“One M1C Garand, coming up. Heavy sucker. Gotta weigh a dozen pounds. But it’s fully rigged—still has the original scope and flash hider.”
“I see that,” Dad said.
Jack was seeing a beat-up piece of junk: The dried-out wooden stock was scratched and dinged and gouged, the metal finish worn, and the whole thing looked like it had just received its first dusting in years.
Dad picked up the rifle and hefted it. In one seamless move he raised it to his shoulder and sighted down the scope.
“Never liked the M82 scope. Never liked the way it was mounted, and only two-and-a-half power. The Unertl I used was an eight.” He looked at Jack. “This was the Army’s sniper rifle for a while. Couldn’t hold a candle to the M1903A1, if you ask me.”
“If you really want to shoot that thing,” Don said, “I can sell you a much better scope.”
Dad shook his head. “I qualified on this as well as the 1903. It’ll have to do. But will it shoot?”
Don shrugged. “Got me there. I’d forgotten I had it until you called. That thing’s been here so long, I can’t remember when I bought it or who from.”
“What do you want for it?”
Don pursed his lips. “I’ll let it go for twenty-five hundred.”
“What?” Jack said.
Dad laughed. “Let it go? That’s way overpriced for Army surplus junk.”
“A fully outfitted M1C like this is a collector’s item. If this baby was in better shape it’d go for twice that at auction.”
“Hey, Dad, you can get a better rifle for a lot less.”
“But not one I’m used to.”
“Yeah, but twenty-five hundred bucks…”
“Hell, it’s only money.” He looked at Don. “I tell you what: You can have your asking price on the condition that it still fires. That means you’ve got to let me clean it and fire a few test rounds. Do you have a bench where I can spruce it up?”
Don pursed his lips again. “Okay. I’ve got a cleaning set-up in the back you can use. Go ahead. But give me a picture ID and your Social Security Number so I can background you while you’re doing that.”
“Background?” Jack said.
“Yeah. Instant background check. It’s the law. I’ve got to place a call to the FDLE to make sure he hasn’t got a criminal record, a domestic violence conviction, or under a restraining order. If he comes through clean, he gets the rifle. If not, no deal.”
“Might as well quit now, Dad,” Jack said gravely. “You are so busted.”
“Very funny.” He looked at Don. “No waiting period?”
He shook his head. “Not for rifles, but there’s a mandatory three-day ‘cooling-off period’ for pistols.”
Jack was glad he didn’t have to buy his guns through legal channels.
Dad fished out his wallet and handed his Florida driver license to Don, saying, “What about ammo? Have any match grade?”
Don nodded. “Got a box of thirty-ought-six Federals. I’ll throw in half a dozen rounds to let you check it out.”
Dad smiled. “You’re on.”
6
“Jesus, Dad,” Jack said as he stared through the field glasses.
“Not bad for an old fart, ay?”
Dad was down on his right knee, left elbow resting on his left thigh, eye glued to his scope.
“Not bad? It’s fantastic!”
Earlier he’d watched with amazement as his father’s wrinkled old hands disassembled the M1C like it was a tinker toy. He’d inspected the firing pin, wiped the scope lenses, cleaned and oiled all the works, scoured the inside of the barrel with a long-handled brush, then reassembled it with a precision and an efficiency that left Jack in awe.
Dad had explained that it was like riding a bike: Do it enough times and you never forget how. Your hands know what to do.
Then it was time for the test firing. Don had a two-hundred-yard rifle range behind his shop with acres of open country beyond it. Dad’s targets—large paper sheets with concentric black circles at their centers—were set against a rickety wooden fence.
His first shots had been grouped wide to the left, but as he made progressive adjustments on the sight, the holes in the target crept inexorably toward the heart of the bull’s-eye. He’d punched the last three shots through a one-and-a-half-inch circle.
“Not so fantastic,” Dad said. “It’s only two hundred yards.” He patted the stock. “Definitely worth the price.”
“A hundred yards is all we’ll need, I hope. And by the way, I’m paying.”
The Tyleski Visa had a five-thousand-dollar credit limit. Still plenty of slack there.
“Like hell.”
“No, the least a guy can do for his backup is arm him.” Jack extended his hand toward his father. “You’ve still got it, Dad.”
The flash of his father’s smile as they shook hands warmed him.
7
As Jack beached the motorized canoe on the bank of the channel shallows, he got his sneakers soaked yet again. This was getting to be a habit. The clouds had blown off and the sun was cooking his shoulders.
The shell lay nestled in the right front pocket of his jeans. Now where was Semelee?
“You’re late,” she said.
Jack looked right and saw her rounding a bend on the far side of the shallows. She stood in the front of a small, flat-bottomed boat and—
What the hell? She held a shell over her left eye and had her hand clapped over her right. As Jack watched, she lowered the shell and the hand and smiled at him.
Carl and Corley sat amidships directly behind her; Luke operated the little outboard motor mounted on the stern and glowered at Jack.
Carl grinned and waved the oar protruding from his sleeve. Jack was relieved that he looked pretty much the same as he’d left him.
“Sorry,” Jack said. “Had some things to do and everything down here seems to take longer than it does up north. Ever notice that?”
“I wouldn’t know,” Semelee said. “I ain’t never been up north.”
Luke pulled up the motor; the hull of the boat scraped the sandy bottom as he let it run aground in the shallows. All four stepped out. Corley stayed by the boat while the other three approached—Semelee and Luke first, Carl behind them.
Jack gave Corley a quick look, noted a knife in his belt, but no gun. Same with Luke: a hunting knife with a six-inch blade in a leather scabbard strapped to his belt, but again, no gun. Good. Jack wanted to keep an eye on that knife, though.
They stopped in front of him. Luke stood with his arms folded across his barrel chest.
“Well,” he said with a belligerent edge to his voice, “you can see plain and simple we got Carl. Time for you to show us the shell.”
Jack dug into his pocket, all the while keeping an eye on Luke’s hunting knife. If he made a move toward it, Jack would go for the Glock.
He fished out the shell and handed it to Semelee. As she took it and clutched it between her breasts, Luke’s right hand moved, not going for the knife but flicking toward Jack’s face. He heard a metallic click and found himself face to face with a three-inch, semi-serrated, tanto-style blade. Sunlight gleamed off the stainless steel surface.
Jack cursed himself for not guessing Luke might be palming a folder.
“Luke!” Semelee cried. “What’re you doin’?”
“Taking care of business.”
“I’ve got the shell! Put that away!”
Luke shook his head. “Uh-uh. We’re leavin’ with Carl and the shell. None of this trade shit.”
Jack started creeping his free hand around toward his back while they argued, taking his time, moving a few millimeters at a time.
“Luke,” Semelee said, “we told him we’d trade and that’s what we’re gonna do.”
Luke shook his head, never taking his eyes off Jack. “I’m callin’ the shots here, Semelee. This is man’s work.”