The Famous and the Dead by T. Jefferson Parker Page A

dramatically after the 2008 and 2012 presidential elections, as had the domestic sales of new weapons from every major American gun manufacturer. And it had all gone up in price again after the Newtown massacre. Hood thought of Obama’s first year in office, when the NRA and Fox News had told America that the new president, though possibly not a citizen, certainly wanted their guns—and America had listened. Hood had realized that fear was good for the news business, and for the entertainment and weapons industries as well. Fear drove sales. Fear of gangs, fear of government. Fear of terrorists, fear of gun control. Fear of Islam, fear of socialism. Hood wondered what the NRA’s next marketable crisis
might be. He’d seen a scary and entertaining zombie movie recently, which depicted more ammo being shot up in two hours than Buster could sell in a year.
    He went back to the entrance/exit and tossed his empty coffee cup into a trash can festooned with popular Zombie Bob targets.
Eureka
, he thought. The Bobs had been shot up pretty badly but what was left of them drooled and grimaced from the canister. The heavyset woman, now wearing rhinestone sunglasses, had finished her next purchase order and she now waddled toward him with the boxed assault rifle cradled in her arms and a black rhinestone-studded purse balanced on top. “Get the door,” she said.
    â€œCon permiso.”
Hood tipped his hat and held open the door for her, noting which car she was headed for and easily memorizing the vanity plates. Then he unracked a shopping cart and pushed it back to the ammunition aisle. He loaded in five ten-box cases of the .40-caliber shells. This would set ATF back some scarce money, but the western division had gone to .40-caliber Glocks, so the ammo would be useful beyond its moment here as a good stage prop.
    He toured the store briefly, threw a package of Zombie Bob paper targets into the cart for good luck, and stopped where the four men stood looking at him. A small arsenal of used weapons rested on a folded camo-patterned blanket placed atop the counter to save the glass. Hood looked at the guns but not the men.
    â€œGranddad’s heirloom junk is right,” he said.
    â€œExcept that nobody asked you,” said Skull.
    â€œHe has a point, Mr. Hooper,” said Buster. “And I’m glad you found some ammo. But weren’t you after a lot more than that?”
    â€œAt your price this is all I can afford. Luckily it’s for an immediate, short-term app. A mortal thing.” Hood smiled slightly.
    Buster gave him a confused look. “Ring it up, then?”
    Hood looked up from the guns and into the faces of three men one at a time. “So what happened to old Granddad, anyway?”
    â€œNone of your business, Twinkle Tooth,” said Brock Peltz. He was taller and heavier than Hood had expected.
    Young Clint Wampler laughed. He wore a peacoat and had the same pageboy bangs as in his mug shot. “He died defending this country from people like you.”
    â€œI have no idea what you mean by that,” said Hood.
    â€œGrandpa’s goddamned dead is what I mean,” said Wampler.
    â€œGentlemen,” Buster said.
    Wampler again: “I mean this country can’t live without no shitfaces but not principles.”
    â€œClearly,” said Hood.
    â€œMr. Hooper, why don’t we just step over to checkout and ring up those shells?”
    Hood looked at Skull. “How much do you want for the saddle rifle?”
    â€œHey, hey, hey!” boomed Buster. “Posted private property so no trespassing! This is my store and I do the buying and selling.”
    â€œYou’d get your tithe, Buster,” said Hood.
    â€œIt’s a Winchester Ninety-two,” said Skull.
    â€œIt’s a Winchester Ninety-two knockoff made by Rossi. No shame in Granddad being value-minded.”
    â€œThree hundred,” said Skull.
    â€œI’ll give you two