him and got out, purposely not looking toward the back seat where I’d left the rifle and coat.
He started to drive off. “Oh,” I called out, waving my arm and running toward the car. “I forgot my stuff.”
“Sure thing,” he said. He turned around in the seat and reached for the coat, to pass it out the front window.
“No, that’s all right, I’ll get it,” I said hurriedly. I reached for the handle of the rear door, but let him beat me to it. He picked up the coat, and I saw his arm sag at the unexpected weight of it. Almost involuntarily his eyes swept down toward it, but there was nothing to see except the square outlines of the boxes in the pockets.
Six
In a couple of days he invited me out to the house. For dinner, he said, and he’d show me his workshop, where he did his reloading.
He had a nice place, a big two-story house out on the edge of town about three blocks off the main drag. I met his wife. She was a young blonde who wasn’t as young or as blonde as she had been, but she was nice, and a wonderful cook. She did water colors, and she was a bullfight fan. I admired the landscapes she had done, and we had a good session with the corridas. I told her I’d lived in Mexico a couple of years, working for some company I never quite mentioned.
They had swallowed the idea by this time that I had come out here because my health had gone back on me, though we very pointedly never talked about it. I think they felt sorry for me. I knew, of course, that he’d also heard about the strange boxes I was always mailing, because everybody knows everything in a town of that size, but he didn’t mention them.
I let it ride along about a week, going out in the dunes every day with the little gun, and continuing to mail the boxes. They had me out to the house again on Saturday night for dinner, and to return the compliment I took them to the restaurant and to the movies. We were getting quite chummy. They liked me, and, oddly enough, I liked them when I wasn’t thinking about the thing he had done.
Cathy met me twice that week, but it was just the same old pep talk. She was wild to know how it was coming along, and full of suggestions as to what to do next.
It was near the end of the following week that I knew the time had come to let him have the stinger. I’d walked into the restaurant late one evening, and two men who were playing the pin-ball machine near the door didn’t see me come in. I passed close behind them and as I went past I heard one of them say, “It’s rabbit feet, I tell you. Don’t he spend all his time huntin’ jack rabbits? He’s got a friend in New York sells ‘em for him.” I heard them laugh as I went over and sat down at the counter.
All right, boys, I thought, I’ll clear it up for you. After I’d eaten I went back to the motel and started getting it ready. I got out the bottle of sulphuric acid I’d brought from New Orleans and mixed a little with some water in a glass jar to the approximate strength of battery solution. Then, taking out a cardboard box—one of the larger ones—I wet it along the corners and seams with the solution and let it dry. Filling it with sand I’d brought in during the afternoon, I wrapped it with paper, tied the parcel with white string, and addressed it, just as I had done with all the others. To finish it off, I put a drop of the acid solution on the string in three or four different places, let it set for a minute or two, and wiped it off. It was ready.
In the morning I waited until after eleven before I started downtown with it, to be sure he’d be in the bank. I had to handle it carefully. He was at his desk, and he looked up and waved as I walked in. I set it down on the edge of the glass-topped stand, got out my checkbook, and started to write a check, keeping my left elbow near the parcel and taking a long time to make it out. It’d be a lot more effective if he came over, though it would work whether he did or not I was in
He started to drive off. “Oh,” I called out, waving my arm and running toward the car. “I forgot my stuff.”
“Sure thing,” he said. He turned around in the seat and reached for the coat, to pass it out the front window.
“No, that’s all right, I’ll get it,” I said hurriedly. I reached for the handle of the rear door, but let him beat me to it. He picked up the coat, and I saw his arm sag at the unexpected weight of it. Almost involuntarily his eyes swept down toward it, but there was nothing to see except the square outlines of the boxes in the pockets.
Six
In a couple of days he invited me out to the house. For dinner, he said, and he’d show me his workshop, where he did his reloading.
He had a nice place, a big two-story house out on the edge of town about three blocks off the main drag. I met his wife. She was a young blonde who wasn’t as young or as blonde as she had been, but she was nice, and a wonderful cook. She did water colors, and she was a bullfight fan. I admired the landscapes she had done, and we had a good session with the corridas. I told her I’d lived in Mexico a couple of years, working for some company I never quite mentioned.
They had swallowed the idea by this time that I had come out here because my health had gone back on me, though we very pointedly never talked about it. I think they felt sorry for me. I knew, of course, that he’d also heard about the strange boxes I was always mailing, because everybody knows everything in a town of that size, but he didn’t mention them.
I let it ride along about a week, going out in the dunes every day with the little gun, and continuing to mail the boxes. They had me out to the house again on Saturday night for dinner, and to return the compliment I took them to the restaurant and to the movies. We were getting quite chummy. They liked me, and, oddly enough, I liked them when I wasn’t thinking about the thing he had done.
Cathy met me twice that week, but it was just the same old pep talk. She was wild to know how it was coming along, and full of suggestions as to what to do next.
It was near the end of the following week that I knew the time had come to let him have the stinger. I’d walked into the restaurant late one evening, and two men who were playing the pin-ball machine near the door didn’t see me come in. I passed close behind them and as I went past I heard one of them say, “It’s rabbit feet, I tell you. Don’t he spend all his time huntin’ jack rabbits? He’s got a friend in New York sells ‘em for him.” I heard them laugh as I went over and sat down at the counter.
All right, boys, I thought, I’ll clear it up for you. After I’d eaten I went back to the motel and started getting it ready. I got out the bottle of sulphuric acid I’d brought from New Orleans and mixed a little with some water in a glass jar to the approximate strength of battery solution. Then, taking out a cardboard box—one of the larger ones—I wet it along the corners and seams with the solution and let it dry. Filling it with sand I’d brought in during the afternoon, I wrapped it with paper, tied the parcel with white string, and addressed it, just as I had done with all the others. To finish it off, I put a drop of the acid solution on the string in three or four different places, let it set for a minute or two, and wiped it off. It was ready.
In the morning I waited until after eleven before I started downtown with it, to be sure he’d be in the bank. I had to handle it carefully. He was at his desk, and he looked up and waved as I walked in. I set it down on the edge of the glass-topped stand, got out my checkbook, and started to write a check, keeping my left elbow near the parcel and taking a long time to make it out. It’d be a lot more effective if he came over, though it would work whether he did or not I was in
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