Twenty-two
HAM SELECTED A WEAPON, FIELD-STRIPPED IT and spread the parts out on a towel draped over a table on his back porch. Then he waited.
At six o’clock sharp, there was a loud knock on the front door, and a male voice yelled, “Ham?”
“Yo!” Ham yelled back, then went to the door, wiping his hands on a paper towel.
Peck Rawlings stood on the front porch, a thick envelope tucked under one arm. “Hey, there.”
“Hey, Peck, come on in,” Ham said, opening the door. “Come on out on the back porch. Can I get you a drink?”
“Well, I guess the sun is over the yardarm,” Rawlings replied. “Sure, if you’ve got some Scotch.”
“Go on outside and grab yourself a chair, while I pour.” Ham went to the kitchen, poured himself a bourbon and Rawlings a Scotch, then joined him.
Rawlings was bent over the table, examining the pistol. “What the hell is that?” he asked.
Ham handed him his drink, set his own down, quickly reassembled the pistol, screwed on the silencer, and handed it to Rawlings. “There you go.”
Rawlings examined the evil-looking .22 automatic. “Jesus, Ham, that’s an assassin’s weapon. Where’d you get it?”
“Oh, when I was in ’Nam I ran a few errands for the Company, and they issued me the thing. Somehow, it got lost, and they never got it back. Pretty pissed off, they were.”
“I can imagine.”
“They were manufactured in small numbers—handmade, really—specifically for the Company. They were used in wet work all over the world, I believe.” He took the pistol back from Rawlings, shoved in a clip, and worked the action. He took aim from the porch at a stand of cattails and fired, making only a tiny pfft sound, and cutting the head neatly off a cattail. “That was a .22 Magnum round, believe it or not.” He handed the pistol back to Rawlings. “Try it.”
Rawlings took aim at a cattail, fired a round, and missed. He handed the pistol back. “That’s really something,” he said.
“A little different from your Barrett’s rifle, but it gets the job done. And nowhere on it is there a serial number or any mark that would identify who made it.”
“I don’t suppose you’d like to sell it?”
“You’d have to pry it from my cold dead hand,” Ham said.
“I don’t blame you.”
“Sit down and drink your drink, Peck.”
The two men settled themselves and sipped their whiskey.
Ham said nothing, just looked out at the Indian River. He’d wait for Rawlings to get around to it.
“Pretty place you got here,” Rawlings said, finally.
“Yep, I sure love it.”
“How’d you ever come by it?”
“The easy way. Fellow I was in the army with died and left it to me.”
“You’re a lucky guy.”
“I sure am.”
Rawlings was quiet for another moment, then he shoved the thick envelope across the table to Ham. “I brought you something to read.”
Ham opened the envelope and shook out a book. “Ah, The Turner Diaries,” he said. “I read it twice, years ago.” He shoved it back across the table.
“No, keep it. That’s an autographed copy,” Rawlings said.
“Well, thank you, Peck. I’ll treasure it.”
“What did you think of the book?”
Ham had read it when he’d found a buck sergeant who served under him reading it. He thought it was the most outrageous collection of lies, bigotry and downright trash he’d ever come across. “Prescient,” he said. “The naked truth, well told.”
Rawlings grinned. “It sure is, ain’t it?”
“It is.”
“Ham, I think you’re my kind of guy.”
You do, do you? Ham thought. You go right on thinking that. “What kind of guy are you, Peck?” he asked.
“Me and my friends are what you might call patriots,” Rawlings said. “In our fashion.”
“And what fashion is that?”
“You might say we’re working toward the goals expressed in that book,” Rawlings said.
“And just how do you go about doing that?” Ham asked, looking curious. “Without getting sent to prison, I mean.”
“Slowly, carefully, and above all, quietly.”
“I should think so,” Ham said, nodding. “I’ve often wondered if there was anybody actually doing anything.”
“More than you might imagine,” Rawlings said.
“That’s interesting to hear.”
“Just how interesting, Ham?”
“Very interesting. Tell me more.”
Rawlings shook his head. “Not right now,” he said. “You and I will have to get to know each other better before I can do that. You’ll recall I said that we work carefully.”
“Sure, I understand. You go right on doing that.”
“With that in mind, I’d like to know a little more about your daughter.”
“Holly?”
“Right, Holly. She seemed to me to be a little—”
“Annoying?” Ham ventured.
“If you’ll forgive me saying so, yes, annoying.”
“Well, Holly’s not the smartest girl who ever came along. I mean, she’s my daughter and all, but we’ve never seen eye to eye about a lot of things, so we don’t see all that much of each other.”
“Looks like you go fishing together.”
“That’s about all we have in common,” Ham said. “If we can get through a couple of hours of fishing without getting into an argument, we’re doing well.”
“What do you argue about?”
“Well, politics, and, until recently, her boyfriend.”
“What about him?”
“He always looked like a Jew to me, although he denied it.”
“So she finally dumped him?”
“No, somebody dumped him for her. He got blown away in a bank robbery, just as they were about to get married.”
Rawlings’s eyebrows went up. “A bank robbery?”
“Yep. He apparently shot off his mouth—he had a real smart mouth—to somebody who was holding a shotgun, and the shotgun just happened to go off. Good riddance, if you ask me.”
“You know, I think I saw something about that in the papers. Is your daughter a cop?”
“She’s the fucking chief of police!” Ham spat out. “Can you believe it? She was an MP in the army, and not all that good at it, and an old buddy of mine got her this job. Just between you and me, she’s not all that good at this one, either.”
“Well, ain’t life funny?” Rawlings said. He looked at his watch. “Well, I’ve gotta be somewhere.” He stood up. “Thanks for the drink, Ham. I’ll see you around.”
Ham shook his hand and showed him to the door, then watched him drive away. He went back into the house and called Holly.
“How’d it go?” she asked.
“Not so hot,” Ham replied. “We got to talking about you, and I broke the news to him about your being a cop. He didn’t take it too well; a minute later, he was out of here.”
Holly sighed.
“Yeah,” Ham said. “You better think of something else.”