Leon Uris (27 page)

“You have a forty-year sentence that has been reduced to twenty by your guilty plea. Give me the information, and I’ll do everything in my power to reduce your sentence to ten or twelve. That means, with good behavior you could be out in six.”

“You should be speaking to my lawyers, Mr. Governor.”

“No way. I’d have to expose the operation and my associates, and there’s not time to argue with attorneys. It is you and me, Hooper, you and me, us.”

Hooper ran over the governor’s figures. It meant going in with a forty-year sentence, coming out with six. I have to take his word that Sedgewick has fled, and he sure has his facts right on the VEC’s. “How do I know you’ll deliver?” Hooper asked.

“You don’t. You’re going to have to trust me.”

“I ain’t never trusted nobody and never will.”

“Well, today is a real fine day to start.”

Hooper huffed, grunted, and snarled. The tattoos reading
MOTHER COUNTRY GOD
on his left arm pulsated. He looked over at George Appleton, who was fixed on him with hatred. Hoop knew hatred when he saw it. Sure did. He knew if he rejected the governor, prison life was going to be brutal.

“Give me some time to think about it,” Hooper said.

“Sure, you’ve got thirty seconds and I hang up.”

“Hold on, Governor. The gun run from Wisconsin to the Denver convention was planned seven months ago, when we were unable to sell them. I’ve been in prison for five months. They sure as hell must have changed the delivery location.”

“What was the former location?” Quinn snapped back.

“Friehoff’s Furniture Outlet, somewhere out on West Coster. Can you get me a single cell?”

“Maybe. Tell me about the truck and the drivers.”

“They’re crazy, man. Three brothers and a cousin named Jensen. They’ve been running contraband out of the Great Lakes ports for years. On this run their pay will be on delivery.”

“What are they advertising on the side of their truck, and tell me about their plates.”

“Governor, I don’t know. They’re probably driving a hot rig they stole recently. On a few runs I know they put up Old Milwaukee beer sheets with magnets. I don’t know.”

“All right, give me a solid gold name of an exhibitor at the convention who is dealing in the VEC’s.”

Jesus! Hooper had already exposed the Jensen brothers, and he’d exposed himself. Chuck it in and pray, he told himself.

“I want to get moved to another facility,” Hooper whispered hoarsely.

“Why?”

“I, uh, ran into a number of militia boys and Klan people. All of a sudden I’m organizing them against the niggers, and the niggers are out to get me.”

“Hoop, it’s not in my power. Let me speak with the deputy director,” Quinn said.

“Hello, Governor,” George Appleton said.

“Hoop is about to give us the key piece of information, but he thinks he’s been fingered by the black prisoners. He’d like to be transferred to a facility where he isn’t known and can be isolated.”

Appleton blew a long whistle. “You’d better pull this off or God save us all. Here’s Hooper.”

“Well, now,” said Hooper, “I’ve met two guys I don’t trust in the same day.”

“Let’s have it!” Quinn said abruptly.

“It’s me or him,” Hoop Hooper thought. “If he was in my place, he’d snitch on me. There will be an exhibition table belonging to Chad Murtha. He exhibits plastic, Teflon, titanium handguns, ammo, and clips.”

Lovely, Quinn thought. Everyman’s weapons to beat the metal detectors!

Dawn Mock was at her door jotting notes for her assistant:
Get a layout and index of the exhibition tables…Chad Murtha is the exhibitor…Call up Detective Boedecker and draw ten thousand dollars in marked bills, mixed…Try Tennessee penal system and drivers license bureau to see if we can bring up a photo of Chad Murtha…

“Okay,” Quinn went on. “Does Murtha’s exhibit have any kind of identification sign or banner?”

“Yeah, the back banner reads ‘Glock Almighty!’ and a smaller one under it reads ‘Glock ’Em All!’”

“Now tell me about you and Chad.”

“Me and him been on the circuit twelve years or something. He hit on the plastic weapons because they’re a big-turnover item. They’ll only shoot up a few clips when they start to crack.”

“All right. After I find the Glock Almighty sign and I’m talking to Chad Murtha, what do I say?”

“Say, ‘I think I got the wrong table. Billy Joe said I could get some real metal here.’ Chad’s gonna say, ‘I ain’t seen Billy Joe in a coon’s age,’ and he’s gonna ask you where you last saw him. Then you say you seen him at the gun show last year in Fort Smith, Arkansas.”

“I follow you,” Quinn said. “What does Chad look like?”

“Heavy guy, big gut, used to wrestle professionally. Blond hair, he dyes it, like sixty years old and usually wearing a baseball cap.”

“Can we get a photograph of him?”

“Probably. He’s done some time in Tennessee.”

“Continue, Hoop.”

“Chad’s gonna say something like, ‘What kind of metal you looking for?’ and you say, ‘Swedish metal.’ He’ll want a ten percent deposit. Then he’ll give you the location of his camper park and the number of his parking space. He’ll probably tell you to show up at two or three in the morning.”

“Couldn’t he just take off with the deposit?”

“No, not and deal in gun shows for a dozen years. Honor among thieves. That’s the standard time when the deliveries take place.”

“Hmmm.”

“See, he’s got to keep his exhibits open at the
convention hall until they close, usually around ten-thirty to midnight. Then he has to get the guns.”

“And, in theory, he’ll lead us to the mother lode.”

“That’s the ticket, Governor.”

“Next,” Quinn said, “there is a special parking lot for exhibitors at the convention center. What’s he driving?”

“A light blue Ford pickup, trades it in every other year for another light blue Ford pickup. It has a stainless steel camper shell over the truck bed. He’ll have Tennessee plates.”

“Hoop, think hard, are there any other exhibitors who can be as helpful to us as Chad Murtha?”

“No, he’s the main man. He’ll look over the exhibitors, and if there are some who have worked with him, he’ll select maybe four or five, depending on how sales are going.”

Hooper was unaware of pressure in his chest. He had always thought the pain was a part of his being. As he spoke, he blew out words coming from his deep interior, and it was like a relief from a tremendous crushing machine.

“Let me speak to George,” Quinn said.

“Appleton.”

“I’m setting some things into motion. Can you put Hooper in a holding cell so I can stay in contact, if needed?”

“The present setup is very secure,” Appleton answered, and gave his phone number. “We’ll be here. For Christ’s sake, don’t forget to inform us.”

“Semper Fi, buddy,” Quinn said.

“Semper Fi,” Appleton said.

Quinn grabbed the stale bread on Dawn’s desk and bit a hunk off it, starved. In a moment Harry Chin spread out a map of the exhibition hall, and they scoured it with magnifying glasses. Quinn went down the list.

“Bingo! Murtha, Chad, Knoxville, Tennessee, plastic handguns and paraphernalia. Side booth on west wall, stall number seven hundred twenty-three.

“Dawn, I need a half dozen detectives in three two-man teams to locate Murtha’s pickup truck. I know we’ve gotten burned with signals from the big truck, but can you slap something on Murtha’s vehicle to give off a radio signal?”

“I’ve got a dandy, and it will work.”

“All right, your three CBI cars will follow Murtha some time after ten-thirty. As soon as his signal gives us a general direction, I can set Yancey’s team into motion. Wait a minute, wait a minute, wait a minute!” Quinn said, slapping his forehead. “Position a plainclothes pair in an unmarked car near Friehoff’s Furniture Outlet so he has a bead on 10101 West Coster. I’ve a wild hunch these people may not have changed the drop-off location.”

“It’s sure as hell worth a shot,” Harry Chin said.

“God, I wish I could go in with Yancey,” Quinn said.

“With all due respect, Governor,” Chin answered, “keep your ass right where it is.”

Chin made a log at Dawn’s computer.

Her appearance belied her profession. Mary Boedecker was thin, fifty-something with black and gray hair pulled back in a penny-plain knot. She wore no make-up and was dressed ranch style. Mary pointed at Chad and said she’d like to look at a pistol. Murtha unlocked chain from trigger guard.

Mary made a sour face and set the pistol down. “I think I must be at the wrong table,” she said.

Chad scrutinized her so keenly, Mary could nearly feel heat from his glare.

“I’m looking for Chad Murtha,” she said.

“I’m Chad.”

“I ranch some up in Lodgepole County.”

“Pleased to meet you, ma’am.”

“Billy Joe said I could obtain some real metal from you.”

“Billy Joe.”

“Yes, suh, Billy Joe.”

“I ain’t seen him, must have been a hundred shows back. I thought for sure he quit the circuit,” Chad said.

“I saw him a couple months ago in Fort Smith, Arkansas,” Mary said.

“I missed that show. I was doing something around Helena. Just what kind of metal are you interested in?”

“Swedish. The best Swedish.”

It connected! The lady was talking major money.

“Well, now, top-grade Swedish is hard to come by,” Chad gurgled, counting dollars as he spoke.

“I want ten of them,” she answered, opening her large purse and giving him a flash of her bankroll. Chad Murtha’s eyeballs clicked.

“That’s a mighty big order,” Chad said.

“You ever tried to get anything done with the United States government?” she snapped. “Me and some of my neighbors had our grazing rights on public land terminated. For two goddamn years we tried to get it reversed. It was like walking in hell and trying to argue with the devil.”

“Government is at the root of all evil,” Chad sympathized. “What’s your name, ma’am?”

“Mary Decker. My neighbors and me think that if we form a militia unit, we could change the government’s mind.”

“Sounds like a plan, Mary. Could I have your phone number and the name of someone who might be at the ranch?”

“Thank you, Chad,” she said, smiling broadly. She gave the number slowly. “My husband, Harry, will be there.”

“You realize, now, the class of weapon you’re looking for is top-of-the-line fully automatic and pretty near fingerprint-proof. Ten VEC–44’s, new, ten thousand rounds in long clips. We’re looking at around a thousand a copy.”

“Get them,” Mary ordered.

“Hello,” he says, “Harry Decker speaking.”

“Oh, hello, Harry. How are things going on the ranch?”

“Shitty. Who am I talking to?”

“Just a friend down at the AMERIGUN convention. Thought I might get to see you.”

“I sent my old lady down.”

“I’ll keep an eye out for her.”

Chad hangs up with a big “cat in the fishbowl” smile. Motherfucker, there is going to be a big old payday!

“I’ve got some good news for you, Miss Mary. I managed to find the last pieces in Western America. The VEC–44 is a beauty, a real man-stopper. Aren’t you worrying about all that money you’re carrying?”

“Well, now, don’t you fret, Mr. Chad. I can hit a mosquito’s ass at forty yards with my little Beretta25.”

“I sure bet you can,” Chad said, feigning what might be a chuckle. “Here’s the way it works. Don’t write none of this down, just remember it. You be at the Foothills Trailer Camp on Lawson Street at two in the morning. You’ll be observed, so come by yourself. I am in space number eighty-four, in a small mobile home.”

Mary repeated the numbers, then asked, “What kind of vehicle do you have? I don’t want to go knocking at the wrong door at that time of morning.”

“Blue Ford pickup, Tennessee license plate. Maybe we can split a beer or two.”

She gave a noncommittal shrug that didn’t exactly say no.

It was the best damned evening AMERIGUN ever put on. There were lots of country and western performers, some Nike all-stars, sitcom stars, and finally, Senator Darling moved the crowd to tears.