“And?”
“And I want to know the truth about what’s going on.”
She glances around. “You really think this is the place to do this? I’m actually meeting people here. Why don’t we handle this in a professional way-”
“This is a professional courtesy. You asked for a favor and you got it. You said there was a life at stake-fine. But now I think you were spinning us a tale, and even if I don’t know what your angle is yet, I’ll find out. I’m giving you a chance to clear things up right now, before it’s out of your control.”
Up onstage, the song ends, prompting desultory applause and a few tipsy hoots from the dance floor. The singer tips his straw hat back and says they’re taking a break. The clapping intensifies.
“You’re making a mistake here, March.”
“That’s all you’re gonna say?”
“You’re making this complicated when it ought to be very simple. Is it so hard for you just to follow my lead? If you go along and don’t screw this up, at the end of the day you’ll have a high-profile clearance you can add to your resumé. The alternative is, you get a man killed and torpedo a Federal investigation.”
“I already heard the pitch,” I say. “I want to know what’s really going on.”
“You know as much as you need to. More than that, actually. Tell me this, if what you say is true and Brandon Ford is too real to be a cover, then why would I bother handing you the file? If I knew you were going to get his name from NCIC and when you checked him out you’d be convinced, what was the upside for me?”
“I don’t know. I was hoping you would explain that.”
She shakes her head. “You’re a piece of work. Now, will you get out of here? I’ve told you everything I’m going to tell you. Do whatever you want.”
All the replies that come flooding to my lips would only sound ridiculous. The set of her jaw says she’s unmovable.
“You’ve had your chance,” I say, in spite of myself.
She greets this with a smirk.
On my way out I glance back. Bea still sits alone at the table. I’m tempted to hang around and see who’s joining her-a friend, a colleague, someone I might be able to place? — but then the band members start climbing onstage again, reaching unsteadily for their microphone stands. I push my way through the loiterers at the door, glad to be back in the balmy night air. From the smell on the breeze I’m guessing we’re in for more rain.
While I’m driving home, Charlotte calls from London. It’s good to hear her voice, though she sounds too close to be so far away. She tells me about the people she’s met, the places she’s been taken to eat. She asks if I’ve been watching the news, because there are demonstrations on the streets. I haven’t. She sounds disappointed.
“When things wrapped up in the city,” she says, “the boys took a flight up to Scotland to play a few rounds at St. Andrews. I ditched them and went on my own little adventure. You really should have come, Roland. I went to Cambridge and to Ely Cathedral-it’s the oldest Norman cathedral in the country-and I met a real-life vicar’s daughter, if you can believe it.”
I make the appropriate sounds at the appropriate intervals. I’m still preoccupied by the conversation with Bea, and getting angry about it. I need to focus.
“And what about you?” Charlotte asks. “What have you been doing with yourself?”
“Working.”
“Just working?”
“We caught a nasty one after you left. But we don’t need to talk about that.”
“Are you all right? You sound kind of funny.”
“It’s nothing,” I say. “I fell down the other day. I think I pulled something.”
“You should go to the doctor, Roland.”
“That’s what Hedges told me. Speaking of which-” But no, there’s no point in getting into that, either. “Never mind. I don’t want to bore you with the office gossip. When does Ann get there? I saw Bridger the other day but forgot to ask.”
“Tomorrow.” Again, she sounds disappointed, like I should already know the answer. She went over her plans with me more than once before leaving. It feels like a lifetime ago.
“You should go see the Robbs,” she says.
That old standby. I must really sound bad.
“I’ll do that,” I tell her. “Oh, by the way, I saw Cavallo the other day, too. She says hello.”
“That’s nice. How was she?”
“I think there might be some trouble at home.”
“Really?”
The words are out before I can stop them. I’m as surprised as Charlotte is. I try to hedge a little, saying something about the stress Cavallo’s husband is probably under, reintegrating into civilian life after so many tours overseas. She must sense my discomfort. She doesn’t ask anything more.
“Was it hard for you,” she asks, “when you first got out of the service?”
“That was a lot different. I spent my time at Fort Polk, Louisiana, not Bagram. In my day, we considered Grenada quite a military operation.”
“Those were the days,” she laughs. “Such an innocent time.”
“Right.”
I reach my exit on I-10 but I keep driving. I listen to her voice, cruising absently through the cones of light arcing down onto the highway. Just talk, baby. Talk. Let me hear the words crash in my ears like waves on the beach, so much reassuring white noise. When she’s said all she can think to say, we sit together silently. I listen to the road under my tires and the sound of her breath over the international line.
– -
“What can you tell me about Brandon Ford?” I ask.
The man across the counter crosses his hairy arms, the jeweled dial of his Rolex catching the morning light. His name is Sam Dearborn, proprietor of Dearborn Gun and Blade. He helped me on a case last year, proving himself to be a source of all kinds of knowledge.
“What makes you think I know more than the other guys you’ve talked to? Brandon’s all right in my book. He’s a small-timer, though. For the most part, he goes after the black rifle market, the weekend warriors with money to spend. Those guys aren’t so interested in the craftsmanship or the history. You tell them this is the rifle Delta Force is currently using to punch holes in the mullah’s turban, and all they wanna know is, ‘How much?’ I think he was also selling some big-game rifles to fellas daydreaming about going on safari.”
“I already know all this.”
He rolls his eyes. “What did I just tell you? You don’t need me for this.”
“That’s not why I’m here. I just wanted to get it out of the way.”
“Okay, then. Shoot.”
“Here’s the real question, Sam. What do you know about the Mexican cartels buying rifles in bulk from Texas dealers?”
At first he doesn’t react, like he didn’t hear the question. Then he glances down the length of his counter, scratching at the gold necklace dangling in the opening of his shirt.
“You’re serious?” He snorts the words out. “This is for real?”
“Relax. I’m not accusing you of anything. If anybody knows what’s going on out there, it’s you. If anybody’s got his finger on the pulse-”
“Yeah, yeah,” he says. “Spare me. You just took me by surprise, that’s all. That kind of business, it doesn’t go through guys like me. Just so we’re clear.”
“Understood. So how would it work?”
The simplest way, he says, is for a straw purchaser to walk into a gun store from off the street. Flush with money from the cartel, he buys five or ten assault rifles in his own name, then hands them over once he’s taken possession.
“A straw purchase is illegal, but if I’m the one selling the guns, how do I know you’re not buying them for yourself? You pass the background check, you get the weapons.”
A gang making straw purchases, even in small quantities, can amass quite an arsenal over a short period of time, stockpiling the rifles for transport to Mexico. Assuming they spread the activity out, it might go unnoticed. If they hit the gun shows, buying from private sellers to take advantage of the so-called loophole, then they can fly under the radar longer.