The sign shouted DON’S GUNS & AMMO in big red letters—peeling red letters—with Shooting Range below it in smaller black print.
“This must be the place,” Jack said as they pulled into the sandy lot on a rural road in Hendry County.
Only one other car, an old Mercedes diesel sedan, in sight. Probably the owner’s. Opening time was 9:00 A.M. and it was after ten now. Jack figured there probably would be lots more activity once hunting season started, but at the moment he and Dad seemed like the only customers.
They went inside. Behind the counter they found a slim guy with salt-and-pepper hair and mustache. His lined face made him look sixtyish, maybe even older.
“Are you Don?” Dad said, extending his hand.
“That’s me.”
“We called about the M1C.”
They’d made a lot of calls to a lot of gun shops—amazing how many there were in Florida—and not one of them had a M1903A1. But this place said it had an old M1C. Close enough, Dad had said. Hendry County was a good ways north of Gateways, but they’d had no other options.
Don smiled as he lifted the rifle leaning against the wall behind him and laid it on its side, bolt handle up.
“One M1C Garand, coming up. Heavy sucker. Gotta weigh a dozen pounds. But it’s fully rigged—still has the original scope and flash hider.”
“I see that,” Dad said.
Jack was seeing a beat-up piece of junk: The dried-out wooden stock was scratched and dinged and gouged, the metal finish worn, and the whole thing looked like it had just received its first dusting in years.
Dad picked up the rifle and hefted it. In one seamless move he raised it to his shoulder and sighted down the scope.
“Never liked the M82 scope. Never liked the way it was mounted, and only two-and-a-half power. The Unertl I used was an eight.” He looked at Jack. “This was the Army’s sniper rifle for a while. Couldn’t hold a candle to the M1903A1, if you ask me.”
“If you really want to shoot that thing,” Don said, “I can sell you a much better scope.”
Dad shook his head. “I qualified on this as well as the 1903. It’ll have to do. But will it shoot?”
Don shrugged. “Got me there. I’d forgotten I had it until you called. That thing’s been here so long, I can’t remember when I bought it or who from.”
“What do you want for it?”
Don pursed his lips. “I’ll let it go for twenty-five hundred.”
“What?” Jack said.
Dad laughed. “Let it go? That’s way overpriced for Army surplus junk.”
“A fully outfitted M1C like this is a collector’s item. If this baby was in better shape it’d go for twice that at auction.”
“Hey, Dad, you can get a better rifle for a lot less.”
“But not one I’m used to.”
“Yeah, but twenty-five hundred bucks…”
“Hell, it’s only money.” He looked at Don. “I tell you what: You can have your asking price on the condition that it still fires. That means you’ve got to let me clean it and fire a few test rounds. Do you have a bench where I can spruce it up?”
Don pursed his lips again. “Okay. I’ve got a cleaning set-up in the back you can use. Go ahead. But give me a picture ID and your Social Security Number so I can background you while you’re doing that.”
“Background?” Jack said.
“Yeah. Instant background check. It’s the law. I’ve got to place a call to the FDLE to make sure he hasn’t got a criminal record, a domestic violence conviction, or under a restraining order. If he comes through clean, he gets the rifle. If not, no deal.”
“Might as well quit now, Dad,” Jack said gravely. “You are so busted.”
“Very funny.” He looked at Don. “No waiting period?”
He shook his head. “Not for rifles, but there’s a mandatory three-day ‘cooling-off period’ for pistols.”
Jack was glad he didn’t have to buy his guns through legal channels.
Dad fished out his wallet and handed his Florida driver license to Don, saying, “What about ammo? Have any match grade?”
Don nodded. “Got a box of thirty-ought-six Federals. I’ll throw in half a dozen rounds to let you check it out.”
Dad smiled. “You’re on.”