The Famous and the Dead by T. Jefferson Parker

you one more thing—it’s not about Fudge Bars, bro.”
    â€¢Â Â Â â€¢Â Â Â â€¢
    Beth came home half past midnight. Hood held open the door as she trudged across the gravel, and he saw the exhaustion in her. She still wore her work scrubs and Crocs and one of her loose white jackets with “Dr. Petty” stitched on, meaning a busy shift. She had a heavy knit scarf around her neck against the chill. She stopped briefly to pet the dogs. “Still in your gun dealer duds, I see.”
    â€œBusy night. Erin’s fine. Bradley was here. How are you?”
    They walked in behind the animals and Hood shut and locked the door, then hung Beth’s bag on the hat rack. She hooked the scarf next to Charlie Diamond’s straw gambler. “We lost a boy to the canal tonight. Second one this year. We did everything—oxygen, trach, paddles. Flat. Eight years old. Father and mother carried him in on a blanket. He looked asleep. Heading north for a better life and the boy was yipping up at the moon like a coyote and he slipped right in. You know how fast it is.”
    â€œThat’s a loss. I’m sorry, Beth.”
    Her face looked calm but her eyes were bereft. “I am, too. Alright. So. Man. I need a long shower and I’m starved. What’s to eat?”
    â€œGot you covered.”

6
    I nthe bright cool of the morning Hood followed the red Commander from the Pueblo Lodge to Castro Ford. The El Centro traffic was light but enough for cover, and he drove past the dealership as the two Missouri cops and their young partner walked toward the showroom. They had parked up front, next to what looked like Israel Castro’s new Flex.
    Hood drove a block and swung around and parked in the Desert Donuts lot across from Castro Ford. He looked out at the Flexes, which he liked, and the hot new Mustangs, which he also liked, and the new Explorers, which he liked, too. The new Taurus SHO was extra cool, and even the new economy cars had stance. Ten minutes later he saw the three men hustling down the showroom steps, Clint Wampler eating what looked like a maple bar.
    He followed them three cars back to the other side of town and Buster’s Last Stand. He drove past and made a U-turn at the next stop sign and circled back. The three men were carrying in some of the boxes he’d watched them load from the motel room.
    He drove to a convenience store where he bought a fancy coffee drink to go with the diamonds in his tooth. He wore a beige wool suit and the Borsalino gambler, and cap-toe, two-tone shoes that made an authoritative crack with each step as he crossed the parking lot of the gun store.
    He strode inside Buster’s Last Stand sipping the coffee, then slid his sunglasses into his coat pocket. He paid no attention to the three men who were talking with Buster across the handguns counter, but he nodded to Buster and Buster nodded back. He noted the heavyset woman at the checkout stand and strolled by to see her purchase: She was taking delivery on a semiautomatic AK-47-style rifle, and apparently filling out the paperwork to buy another one.
    Hood cruised the ammo aisles, perusing various calibers and loads, mostly handgun and larger-caliber rifle cartridges. He could hear Buster’s voice clear and loud: “I’m not interested in any of Granddad’s heirloom junk but I’ll take a look at what you got. Hey, Charlie Hooper! You come back for those forty cals?”
    Hood ignored him. Let them come to you, he thought. This was a favorite rule of his old Blowdown boss, Sean Ozburn, a crack undercover agent, always cool and never made: Don’t be eager. Ozburn had been the best of them until Mike Finnegan tore him to shreds—mentally, spiritually, and finally physically. Oz’s lovely wife, too. All of that, without even touching them.
    Hood continued to ignore Buster and look at the ammo, noting that prices were leveling off. They had gone up