has anything to do with anything. What I want to find out is what the Colonel thinks I know that’s worth calling out the militia. Speaking of which, would they be the same four that’s been knocking over houses in this area over the past couple of weeks?”
“My guess ain’t no better’n yours. I never saw ’em before tonight.”
“Shooter, you’re going to die dumb.”
“As long as I die old.”
“You didn’t sell them the automatic weapons they’re using, that much I’m sure of. Ma did that. I saw the newspaper piece she cut out for her scrapbook.”
“Ma pisses all over the lot. She don’t care who she sells to.”
“You do?”
“Fucking right. You never know when you might be doing business with a undercover cop.”
“We’ll ask the Colonel. We’re still heading that way, right?” We had turned north on John R, where here and there a lighted apartment window hung like the last blossom of spring. The truck’s tires sang on the dewy pavement.
“What you wanted,” he said. “Man, you don’t mind if I let you off early and tell you the way? I got to work in this town.”
“I’m going in the front door and you’re going with me.”
“Shit. I had to ask.”
“Where we going?”
“Ear-oh-quoyse Heights.” He sang it. “Where the men wear sheets, the women are strong-smelling, and the cops are distinctly below market rate.”
We skirted the edge of the city, following darkened streets past railroad yards, a string of cut-rate funeral parlors, and an oil refinery smelling thickly of crude, stopping at last near a weedy six-acre parcel enclosed by a chainlink fence. The sign said keep out.
“What’s this?” I asked.
“City fairgrounds. This where they going to build their domed stadium.” Shooter killed the engine.
We got out. Crickets stitched in the stillness. I put the revolver in my coat pocket with my hand on it. “You first, Kemosabe.”
The gate was secured with a padlock and chain, but the narrow opening was no problem for a reedy type like the Shooter. For me it was a squeeze. Inside, the weeds were calf-high and wet; we hadn’t gone five yards before our shoes began to squelch. As my eyes grew accustomed to the gloom, a long shape separated itself from the blackness surrounding it, a hangarlike structure with a shed roof and corrugated steel walls, eighty feet by twenty, without windows.
“Where they store the tents and stuff,” Shooter whispered. “I think we beat ’em here.”
“Not much of a front.”
“The Colonel don’t need one.”
There was a small side door around the corner from the double bays on the north end of the building. Shooter tried the handle. It wasn’t locked. I grasped his wrist as he was pushing it in. “Should it be?”
He shook his head.
I took the gun out and motioned him on. He mopped his palms off on his running shorts, set himself, and pushed the door open the rest of the way slowly. It swung silently on well-oiled hinges.
Nobody shot at us. I motioned again and he went in. I followed.
The interior smelled overpoweringly of mildewed canvas. I closed the door behind us, found my pocket flashlight, and flicked it on. Tented shapes loomed on the edge of the pencil beam.
“I think we alone.” Shooter’s voice, raised slightly above a whisper, echoed.
I said nothing. We were standing on a plywood floor in an aisle between what looked like stacks of crates covered with canvas, the stacks running the length of the building. They made gargoyle shadows on the walls. Once when I moved the flash abruptly, something squeaked and swooped past our faces with a wind of flapping wings.
“Bela Lugosi.” Shooter covered his hair with both hands.
I found the edge of a canvas flap and jerked it back. Some dust flew up, not enough for something that hadn’t been disturbed in months. I tested the lid of the crate beneath with my hands. It was nailed shut.
“Look for something to pry with,” I said.
“You look. I didn’t come
“My guess ain’t no better’n yours. I never saw ’em before tonight.”
“Shooter, you’re going to die dumb.”
“As long as I die old.”
“You didn’t sell them the automatic weapons they’re using, that much I’m sure of. Ma did that. I saw the newspaper piece she cut out for her scrapbook.”
“Ma pisses all over the lot. She don’t care who she sells to.”
“You do?”
“Fucking right. You never know when you might be doing business with a undercover cop.”
“We’ll ask the Colonel. We’re still heading that way, right?” We had turned north on John R, where here and there a lighted apartment window hung like the last blossom of spring. The truck’s tires sang on the dewy pavement.
“What you wanted,” he said. “Man, you don’t mind if I let you off early and tell you the way? I got to work in this town.”
“I’m going in the front door and you’re going with me.”
“Shit. I had to ask.”
“Where we going?”
“Ear-oh-quoyse Heights.” He sang it. “Where the men wear sheets, the women are strong-smelling, and the cops are distinctly below market rate.”
We skirted the edge of the city, following darkened streets past railroad yards, a string of cut-rate funeral parlors, and an oil refinery smelling thickly of crude, stopping at last near a weedy six-acre parcel enclosed by a chainlink fence. The sign said keep out.
“What’s this?” I asked.
“City fairgrounds. This where they going to build their domed stadium.” Shooter killed the engine.
We got out. Crickets stitched in the stillness. I put the revolver in my coat pocket with my hand on it. “You first, Kemosabe.”
The gate was secured with a padlock and chain, but the narrow opening was no problem for a reedy type like the Shooter. For me it was a squeeze. Inside, the weeds were calf-high and wet; we hadn’t gone five yards before our shoes began to squelch. As my eyes grew accustomed to the gloom, a long shape separated itself from the blackness surrounding it, a hangarlike structure with a shed roof and corrugated steel walls, eighty feet by twenty, without windows.
“Where they store the tents and stuff,” Shooter whispered. “I think we beat ’em here.”
“Not much of a front.”
“The Colonel don’t need one.”
There was a small side door around the corner from the double bays on the north end of the building. Shooter tried the handle. It wasn’t locked. I grasped his wrist as he was pushing it in. “Should it be?”
He shook his head.
I took the gun out and motioned him on. He mopped his palms off on his running shorts, set himself, and pushed the door open the rest of the way slowly. It swung silently on well-oiled hinges.
Nobody shot at us. I motioned again and he went in. I followed.
The interior smelled overpoweringly of mildewed canvas. I closed the door behind us, found my pocket flashlight, and flicked it on. Tented shapes loomed on the edge of the pencil beam.
“I think we alone.” Shooter’s voice, raised slightly above a whisper, echoed.
I said nothing. We were standing on a plywood floor in an aisle between what looked like stacks of crates covered with canvas, the stacks running the length of the building. They made gargoyle shadows on the walls. Once when I moved the flash abruptly, something squeaked and swooped past our faces with a wind of flapping wings.
“Bela Lugosi.” Shooter covered his hair with both hands.
I found the edge of a canvas flap and jerked it back. Some dust flew up, not enough for something that hadn’t been disturbed in months. I tested the lid of the crate beneath with my hands. It was nailed shut.
“Look for something to pry with,” I said.
“You look. I didn’t come
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