The word was ballbreaker.
We lay in bed naked, damp from our shower, and watched TV. Then Bel did something that surprised me. She turned the TV off and put down the remote.
‘Jazz,’ she said.
‘What about her?’
She turned on her side to face me. ‘She’s got an incredible computer.’
‘Yes?’ I started stroking her spine.
‘Maybe we could... use it in some way.’
‘How?’ I was interested now.
‘Keep stroking,’ she instructed. ‘I don’t know how exactly, but you can do things with computers these days, can’t you? They’re not just for games or glorified typewriting.’
‘It’s a thought. We’ll put it to her.’
‘Michael, tell me something. You love guns, don’t you?’
‘Yes.’
‘Why?’
‘I don’t know. Maybe I can control them.’
‘Or control other people with them.’
I shrugged. ‘Maybe I should go on one of these chat shows and talk it out of my system.’
She smiled for a moment. ‘I hated what was happening out there on that range. Those people were having fun. How can it be fun?’
I shrugged again.
‘Michael, do you think you love them more than you’ve ever loved a woman?’
By them she meant guns of course. I thought for a second. ‘I wouldn’t say that exactly.’ She’d turned on to her back, trapping my arm beneath her. Our faces were close.
‘Prove it,’ she said.
This time when we made love she didn’t cry, not on the outside. But there was a rage inside her, and she bucked, punching and clawing at me. Then she stopped suddenly.
‘What is it?’ I asked after a moment.
‘We’re going to kill them, aren’t we?’ Her voice was strangely calm. ‘Promise me we’re going to kill them.’
Kill them? Jesus, we didn’t even know who they were.
‘Promise,’ I whispered. She wanted me to say it louder.
I said it louder.
Spike had invited us round for lunch, which meant barbecued steaks in his ‘yard’. The yard was in fact a very long narrow garden, nearly all of it grass, with a wire pen at the bottom where Wilma lived.
‘It’s a pig,’ Bel said when introduced. She was wearing her new denims and cowboy boots with a fresh white T-shirt.
‘That’s no pig,’ said Spike, ‘that’s a hawg. Anyone I don’t like, Wilma eats those suckers alive.’ He was wearing a plastic cooking-apron and waving a wooden spoon, which he occasionally stuck in his mouth. Then he’d go and stir the barbecue sauce again and add another dash of Tabasco.
Spike’s living room was no advert for the bachelor life. There were photos and magazine cuttings covering most of the walls, and you couldn’t see the carpet for old engine parts, sports trophies, discarded clothes and memorabilia. Spike collected service-station signs, especially ones made of metal. He also seemed to be going in for full-sized cardboard replicas of his sporting heroes. There was a black basketball player I’d never heard of leaning against one wall, and a baseball pitcher behind the sofa.
‘When he’s watching a game,’ Jazz confided, ‘he actually talks to it like it was the real person.’ Then she shook her head and went back to her room.
Muffled in black cotton cloth on the sofa were several items for me to look at. Spike, his lips coated orange with sauce, came back in and waved his spoon. ‘Gimme a minute and I’ll be with you. Bel’s gone upstairs with Jazz.’
When he left, I unwrapped the first gun. It was the sniper rifle, a Remington 700 ‘Varmint’. It wasn’t the military version which Max had offered me, but the commercial version, which meant it was beautifully polished and didn’t have a pre-fitted telescopic sight. I’d used one before, last time I’d been in Lubbock. Maybe it was the same gun. It was manufactured in Ilion, New York State, and I knew it was an accurate weapon. It wasn’t the greatest sniper gun around, but it would do. The sight was a Redfield. I checked that it was compatible with the mounting plate. Then I opened the second package.
These were the handguns, one pistol and one revolver. The revolver was a Smith & Wesson 547, with the four-inch rather than three-inch barrel. I’d never had much time for revolvers, though I knew Americans loved them, more for what they represented perhaps — the past — than for their modern-day ability.
The pistol felt better. It was another Smith & Wesson, a 559 semi-automatic, steel-framed and heavier than the revolver. It took fourteen rounds of parabellum ammo, but wouldn’t accept a silencer. Not that I thought I’d need a silencer, though the option would have been welcome.
I was opening the third package when Spike came in.
‘Wait till you see,’ he said.
I’d been expecting an M16, but this was a lot shorter, almost a foot shorter in fact. It didn’t weigh much more than double the pistol, and I picked it up one-handed.
‘It’s a Colt Commando,’ Spike said. ‘It’s close to the M16, but the barrel’s half the length. The stock’s adjustable, see, and there’s a flash hider if you want it. It’ll take anything from a twenty- to a thirty-round mag. Elite forces use them, man, so you know you’re talking quality.’
‘Spare me the sales pitch, Spike. It won’t take sights.’
He grinned. ‘That don’t matter, see.’
‘Why not?’
‘Because they’re shit long-range. They don’t have the muzzle velocity of an M16. You need the muzzle flash, too, because this thing makes a noise like a Gatling gun. But for close-up action, you can’t beat it. Tuck it into your shoulder with the stock retracted and you can fire one-handed, just like Big Arnie!’
‘I like that it’s compact.’
‘Man, you can put it in an overnight bag, nobody’s going to know. Shit, the steaks!’
He ran out of the room. I tucked the guns away again and checked what ammo he was giving me. I knew I was going to take everything except the revolver. Bel had shown some interest in being armed, but I wasn’t about to encourage her. Whatever the NRA says, if you’ve got a gun, you’re more likely to get shot than if you haven’t.
I went upstairs and found Bel and Jazz busy on the computer.
‘Go away!’ Jazz screamed. So I went away.
Downstairs in the garden I opened another tin of Old Milwaukee. ‘So how much?’ I said. Spike turned another steak and basted it.
‘Oh, well now, let me see...’
Which meant he already knew the exact figure he was going to ask. He started pretending to tot up numbers. Then he went into the kitchen and brought out a tub of potato salad Jazz had made earlier.
‘She’s a sweet little thing really,’ Spike said. ‘I know you didn’t hit it off with her yesterday, she told me last night. She always sits and talks with me at night. Of course, then she hits me for a twenty and takes off till dawn.’ He laughed. ‘Only kidding. She’s usually back home by two.’
‘That’s all right then.’
‘Bel seems nice.’
‘I know you didn’t hit it off with her yesterday.’
‘Touché, brother. You know me, I’m called Spike ’cause I’m spikey. You say the two of you aren’t doing the devil’s business?’
‘I don’t recall saying that.’
Spike smiled, then worked on the steaks again. ‘I get the feeling... Man, I’m sorry, you know me, I don’t pry or anything. But I get the feeling you’re in deep shit.’
‘I am.’
He nodded to himself. ‘And are you going to get out of it all right?’
‘I hope so.’
‘Wild West, you shouldn’t be taking a civilian along.’
‘Bel’s not a civilian, Spike. Her father was a casualty.’