Adams smiled. “Hi. You the proprietor?”
“Yep. Didn’t you see the private sign?”
“Yes, we did. We’d like to ask you some questions.”
“Bout what?”
“I’m Herbert Adams, Special Agent with the Federal Bureau of Investigation. With me is Mike Liu, an agent with the Naval Investigations Office. We’d like to ask you some questions concerning a possible client of yours.”
“Got a warrant?”
“No, we don’t. If you like, we can get one real quick and do a thorough search of your club. All we want to do is ask a few questions, that’s all.”
“As long as that’s all you want.”
“Can we get out of our car?”
“Okay, just don’t go snooping around.”
Mike slipped the Uzi under the seat and unconsciously felt for his Walther.
Adams and Mike got out of the government sedan, Adams locked the car, and the two walked up to the owner of the Dickerson Rod and Gun Club. Adams led the discussion.
“What’s your name?”
“It’s Johnnie Williamson. Look, I run a clean, decent, God fearing business here.”
“Mr. Williamson, we’re not here to look into your club. We have a photograph of someone we understand frequented your club and we just want to get some information.”
“Lemme see the photo.”
Adams handed Williamson the photograph of Mitchell and his son. Williamson looked at the photograph closely and then said, “He looks like one of them fellows that used to come up here from Washington for them survivalist games.”
“Did you keep any records of the group, names?”
“Maybe.”
“Look,” Mike said angrily. “The matter we’re investigating is of vital national security interest. We don’t have time for games. If you aren’t going to cooperate, we will have people here within minutes who will tear the hell out of your little club. Is that clear?”
Williamson’s sunken eyes darted back and forth from Adams to Mike and back. His demeanor softened ever so slightly.
Turning to Mike, Williamson said, “Where did you say you was from?”
“Naval Intelligence.”
“I’m a retired Navy man, myself. I really don’t want no trouble. It’s just that my clients all want some privacy, you know. Why don’t you come inside for a minute?”
Mike and Adams followed Williamson inside the small clapboard farmhouse. The house fit the character of Johnnie Williamson. The inside did not look as if it had been cleaned for years. The furniture, overstuffed chairs and a sofa, looked threadbare and worn. The wallpaper was dingy and had yellowed with age. The corners of some sections of wallpaper had detached from the wall and were hanging down. The braided rug in the living room was soiled and torn. The general atmosphere of the house was dank and musty, with the smell of curdled cooking grease and closed-in body odor.
On the table in the living room was a bowl of corn flakes, a carton of milk that was just beginning to curdle, a hot plate upon which sat a bubbling, glass pot of water, a package of white bread, an open jar of grape jelly, and a jar of instant coffee. Around the legs of the table slinked two gray and black-striped cats. They looked as if they hadn’t eaten in days.
In the corner of the room was a kitty litter tray that hadn’t been changed in weeks and the malodorous scent of cat urine wafted from the corner, adding to the generally foul atmosphere.
Williamson went to the table and started to put some of the food into a white 1950s Kelvinator refrigerator in the kitchen. The kitchen had not been cleaned in some time. A pile of dirty dishes sat unwashed in the sink. Williamson added his breakfast bowl to this pile of unwashed dishes with a clatter.
Coming back into the living room, Williamson invited Adams and Mike to sit down at the table. To get the two cats away from the table, Williamson picked up a newspaper, rolled it up and threw it at the cats, which scampered through the torn screening at the bottom of the front storm door.
Williamson then turned to Adams and Mike. “Care for a cup of coffee?”
Mike politely declined, but Adams, hoping that Williamson might be more cooperative if he accepted this small gesture of hospitality, said, “Sure, can I have it black?”
Mike stared at Adams as if he had suddenly taken leave of his senses. Adams purposefully ignored Mike’s stare.
Williamson went into the kitchen. Mike and Adams heard the running of water as Williamson took a coffee mug from the pile of unwashed dishes and rinsed it out. Drying the mug on a towel that probably undid any cleaning the rinsing might have effected, Williamson brought the stained and greasy mug to the table. Mike gave Adams a small smile, which was returned with a concerned gaze, first at the mug and then at Mike.
Seating himself at the table with a sigh after adjusting his stiff left leg, Williamson reached for the jar of instant coffee and the teaspoon sitting on the bare table. The spoon, having served this purpose many times before, had a thin crust of dried coffee on it. Williamson opened the jar of coffee, put the spoon in and scooped two spoonfuls of coffee crystals into each mug.
He then took the bubbling glass pot of water and poured boiling water into each mug, which he then stirred with the spoon. After licking the spoon, Williamson placed it back on the table. He then offered a mug of hot, black coffee to Adams. Adams’ eyes flitted back and forth at the offer. Mike just watched with a bemused smile.
Finally, Adams took the mug of coffee and said, “Thank you.”
Now in a more expansive mood, Williamson leaned back in his chair and took off his blue cap, hanging it on back of his chair. Nursing his mug of coffee, Williamson began to speak.
“That fellow used to come up here with about twelve or so other fellows for a weekend. They always paid cash and pretty much kept to themselves.”
“When was the last time the group used your club?” said Adams as he held the mug of hot coffee up to his lips and took a small obligatory sip.
“About a month ago.”
“Was there any one who seemed to be the leader?”
“There was a fellow; I think his name was Trent or something like that. Older fellow, gray hair and real nice looking.”
“Do you have any other information on these guys — drivers’ licenses, addresses, reservations, that sort of stuff?”
“Nope, don’t care for that kind of stuff. Wait a minute; that Trent fellow was sent here by an old friend of mine in Catonsville, George Bedford, owns the Catonsville Furniture & Bedding Company.”
Mike and Adams exchanged glances.
“Can I freshen up your cup, Agent Adams?”
“Oh, no thanks, Mr. Williamson. You’ve been more than hospitable. Mr. Liu and I have to get going. If you remember any more information about these guys, please give me a call,” said Adams as he handed a business card to Williamson.
As Adams and Mike drove back up the windy dirt road, Mike said, “Pretty iron stomach you got there.”
Adams grimaced. “Worked, didn’t it?”
“Where to now?”
“Catonsville.”
Adams and Mike pulled into the parking lot of the Catonsville Furniture & Bedding store on the outskirts of Catonsville on Frederick Avenue. The store was situated in what looked like a former supermarket and carried many inexpensive to moderately expensive lines of furniture.
“What do you think, Herb?”
“Don’t know; just keep on your toes.”
As Adams and Mike walked to the front door of the dingy store, Mike unbuttoned his suit jacket and unconsciously reached behind his back to check that the Walther was there and ready.
“Can I help you?” said the white male as Mike and Adams entered the store.