Carrasquel. He couldn't make up his mind. Maybe, he thought, the thing to do would be to get someone to watch the tables and go grab one of those corn dogs. Food might settle him, put him back in the mood to work on the story. He was searching around for someone who wasn't busy at their own table, when he saw the Russians coming back.

 

* * *

 

Brandywines was an ersatz English tavern with a sign above the door that depicted Henry the Eighth hoisting a cold one. Inside, there were paneled walls and waitresses in serving-wench costumes and black candle holders centering the oak tables, casting a dim light throughout, and a menu that advertised dishes such as Ye Olde Cheddar Melt and Steak Cromwell, a reference that probably eluded most diners. Not the sort of place Rita usually did her drinking, but the owner was hardcore NRA and had special prices for gun people. It looked like half the dealers in the show had folded early and were packed in around the bar. Several called out to her and waved, but nobody invited her over, which was how she wanted it. She flopped into a chair at a table next to the johns and told a chubby blond with pushed-up tits swelling from her peasant blouse to bring two Jack Black doubles neat, a Miller draft, and some fresh peanuts. While she was waiting for the drinks, a heavyset Latino wearing a Freitas Knives & Guns T-shirt came out of the men's room, still in the process of zipping up. He caught her eye, grinned, and said, “Hey, Rita! How's business?”

“Fucking sucks, Jorge,” she said. “How about you?”

The man shrugged. “About average for a Friday. But we'll get that heavy Labor Day action. We'll do all right.” He appeared to expect a response, so Rita said, “Yeah, well,” and looked blankly at him until he hitched up his pants, said, “See ya,” and left her alone.

The first whiskey evened her out, the second made her feel almost sociable. She regretted having blown Jorge off. She wanted to bitch about Jimmy to someone. She'd say, I walk back over the show, or the Red Roof, or wherever the hell he is, I'm going to find him setting there looking all moony-eyed at the Colt, telling himself one of his stories. I ain't saying the stories don't mean nothin'. It's how he gets out what he has to, and it's what what I need from him. I just wish he'd pay more attention to sales. Then Jorge would say, He's a flake. So what? C'mon, Rita! The man baits a big sale better than anybody on the circuit. It's the nature of your business to go up and down more than most. You want steady, do like me and sell two-, three-hunnerd-dollar weapons . . . Talking that way would make her feel even better. The Colt, now. That was a whole other ocean to swim in. The Colt and the story might cause them trouble, but they always skated through that kind of trouble. So long as she kept her hand on the controls, they'd be okay.

The waitress brought two more doubles. Rita sipped her whiskey and considered whether they should do the North Bend show or take a break till Yakima. It all depended on whether Jimmy sold the Beretta.

“Ms. Whitelaw?”

A tall white man with a thick mustache was smiling down on her; at his elbow, a younger guy with brushcut whitish-blond hair and a pink cherub mouth that looked as if it had been transplanted from some Italian angel painting to an otherwise apelike face. The big man offered his hand. Rita said, “You keep it. I don't want it.”

He continued to smile. “I was speaking to your partner about an hour ago.”

The two of them. Like scoutmaster and scout. They pleased her, according with her take on white male orthodoxy. “Yeah?” she said. “What'd you think?”

“What did I think?”

“About Jimmy. What you think about the boy?”

The men exchanged a glance that Rita read as plain as if it were a sign saying We Got Us A Drunk Indian.

“To tell you the truth,” the big man said, sitting down opposite her, “I found him somewhat shortsighted.”

“Somewhat shortsighted.” She rolled the phrase around. “That don't say it all, but I can't argue.”

The young guy ducked into the chair beside the big man and sat still. The slyness of the move signaled to Rita that he thought he was doing something of which his leader might disapprove.

“I offered him four thousand for a Colt Nineteen-Eleven, and he turned me down flat,” said the big man. “I hoped we—you and I— might discuss an arrangement.”

She shook a finger at him, trying to dredge up the name. “The major. Borchard. I bet that's you.”

“Raymond Borchard,” he said after a pause. “I suppose Loretta Snow told you about me.”

An uproar of laughter from the bar snagged Rita's attention. Cory Sauter of Sauter's Gifts and Guns was preparing to moon the establishment, standing with his pants held just below waist level, displaying the crack of his ass to a tableful of dealers, one of whom was holding up a fork, threatening to add of chunk of Cory's butt to his chef's salad.

“Loretta Snow,” said Borchard impatiently. “She told you things about me, didn't she?”

“If she's a little white hen goes around clucking to herself and getting weepy . . .” Rita said. “Yeah, that'd be her.”

Borchard's right eyelid drooped as if he were lining up a sight, and his smile was sucked into his mustache. Rita had the thought he didn't much care for anyone speaking ill of sweet Loretta. Which was odd, when you took into account the hen's attitude toward him.

“Plump little thing,” Rita said. “You wouldn't need to grease the pan, you wanted to fry her up.”

“I'd like to talk about the gun,” Borchard said.

“Talk.” Rita started on her fourth whiskey.

“I'll give you five thousand for it. Here and now.”

She scooped up a handful of peanuts, tipped her head back and dribbled a few into her mouth. “Jimmy handles the buying,” she said after swallowing.

“And just what do
you
handle, honey?” said the younger guy in a suggestive tone.

Borchard jumped on him hard. “Randy! I'll deal with this!”

Randy dropped his head and glowered at Rita through his albino eyebrows.

Rita said to the major, “Don't go punishing your bitch on my account. Doesn't matter what he says, I couldn't think no less of you.”

Borchard leaned back, gauging her. “I realize Loretta must have poisoned the well, but in fairness, I'd like you to hear my side of things.”

“Don't have nothing to do with
Loretta
.” Rita gave the name a frilly emphasis. “I just can't stand white people.”

The jukebox was plugged in, starting up at the mid-point of “Glory Days” so loud it obliterated all hope of conversation. Cries of protest, and the box was turned down.

“And yet,” Borchard said, “you're involved with a white man, are you not?”

“Jimmy's not your typical Caucasian. He has visions, y'know. Kinda like my people.”

Randy spat out a disdainful noise. The major stared him down, then re-established his smile for Rita. “I thought he was a bit slow. I was hoping you were the brains of the outfit. Just goes to show.”

Rita finished her beer and held up the empty glass as the blond waitress passed.

“Five thousand cash,” said Borchard.

“That Colt must be big juju. Make it ten, I'll see what I can do.”

“Goddamn it!” Randy slapped the table and gave Borchard a challenging look. “You going to let a fucking red nigger squaw treat us this way?”

“Better hush, Randy,” Rita told him. “Daddy won't let you play with his machine gun no more.”

Borchard turned on Randy. “Wait for me in the truck!”

“Jesus Christ, Ray! I was . . .”

“Wait in the truck!”

“What I tell ya?” Rita said as Randy got to his feet. “You in the shit for real now, bubba.”

As Randy disappeared into the crowd, Rita said, “Probably too late for that child. Don't expect there's much can help him.”

Borchard rested his elbows on the table. “You can't get five thousand for the Colt anywhere else. If Loretta told you not to sell to me, I'll arrange a third-party purchase. But before we discuss that, I want to tell you about Loretta. She's a good woman, but she knows how to manipulate men. I believe she's manipulating your Jimmy. Using him against me. We were involved, and . . .” He shook his head regretfully, leaving room for a response; when none came, he said, “Well?”

“What I just tell you? It's not my call.”

The waitress returned, set down a draft and another double. She pointed at the double, beamed at Rita and said, “This one's on me, sweetie.” Rita fished some folded bills from her shirt pocket, peeled off a ten and gave it to her. “ 'Case I forget later,” she said.

“I thought you didn't like white people,” said Borchard.

“I got a soft spot for the ones bring me whiskey.”

The babble in the place washed over them. Shrieks of laughter mixed in with sports arguments, gun talk, people telling stories. By Saturday night some wouldn't be so happy. They'd have complaints about how the show was being run, business worries. Friday nights were always the best. The nostalgic quality of these thoughts did not trouble Rita as ordinarily they might. Four whiskies, and she felt at home anywhere.

“I intend to have that Colt, Ms. Whitelaw,” Borchard said.

“Talk to Jimmy.”

“I'm talking to you.” He leaned forward, his hands sliding across the table to invade her space, fingers close to touching her. “You have no idea the pressure I can bring to bear.”

Anger rose in Rita like mercury in a hot glass stick. “I'd advise you to move your fucking hand,” she said, “or you going to have to bring it nine-fingered.” Borchard moved, and she rubbed the beer glass against her forehead until the desire to cut him abated.

“I've offered you a fair price,” Borchard said. “I'm past the bargaining stage. I want that gun.”

Given the major's passion for the Colt, the hen's passion not to sell it to him, and Jimmy's way of making his stories, Rita figured she knew more-or-less where he might be going with his newest one. She wondered where it would take her.

“I understand where you're coming from,” she said to Borchard. “You look at me, you see this tough Indian woman's been through it. Reservation-bred. Some shithole like Browning. She's learned how to take care of herself. Could be she got a hunting knife in her boot . . . and could be she's used it. But she's a known quantity. You believe you talk some shit to her, she'll recognize where her interests lie.”

Borchard shifted in his chair, attentive.

“Jimmy, now, he ain't so easy to read. You say he's slow, but he's smart. It's just he was raised up hard by his daddy, and all his smartness got squashed over into one place in his head. He takes people he meets, fixes 'em up so they sound different and puts 'em in these stories he makes up. Beautiful stories! Doesn't write them down or nothing, but he remembers every goddamn word. You look at him, you see a spaced-out 'billy who's crazy for guns. But he goes a mile deeper'n that. I don't even know for sure what all's down in there.”