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

hundred if you throw in the scabbard.”
    â€œ
Gun Trader’s Guide
has it at two-fifty. Gun alone.”
    Hood hefted the heavy little carbine, worked the lever, checked the chamber and magazine, lowered the hammer with his thumb. He brought a white handkerchief from his coat pocket, wiped the butt plate clean, then shouldered the weapon. “I always liked cowboy guns.”
    â€œI’ll go two-fifty,” said Skull. “And twenty for the scabbard, which I got no use for without the gun. That’s the price the guide says.”
    Hood lowered the gun and with his hankie wiped what he had touched, then set the gun back on the blanket. “Sell it to the guide, then.”
    â€œBeat it, fruit loop,” said Peltz. “We’ve got some business to do.”
    Hood glanced up at him, then back down at the guns. He studied them for a long beat. “I do have some homosexual clients.”
    â€œIn New York you could marry one of them,” said Skull. The other men laughed heartily.
    Young Clint Wampler’s face was filled with glee. “That’s because you want to be one.”
    Hood smiled. “I’m sorry, young man, but I have trouble grasping your ideas. Just let me say that my customers, homosexual or not, need more than these rusty, small-bore playthings. Buster, let’s cash out these targets and ammo.”
    â€œYou got her.”
    Hood turned the cart around in a wheelie and headed for the checkout counter. “That fucker’s fuckin’ fucked,” he heard Wampler say. At the register he paid cash.
    â€œSorry, I guess,” said Buster.
    â€œDon’t be. Lowball the living daylights out of them. And do let me know when something more substantial comes your way. My Virginia collector is still hot for those vintage machine guns. And you still have my card, I trust.”
    â€œGot it somewheres.”
    Hood gave him another one.
    â€¢Â Â Â â€¢Â Â Â â€¢
    Thirty minutes later Hood was at the El Pueblo waiting for his breakfast. He checked his e-mail and website and Facebook page and found one potentially legitimate message:
We need to talk. Lonnie R
. Hood didn’t recognize the name. Lonnie had not included his phone number or a return address of any kind. The waitress poured him more coffee. After breakfast his phone rang and he was hoping for Lonnie R. with a red-hot tip on Mike. The voice was rough and familiar. “My name is Dirk Sculler. We met at Buster’s half an hour ago.”
    Lyle Scully
, Hood thought. “The wild bunch.”
    â€œSorry. They get excited.”
    â€œI’ll recover.”
    â€œBuster told me you want an operational machine gun. For a collector. Full size, not a sub.”
    â€œPlural if I had my way. And vintage. World Wars I and II. For a history buff.”
    â€œI might be able to do that. I checked out your website. Good enough. And your card says licensed but there’s no federal number. Maybe you can explain that.”
    â€œI don’t put it anywhere some fool might try to use it. I put it on the FTRs if I have to.”
    â€œIf you’re licensed you
do
have to.”
    â€œSome things are easier without paperwork, Mr. Sculler. If you’ve never filled out an ATF firearms transaction form, take my word for it.”
    A pause, then: “Forms are deal breakers for me, Mr. Hooper.”
    â€œThe seller is always right.”
    â€œMaybe we understand each other.”
    â€œPossibly.”
    â€œI might be able to get you a Lewis Mark I.”
    â€œI might be able to buy an operational Lewis Mark I.”
    â€œOh, it operates.” Skull chuckled.
    â€œCondition?”
    â€œVery good.”
    â€œWould it come with the pan magazine and front bipod stand?”
    â€œBoth.”
    â€œHow much?”
    â€œFive thousand cash.”
    â€œThat’s too high.”
    â€œFour thousand. Try getting a quote from the
Gun Trader
on that old