Dead Americans (18 page)

Glancing to his left and right, he stared at the clothes on the racks: they were of a design he’d never seen, and made stranger by the fact that the colour had been washed out by the light, leaving what remained to look as if it had been made from watered down paints. Around him a characterless sweet toned murmur of music passed from unseen speaker to speaker in Chinese Whispers.

There was no need for him to be in the store, no reason for him to continue, but he did. The clothes shifted in the cool, artificial whisper of the air conditioning, and soon he came upon aisles of plastic boxes and saucepans and bicycles that looked space age. Food was also offered, and behind him, the entrance to Wal-Mart disappeared in a bright whiteness . . .  but it didn’t matter. Nothing mattered in the tranquility of the store.

The glass cabinets at the back of Wal-Mart were a beacon for him—it was possible that they had been calling ever since he had walked through the doors, and that their promise was a need that only his subconscious had been aware of and that, only now, he was recognizing.

When Wayne stepped around the corner, leaving the washed out blue and black of car repair kits and the brown of fishing rods behind, a smile unfolded across his face and he stopped. There, he took in the sight of each item in one long drinking glance.

Guns.

There were over fifty, and most were the length of his arm, and ended in polished wooden stocks.

Wayne approached them slowly. The voice of dissent that had raised itself earlier was gone, but it had left a faint tactile impression on his brain, suggesting that this wasn’t right. But what could be wrong? How could it be wrong? The guns, neatly lined up, were soldiers: loyal and steadfast and unquestioning in their proposed service.

“See anything you like?”

Wayne blinked. He had believed he was alone, was sure of it, though he wasn’t quite sure why he had been so confident of the fact. It was a store. Stores had employees, even without customers. Nevertheless, the young man had materialized as if God’s pencil had suddenly sketched him into the world. There was nothing extraordinary about the young man: angular, bony, without muscle, and white. His skin much paler than Wayne’s, and his hair was a short, spiky blonde that had been dyed in a fashion trend that Wayne was unaware of. He was wearing black pants and a blue and red Wal-Mart t-shirt with the name
Lincoln
printed upon it.

“Sorry to startle you,” the young man said, offering his hand.

Wayne took it: loose and dry. He said, “Don’t worry none about it.”

“Cool.” He retracted his hand. “See anything you like?”

“They all look good,” Wayne replied, his gaze returning to the black metal shafts.

“They’re great for protection—I mean, you’ve
got
to protect yourself, right?”

Without changing the focus of his gaze, Wayne nodded.

“It’s an increasingly dangerous world out there. It’s not what it used to be in the streets or in the world around us. A lot of people envy the kind of freedom we’ve got. Especially in some of those—in, you know, the
black
” —he whispered the word and it escaped his lips like a curse— “neighbourhoods.”

“Black?” Wayne repeated, a sour expression crossing his face.

“Yeah, man. You got to watch for them, y’know? They make up around seventy percent of the jail population, most of them in their for armed robbery or murder or—”

“I have no problem with an
American
,” he interrupted. “Don’t matter their colour.”

“Well, individually, yeah, some of my mates are black,” Lincoln replied quickly. “But that’s individually. As a group—as a group, you’ve got to admit it’s something different. A lot of hate in those people as a group.”

“We ain’t done well by most of them.”

“We’ve been more than fair.”

“No,” Wayne said, the word ringing out with a deep certainty. “We ain’t been fair to them. The key to being an American is
free
dom—notice my emphasis. We got to make sure it’s for everyone in America, not just those people born the so-called right colour. Black people have the exact same rights as me and you, and not respecting that, that was a thing that we’ve got to deal with, cause we’ve done wrong by them.”

“I didn’t do a thing to them!”

“You’re American, right?”

“Damn straight,” Lincoln shot back. “Proud of it, too.”

“Then you got to accept that this fine country hasn’t always had its finest moments when dealing with some other folks.”

“But—”

“No,” Wayne repeated sternly. “There’s right and wrong, and we did wrong.”

The young clerk stared at him, clearly not pleased. Then, with a slight smile, he ran his hand through his hair and said, “Well, I’m not going to argue with you, man. Never thought I’d hear that in here, though. Next you’ll be saying we should give back the Native Americans their land.”

Wayne shook his head. There was no humour in the situation. “Ain’t been nothing wrong done there, boy, and don’t let me hear you argue it like some folks I know.”

“Course not.”

“Good. Now, I’ve been looking over your guns here, and I reckon I fancy the look of that twelve gauge you’ve got there.”

“The Browning, yeah?”

“Yeah.”

“That’s three ninety eight.”

Kinda expensive
, Wayne wanted to say, but the price was quite good. What was he thinking? “That’s fine,” he said, finally.

Lincoln pulled the key out of his pants, opened the glass cabinet, and removed the shotgun. Outside the glass, the barrel and wooden stock were darker, as if the entire shotgun had gained an extra weight in reality simply by being placed in Lincoln’s pale hands. Reaching out, Wayne took the weapon into his own grasp as if it were a child. He had been around guns all his life, both real and fake, but there was a rare joy in holding a new gun for the first time, to become acquainted with its texture. He could tell that this shotgun was something special: a rib of the Earth that God had reached deeply into and pulled out.

“Yeah, this’ll do,” Wayne murmured, placing it down on the counter, his fingers never leaving the metal.

“Okay,” Lincoln said, appearing on the other side of the counter. “It’s pretty easy from this point onwards: all I need is two pieces of ID and for you to answer some questions for me. Then, well, then this’ll all be for you.”

Wayne nodded. He opened his wallet and pulled out his driver’s license and credit card, and passed them to Lincoln.

The clerk examined them, nodded, and handed them back. “Okay, that’s fine,” he said. “Now you’ve just got to answer these questions—I’ll just fill in your name and address here at the top.

“Okay,” he said, having finished filling in the details. “First. Have you ever been convicted of a felony?”

“No.”

“Are you, or have you ever been, homosexual?”

“No.”

“Do you regularly wear black?”

“No.”

“Are you black—ah, don’t worry about that. It’s just the next question, sorry.”

Wayne grunted, his displeasure evident. “I don’t like that question, boy. Colour ought to not have anything to do with it.”

“It’s just the question. I don’t write the sheet. Anyhow, you’ve got one left, ready?”

“Yeah.”

“Okay.” Lincoln took a deep breath, and in a rush said, “Have you ever thought that your Government is lying to you? And that this lie exists to hide the truth about a political system that has ceased to be about democracy, but has become a Capitalist-orientated Government that runs the country not with the needs of the people in mind, but rather with the needs of its investors. These investors being the large companies that support the President during his campaign for office. Furthermore, has it ever occurred to you that this Capitalist Government is promoting a Right Wing Christian view throughout politics and economics on a global scale, which is ensuring that new technologies and theories that exist outside the Capitalist cannon are stunted in their growth?”

“I can honestly say,” Wayne said slowly, “that I ain’t never thought that in my entire life.”

“Great,” the other replied brightly. “I’ll just call, get everything checked, and then, assuming there’s no problems, the gun is yours.”

Wayne waited while the young man called. It took five minutes for him to repeat the information, and another five to wait for conformation, and then he hung up. “Everything is fine,” Lincoln said. “Just got to pay for it.”

“Sure. Credit card is there. Don’t suppose you mind giving me some bullets?”

“Sorry, it’s against store policy.”

“Sure?”

“Yeah, but there’s a
K-Mart
a block down, and you can get some there.”

“They ain’t going say anything about me bringing in the shotgun, right?”

“Won’t be a problem. You’ve got a receipt.”

The bullets were easily obtained. Wayne placed them in the box next to the twelve Gauge, held both in his right hand and felt, for the first time since leaving Welles, safe. Safe enough that, when he figured out where he was (38
th
Street), he didn’t hesitate to make his way back towards the Avenue of Americas, a stream of cigarette smoke trailing in smoky-grey victory.

Above him, the sky rumbled with thunder. The fragile shadows that had strained earlier across the ground finally broke and seeped into the concrete, washed away like dirt down a drain. Wayne didn’t quicken his pace.
Let it rain!
He didn’t care. Nothing bothered him. If it weren’t for the people around him, he might have laughed at the fear he had felt earlier. A fear that did not bother him as he paused at the curb, waiting for the pedestrian light to change, and saw two Middle Eastern men step from a yellow and black checkered taxi.

Wayne didn’t know from just where in the Middle East they originated. It could have been Afghanistan, Iran, or Pakistan; he wouldn’t know unless they announced it. Identically shaped, they were thickset men just under six feet. The first man, wearing a blue turban, had a face that had been horribly scarred by acne. The second man, in a white turban, had thick eyebrows and moustache, and a short neck, as if he were missing vertebrae. Both wore grey suits, with red handkerchiefs in their pockets.

Red.

Nothing to worry about
, Wayne told himself, his grip tightening on the box.
Nothing
.

Their gaze fell on Wayne.

He smiled politely in return.
Red
. Why did he care? He didn’t. Yet Welles’ egg sat in his brain, connecting with the colour as if it was an answer to a question that had plagued him since his birth.

The two men made their way up the street, their gaze never leaving him. Wayne told himself that he had nothing to worry about—nothing—but the Welles egg fractured and its fluid began to seep out, sending a small wet curling finger of fear through him. He tried to ignore it. He had the shotgun: its very design and purpose to protect its owner. There was nothing to worry about. Nothing at all.

The pedestrian light changed.

Crossing, Wayne quickened his pace. At the end of the road, glancing behind him, seeing them following—
redredredredred
—he dropped his cigarette and began weaving through people. His thick hands bent the corners of the shotgun box, as dampness began to trickle down his spine. Behind him, the two Middle Eastern men quickened their pace.

Ahead, the pedestrian light was red.
Red
.
Christ
. He knew that if he waited, it would bring the two Middle Eastern men up beside him.
Good
. No. No, it wasn’t good. The shotgun box dug into his palm in demand. He wanted to rip the lid off and load it. But he wouldn’t. He would feel safer if he did—he should—but he wouldn’t. He
couldn’t
open the box, not here, not in the middle of the street.

Wayne left the Avenue of Americas.

He turned sharply, making his way towards Park Avenue using 6
th
Street. Quickly, he worked his way through the people, pushing past them, telling himself—lying, he was lying—that he was heading down to the street early only because it was quicker to the Waldorf and it was going to rain. That was all. It had nothing to do with the two men. Nothing.

He glanced over his shoulder, searching for their turbans. Nothing.

He was a fool, an idiot. His grasp relaxed. He blamed Welles entirely, even though the fault lay within him. He had allowed the tiny doubts and fears to flood over him and force him to react in a fearful, suspicious way. An Un-American way.

Walking up to the front of the Waldorf, Wayne greeted the doorman in a short, terse greeting.

“Sir?” the short man said.

“Yeah?”

“There are two men waving at you, sir.”

Bending the box with his grip, Wayne turned. There, at the bottom of the steps, were the two men, their red handkerchiefs brightly displayed. The colour was all that he could focus on, all that mattered, and his hand, bending the box, came into contact with the stock of the shotgun . . .  Then, and only then, did Wayne realize that they were holding a pad of paper out to him.

“Please,” the blue turbaned man said. “We were told we could find you here.”

Wordlessly, grinding his teeth, Wayne laid the pad across the crushed shotgun box, and signed his name.

He wanted to call Welles and attack him over the phone, but he didn’t. He knew that if he did, the other man would simply deny it and chuckle down the line at the success of his private joke. But the next time he saw Welles . . .  well, that was another question, and another time.

Placing the shotgun box on the coffee table, Wayne kicked off his boots, and dropped his hat down on the chair. A moment later, he picked it up and tossed it onto the table with the shotgun, then sat down and pulled the phone towards him. There was a line of lightening outside the window, followed by the sound of rain smacking against the glass in a hard rhythm. At least he had avoided the storm. That was one thing. Dialling room service, he ordered a steak and potatoes dinner, then hung up, picked up the receiver again, and called his wife.

Esperanza answered on the third ring. Her sweet voice reached him with the faint trace of static, “Hola.”