The Famous and the Dead (2 page)

“Later this month. A Sunday. He's signing autographs at the Alternative Book Fair in San Diego.”

Stren pursed his lips and nodded curtly, then he flipped his notebook shut and capped the pen and returned them both to his coat pocket. He leaned elbows to knees and looked at Rovanna. “Thank you for your time and honesty. I'll be writing my letter of recommendation later today. Of course, the final decision will be left to one of the judges and this could take some time. The courts are terribly backed up at the superior level.”

“What are you going to say?”

“I haven't decided. But, in the meantime . . .”

The doctor straightened, set his hat on his head, tilted it back at a casual angle, then brought his black leather medical bag to his lap and opened it. He held out the sides with both hands and stared down into it for a long moment, then reached in. Rovanna expected a syringe and vial, or maybe a sample packet for a new prescription drug, or maybe a form to sign. Or one of the dread orbitoclasts used in lobotomies. He even imagined a cobra, because, just as he had said, he could not control his imagination, and a cobra had just crawled into his mind.

Instead Stren pulled a firearm from the bag, then set the bag aside. He balanced the gun in his small hands, framing it like a salesman for Rovanna to behold. It looked like a common, medium-size, semiautomatic handgun, although Rovanna had never seen one exactly like it. The finish was stainless and the grips were checked black polymer, and it had a slightly plump and heavy look.

“What is it?”

“The Love Thirty-two.”

“Love?”

“The manufacturer was the old Orange County outfit, Pace Arms.”

“I never heard of them.”

“Saturday night specials. Pace Arms was run out of business not long ago.”

“Why call it Love?”

“Something to do with history.” Stren reached into the bag and pulled out a sound suppressor, which he screwed onto the end of the barrel. Then he pointed the barrel down and with his left thumb and forefinger depressed two buttons on either side of the frame, near the back end of the weapon. Out popped two short rods connected by an end piece. The doctor then extended the assembly, like the telescoping handle on a piece of luggage. Rovanna heard it lock into place. A skeleton butt, he thought, to brace in the crook of your elbow when firing. Truthfully, it seemed more like a gimmick than something you'd need.

“It's fully automatic,” said Stren.

Not a gimmick at all then
, thought Rovanna. The doctor pulled a very long magazine from his bag, and Rovanna could see the glimmer of the brass and copper within until Stren pushed it up into the handle of the gun. It snapped into place with a sharp click. The bottom half of the magazine protruded from the handle in a gently lethal curve.

“Thirty-two-caliber ACP,” said the doctor. “Fifty rounds in one five-second burst. Or, several shorter bursts. Or, you can choose semi and just squeeze them off one at a time. Subsonic, of course, and practically silent. The casings hitting the floor make as much noise as the gun.”

Stren took his sky blue pocket square and wiped down the weapon. He ejected the magazine and wiped this also. When the Love 32 was whole again, he dabbed away once more with the silk square then set the gun on the couch. From his bag he took a box of ammunition and a spare magazine and put them beside the gun. He pushed the square back into his coat pocket, zipped shut the doctor's bag, and stood.

“I'll recommend that your constitutional rights be restored,” he said. “Though quite honestly I don't think your chances are good. It will take time for the court to decide. There is nothing wrong with you, Lonnie. Sometimes friends are all we have. And voices speak to all of us at different times. Listen to them and do what you think is right. As a human being you are free to decide. Anyone who tells you differently is trying to enslave you. In the meantime use this gift to protect yourself and those around you and to advance the ideals you believe in. I cannot force you to accept this gift. You are free to reject it at any time.”

Rovanna watched Stren walk back down the gravel drive. The doctor turned and tipped his hat, then disappeared around the main house. The lump in Rovanna's throat had returned, and he realized how badly he had misjudged this man. He sat on the plaid couch and looked down at the Love 32 for a long while before picking it up.

C
harlie Hood's first big undercover assignment began with a nineteen-year-old girl living in a small town in Russell County, Missouri. Her name was Mary Kate Boyle and she had first told her disturbing story over the phone to a girlfriend recently moved to Los Angeles, who happened to have just read a piece in the
Los Angeles Times Magazine
about a cool G-man.

The G-man was the Special Agent in Charge of the Bureau of Alcohol, Tobacco, Firearms and Explosives in Los Angeles, and Mary Kate took a very long Trailways journey to come find him. In conversation Mary Kate got the
A
,
T
, and
F
correct but kept getting the order wrong, calling the bureau FAT. It was her first time away from her little piece of Missouri.

The SAC heard her out before handing her down the line to an ATF-led task force working guns along the Mexico border. She told of four men—three of them Russell County deputies—who were stealing confiscated evidence and selling it. Mostly guns and drugs. Of course any cash they just put in their pockets. This had been going on for over a year. Three of them were headed to California to do some business, hoping to find some drug cartel “beaners” with money to spend. The city of El Central was the place to be, they had told her. They wanted to find straw buyers. Cash, cash, and more cash, all that profit from the drugs the cartels sold. Plus one of the deputies had a friend in El Central with a restaurant that had the best burritos in the world. So they could eat there for cheap. You know how cops are. Oops.

All of this she had overheard, in pieces, during the last months of her senior year of high school. Last week she had been assaulted by one of those men, beaten sharply, and thrown out of his double-wide. His name was Lyle Scully, Skull for short, the leader. Now here in the ATF field office in Buenavista she sat, skinny, fair, and freckled. Mary Kate had an eye swollen up the color of a plum and a deep continuous split in both lips, but still she talked more than a little.

“And I don't think too high of that kind of treatment. Skull says I was born trash and will stay trash and it may be true. That sure didn't stop him making me pregnant, now, did it? God knows it took him long enough and I thought maybe a ring would come attached. It didn't. His divorce is long finalized. So I got the procedure. And now I'm here in California and that's behind me and I'm not going back. Never. Except maybe to get some things. I always wanted to rent one of them U-Haul trucks and just drive away from Russell County. I like the ones with the palm trees and waterskiers on the side. I'm going to be an actor, model, or nurse, whichever happens first. I told all this to your boss up in L.A. and he told me you're the people who can get things done down here.”

Hood kept notes but mostly he just listened. He was a Los Angeles County sheriff deputy assigned to the ATF Operation Blowdown task force. The people in this room were part of his Achilles team, Mary Kate notwithstanding. Fourth year now for Hood. He thought of ATF not so much as Alcohol, Tobacco and Firearms, but as GDT—Guns, Dust and Treachery. ATF was chronically understaffed and the caseload was heavy, but scandal had further lowered the bureau in the public eye and sent its supporters in high places running. Certain ATF supervisors had implemented some bad ideas in an operation dubbed Fast and Furious and gotten bad results. Even before this calamity, ATF had been an easy political target but now it seemed nearly friendless. Hood had always thought that, just for starters, ATF had it rough because most Americans
liked
alcohol, tobacco, and firearms—and disliked regulation. Hence the agency was spooked and defensive. He chuckled when Mary Kate called it FAT. But Hood enjoyed the work because there was action, and he felt it was necessary work. Hood wanted to be necessary. He was a Bakersfield boy and he had served in Iraq, Anbar Province. He was thirty-four, tall and loose, with an open face and strong eyes.

“El Centro?” asked Janet Bly. Janet had been the senior agent of this Achilles team and still seemed to think of herself as such. Last month ATF had brought in a more senior agent, Dale Yorth, who now sat at the head of the table with an eager look on his face. He'd come in from Miami and the team jury on him was still out.

“Yep. Skull said El Central, pretty sure.” Mary Kate dabbed her lips with a tissue.

Hood saw the still unhealed split and felt bad but he also thought that a beating and an abortion might in the long run be a fair trade for escaping a life tied to Lyle Scully. The womenfolk in her part of the world tended to bear the brunt of things, or so he'd read and seen in movies. But Mary Kate would have to stay escaped, of course. Would have to
want
to stay escaped. People had surprising needs and default settings.

“What happened to the fourth guy?” asked Bly.

“Went missing three months back. Not a trace. Disappearo.”

“Do you know what contraband they have to sell?” Yorth asked.

“Not exactly. But there's plenty of crank since a lot of it's cooked up right there in Russell County. It's high-grade stuff so far as that kinda thing goes. I tried it once and didn't like it. Then there's always plenty of bud to be smoked. Heroin's still pretty popular but the pharmaceuticals are taking it over. Two guys broke into, like, four Jefferson pharmacies in one weekend, helped themselves, but the state police sent the videos around and guess what? The crooks were from our own neck of the woods. So the Russell County boys busted their butts. Skull and his team grabbed most of the evidence when no one was looking and him and his crew sold almost all of it. Right out of Skull's truck, he said, like a roach coach for drugs. Also I know they got lots of guns. Most of them were stored in the property room, some for years. I know this from Skull. And a course they're supposed to destroy the guns once the trial's over but Skull worked it so the paperwork for destroyal got sent but he took the guns himself. Don't ask me what kind or how many. Except once we all went out the woods so they could try out this new gun they got, and it was a big honkin' thing that had legs on one end and a big round doughnutlike thing on the top. Loud. And heavy, even for Skull, who is approximately two hundred pounds of solid muscle. He laid on the ground and fired. Then he got up and braced it on his hip and had to put some back into it. Shot up a bunch of watermelons. I don't like guns any more than I like crank, though I don't see any harm in putting food on a table, which a course ain't what a gun like that gets used for.”

“Legs on the end?” asked Hood. “A bipod?”

“Yeah, the far end, like two legs. For when he laid down and shot.”

“And a black doughnut? Do you mean a drum attached on top, flat to the frame of the gun?”

“That's what I mean, valentine.” She smiled, then winced and brought the tissue back to her mouth. “Ouch. That's what I get for funnin'. Story of my life.”

He smiled back and shook his head. And thought,
An old Lewis Gun?
Not exactly state-of-the-art weaponry, though it was a bruiser. It was the only machine gun that he could think of with an ammo pan on top. Belgian. It was a popular machine gun in World War I, and into World War II, but they hadn't made one in seventy-something years. Of course, if Pace Arms could make a thousand Love 32s in Orange County, anything could happen. He'd seen pictures of the Lewis Mark I, and a total of one in the flesh, in his entire life.

“Where do you think they'll go when they get here?” asked Velasquez. He was the youngest of this team and the only one with a master's degree, which was in economics.

“To a motel, I guess,” said Mary Kate Boyle.

“And to get the best burritos in the world,” said Hood.

Yorth leaned back and set his hands behind his head. He was a big man with short yellow hair that was dark at the roots. “You know the name of the restaurant?”

“I'da told you if I did. How many burrito restaurants can there be in El Central?”

“Probably twenty Mexican restaurants,” said Hood. “That's just a guess.”

“Call Skull and ask him which restaurant, Mary Kate,” said Yorth.

Hood saw the tick of worry cross Mary Kate Boyle's face.

Janet Bly rolled her eyes and groaned.

Velasquez tapped his fingers on the tabletop.

“Why not?” asked Yorth. “Call him on your cell and tell him things are just fine in here in Russell County but you miss him. You just want to talk. Hoping you're okay, Skull. Just reach out. Get him talking to you. That's all.”

“I ain't doing that.”

“If you want Lyle locked away safe in prison, you better consider it. Because if you don't cooperate with us, our chances of putting these boys away go way, way down.”

“I still ain't calling him.”

Yorth stared at her. “What about testifying in court? You told the SAC in L.A. you'd do that.”

“Testifying is one thing, but sneaking up on a man you're done with is something else.”

“You started sneaking when you bought that Trailways ticket, Mary Kate.”

Mary Kate colored and looked down for a moment and took a deep breath. When she looked up again, she had sharp anger in her eyes. “That isn't sneaking. I never asked Skull to steal. I told him not to. I didn't ask him to go bragging on and on about it. And I didn't ask to go out to the woods to shoot that big old machine gun. And I didn't ask—”

“For the cool stuff he bought you with money you knew he'd stolen,” said Yorth.

“Knock it off, Dale,” said Bly.

Mary Kate stood and slung her bag over her shoulder. Hood and Velasquez stood, too.

“There wasn't that much cool stuff involved,” Mary Kate said. “I took a bus here to help and you call me a whore. You're as big an asshole as Skull ever was.”

“Sit down,” said Yorth. “I was out of line.”

“I'm outta here and you can't stop me.” She looked at each of the other three agents in the room. “You, you, and you got my number.” Then she aimed her battered face down on Yorth. “You don't.”

•   •   •

“Way to handle a cooperative informant,” said Bly.

Yorth shrugged. “You've got her number.”

“Christ, Dale, put her back with
him
? She should stay as far away from that guy as possible. Look what he did to her.”

“Then we have a difference of opinion. I cleared the idea with L.A. Now, here's what these heroes look like.” Yorth handed out photo prints and bios of the cops, and mug shots and a criminal record of the third man. “I've sent these to your phones.”

Hood squared his sheets and looked through them. Two pictures of each bad guy per page, along with brief descriptions. The great leader, Lyle Scully, two hundred pounds of solid woman-beating muscle, had a shaven head and a goatee, and was a thirty-year-old sergeant-detective. Sgt. Brock Peltz was fifty-one and heavy. Clint Wampler looked chimplike, with big ears and small eyes and an early Beatles pageboy. Hood thought of his own pronounced ears. Clint was twenty-seven and unemployed, with convictions for driving under the influence, aggravated assault, and burglary. He'd done a year. Hood also saw that nineteen-year-old Clint Wampler had been questioned in the torching of a Russell County post office on April 19 of 2005. The FBI had charged two known associates but not Wampler. “That was the ten-year anniversary of Oklahoma City,” said Hood. “When Wampler's buddies torched the post office in Russell County.”

“I see he's got like-minded friends all over the country,” said Bly. “Militiamen in Montana, the Minutemen here on the border, and the good old Aryan Nation boys out in Idaho. Even the Covert Group—the old guys who wanted to poison a small town with ricin. Apparently he's been in touch with them, too.”

Yorth groaned. “But not with Islamic extremists? They should throw in together and share expenses. Islamamerica, how's that sound?”

“That's ridiculous,” said Bly, then she muttered, “least I hope it is.”

This got a brief laugh. In the ensuing near silence the agents pored over the images. Hood heard the central heat come on. Two or three times a year Buenavista was the hottest place in the nation, but in February the little border town could get cold.

“So then,” said Yorth. “Where do we find Skull and his merry band?”

“Maybe through an informant we
haven't
run off,” said Bly.

“I hear you, Janet,” said Yorth. “I hear you, I hear you.”

“The Palomino Club in El Centro,” said Velasquez. “It's popular with narcos and straw buyers. So are the El Pueblo Restaurant and the Fuzzy Dice bar.”

“There's the Monterey Restaurant on Main Avenue,” said Hood. “They have a sign out front that says something about their burritos. ‘Best in the west,' or ‘world's best' or something like that.”

Yorth smiled. “Has ATF ever gotten anything that easy?”

“L.A. should have the phone-tap warrant by this afternoon,” said Bly. “I'll badger them, as I'm so good at doing. Then there's the gun stores. These guys might just watch the customers come and go, pick out a likely buyer, and make an approach. They'll want to get in and out and back home to their families and illustrious careers.”

“Charlie Diamonds should be that buyer,” said Hood. “He's been in all those clubs and restaurants and stores, and others. He's made some small legal buys. So now he needs a machine gun. And more. He's a familiar face and a fat wallet.”

Bly nodded. “I like that idea.”

“I do, too,” said Velasquez.

Yorth locked his hands together behind his head again. “Ready to fly, Charlie?”

Hood smiled and the diamonds of his left canine caught the light.