Matt notes again the accent that has worked its way into his father’s speech. He can’t tell one accent from another but he likes them. They’re subtle and invite you to listen. And not just how they sound, but the phrases, too. Like “on account of” and “didn’t get on,” and “had me a sweetie.”
“After Tulsa came Abilene, Kansas, for skip tracing, which some people call bounty hunting. Michelle. I tried. Then to San Antonio with some old Air Force friends on the PD. Annie, a Lipan Apache. Great gal and a bit wild. Then there was Kansas City, Dodge City, Fort Worth. I liked the look of Tombstone but couldn’t find work. I went anywhere from my outlaw books when I was a kid. Anywhere I liked the sound of. Weird, kinda, for a full-grown man to wander around like that. My hope was always to find work in the genuine West, and a woman to make a life with after Julie. Somewhere I could say my piece, carry my piece, and be good to good people. Away from cute, fairy-tale places like this. Away from phonies.”
Matt feels very strange right now, talking to a man he has barely known “after Julie.” A cop in Tulsa? A bounty hunter in Abilene? Mexican heroin?
It’s like a deputy/gunman has ridden into his life on some dusty trail from history.
Matt’s got a million questions. “What’s your work right now?”
Bruce smiles, sips. “I’m in-between. A little money in the wallet. I don’t intend to budge from here until we find Jasmine. I rented your old Third Street place from that Pedley guy. You’re welcome there. He told me you’d been living in the garage.”
“That bedroom was never big enough for Kyle and me. He’ll be home in twenty-five days.”
“That makes me very happy.”
“He’s really worried, short like he is.”
Bruce nods in silence. A moment between soldiers is how Matt reads it.
“I like what you told me on the phone about your knock-and-talks for Jasmine,” Bruce says. “But it’s too slow. So, this is what we’ll do. We’re going to skip all the houses with kid stuff in the front yards or porches. That means trikes, bikes, skates, skateboards, surfboards, Hula-Hoops, jump ropes, toy trucks, and horses — anything that signifies a family. And we’re going to skip the old people, college students, and young couples, too. Just tell them we got the wrong address and skedaddle.”
“That’s half the houses here.”
“Then we’ve made up some lost time already.”
“I think we should knock another hour in the evenings, too,” says Matt. “We’ve been stopping just after sunset.”
“Absolutely. Tell me about the ‘we’ part of this.”
He’s happy to: Laurel Kalina, fourth-grade crush at El Morro, now in the Gauguin at the Pageant of the Masters, enrolled in a college writing program, really pretty and smart, dinner just last night with her family.
Bruce listens with a poker face that turns into a wry smile.
“Sounds like a terrific girl. Sex yet?”
“No, sir. Second base last night.”
Bruce considers. There’s a stony cut to his features and he doesn’t blink much.
“Clear this table, son. You have an important decision to make.”
40
Matt busses the spool, pausing to smell his bourbon again, but can’t quite bring himself to try it. The fumes are like needles in his nostrils. From the kitchen he watches his father, kneeling next to his suitcase, setting aside neat stacks of folded shirts and jeans.
When they are both seated again, Bruce sets a padded fabric case in the middle of the table. It’s roughly the shape of a shoe box, but flatter. He unzips and folds it open.
“This is my Smith & Wesson three-fifty-seven Magnum revolver. It’s got an eight-inch barrel, stainless finish, and a light trigger pull. No aftermarket grips because I like the feel of wood. It’s my everyday carry. A hand-cannon. If I expect trouble or need to conceal, I’ve got others.”
The weapon catches the overhead light, gleaming dully.
Matt remembers it. It’s like the one under Kyle’s bed, now unloaded and hidden in the Westfalia. “Nice.”
“I taught you that it is definitely not nice.”
Matt nods, calling back from long disuse the basics of how to open the cylinder and check if it’s loaded, how to never point at something you don’t intend to shoot, how to handle the gun safely, how to aim, squeeze the trigger, how to empty and reload. He recalls now what Bruce said about revolvers as opposed to automatics: they’re idiot-proof. Matt always believed that statement was directed at him. He remembers how heavy that gun is.
“Now, there’s these,” says Bruce, setting two gun cases onto the spool. Matt, leaning on his elbows, feels their weight.
The latches of the black case open in unison with one sharp snap. Bruce removes three handguns from what Matt knows is a green felt interior, and sets them on the table.
He does likewise with the brown case, for a total of six guns on the spool. He arranges them in a semicircle between himself and his son. Puts the cases back on the floor. Matt takes in the sweet smell of gun oil.
“I remember some of these,” he says.
Bruce points out Matt’s grandfather’s Colt 1911 from World War I; a Bond-style Walther PPK; and a Colt Detective Special .38 revolver.
“Do you use these for work?” asks Matt.
“If I need to. My cop creds give me both open- and concealed-carry in some states. And here too, if the local jurisdictions reciprocate, which they have. I registered here last week with my old employers. Good to see some of those guys again.”
He identifies the remaining three firearms on the spool table: a five-shot American Arms derringer; a Ruger Bearcat that used to be Julie’s; and a .45-caliber revolver used by Wyatt Earp at Tombstone.
“Well, it’s an Italian knockoff,” Bruce says with a smile, taking another sip of bourbon.
To Matt the gun looks perfect for a gunfighter, except for maybe the long barrel. How long would it take to get it out of your holster?
“I haven’t told you the prices because I don’t want you to shop price.”
“Shop?”
A look of amusement from his dad, as if he’d been expecting this answer.
“You’re a man now, Matt. You can drive a car and make love to a woman, and you must buy a gun.”
“For what?”
“To defend yourself and the people you love,” Bruce says. “That’s what men and guns do.”
Matt has never wanted a gun. But could it do any harm to take his father’s offer, stash it somewhere safe, and just have it? Maybe he’ll actually need it someday. People in town were still talking about the rabid coyote that attacked the girl up in Top of the World last summer and her mom, who shot it. Atticus Finch needed a gun. If the people around Dr. Martin Luther King and Bobby Kennedy had had guns handy, would they maybe be alive now?
“Consider each, son. Handle them if you’d like. Make a decision. They’re all equally good at what they do.”
“Why don’t you just give it to me, like your dad gave you the World War One gun?”
“He certainly did not. I paid a fair price for it.”
“That seems strange.”
“It’s the Anthony way.”
Still thinking it’s strange, but intrigued by the lethal hardware before him, Matt works his way around the curve of spool. Bruce watches him from his chair, elbows on the table and his chin resting on his knuckles.
“They all come from different times in history,” he says. “And who knows, maybe one will step into history again, accompanied by you.”
Matt has to think hard about these words to even partially understand them. Worry stalks the edges of his understanding. His father’s words seem to predict tragedy, or, even worse, welcome it. This is how men think? Certain kinds of men? Generals and soldiers? Kings and heroes? Outlaws? Assassins? Did Oswald or Sirhan think like this?
“I don’t care about history right now, Dad. I just want to find Jazz.”
“We wish never to draw the weapon.”
“Okay.”
“The taking of a man’s life is no small thing.”
“No, sir. But how does it connect to my search? Taking life?”
Bruce clears his throat softly, then takes another sip of bourbon.
“At some point we will find Jasmine. And we will be forced to confront dangerous men. Three, minimum. For that, we must be prepared, not just to pay the last full measure, but to collect it.”
Matt studies the guns, one at a time. Takes a step to better assess.
“You might think I’m crazy,” says Bruce. “But I’m not. I’m an earnest man who wants his family back.”
“You do?”
“You’re all I’ve thought about for six years.”
“Really?”
“Almost.”
Matt’s thoughts blur like his bike spokes on a downhill, as he tries to catch up with six years of information he never had. He can’t process it all. Ideas come crashing down like waves in a set.
He says: “I’ll buy Wyatt’s gun.”
Bruce comes off the stool and they hug again, but this time is different. For the first time in his life, Matt isn’t surprised by his father’s strength, but by his own. The two strengths form a wall that neither chooses to move beyond. A few months ago, Bruce would have swung him around like a child. Now Matt feels he can match him, at least briefly.
“Well done, son.”
Matt lifts the heavy revolver with both hands, sights down its endless barrel, his trigger finger riding outside the guard like his father taught him. He aims for a knothole in the barn wall, but even with his new strength the gun bobs and dips no matter how much he tries to hold it still.
“Keep it where no one will stumble onto it. Keep it loaded or it will do you no good when you need it most.”
“There’s a bunch of boys here in Dodge, they go in and out of the houses whenever they want. Get into everything.”
“Outsmart them. The gun is twenty dollars. I’ll throw in the soft case and some ammo. No tax. I’ll take half now.”
Matt sets down the Earp gun. Hands two fives over to his dad with a strange and terrible disappointment in his gut. He’s down to five dollars and change. He feels like he’s being robbed again.
“You’re welcome at my place on Third Street tonight, son. Any night, in fact.”
“No, thank you. I’m glad you’re home, Dad. It’s confusing but I’m glad you’re here.”
“I am too. We’ll get Jazz home. We’ll put this sinful world back right.”