Orchid Blues (8 page)

Holly and Ham exchanged a glance.

“I wasn’t expecting this,” Ham said.

“Neither was I,” she replied, “but if we’re going to blend in, we’d better start shopping—window-shopping, at least.”

They moved off to their right, toward a large display of black powder handguns.

Ham picked up an old Colt Buntline revolver and handed it to Holly. “Can you imagine wearing that thing on your hip?”

“Nope,” Holly said. “Not without developing a list.”

They moved slowly on, taking it all in, then Holly stopped and stared. “What the hell is
that?
” Holly gasped.

Before them lay a weapon a good five feet long, made of black steel, with a stock of some sort of plastic and a very large scope.

“That, my dear, is a Barrett’s fifty-caliber rifle,” Ham said.

“What is it for?”

“Just about anything you want it to be, I guess. I saw one used during Desert Storm. A sergeant I knew put two phosphorus-tipped shells through an Iraqi armored personnel carrier and blew it to hell. The other carriers in the column stopped, and troops started pouring out of them; they couldn’t surrender fast enough.” Ham reached into the display, picked up a cartridge and handed it to her. “This is what it fires.”

Holly was astonished. The cartridge was six inches long and seemed to weigh half a pound.

“They developed that ammunition for the Browning machine gun in World War One, but it didn’t really get used much until World War Two. You can put one of those babies right through an inch and a half of rolled steel armorplate.”

Holly set the cartridge back where it came from. “That’s downright spooky,” she said.

Fourteen

HOLLY TURNED TO FIND A FIT-LOOKING MAN IN his mid- to late forties standing behind her. His graying hair was cut short, and he was wearing a military-style jumpsuit.

“That thing is hell on wheels,” he said. “I’ve never seen one fired in anger, but I once saw somebody put a round through a six-hundred-pound safe, and I mean all the way through.” He turned to Ham. “You say you saw it fired in Iraq?”

“I sure did,” Ham said.

“What was it like?”

“Awful, for the men in the carrier. I was a mile away, with the shooter. He said he could hit a playing card with it from that distance.”

“A good shooter can hit a playing card from
twice
that distance, in no wind, if he has time to bracket,” the man said.

“From
two miles?
” Holly asked.

“I kid you not, little lady.”

Holly thought he had a lot of balls calling her that, since he wasn’t quite as tall as she.

The man turned to Ham and stuck out his hand. “I’m Peck Rawlings,” he said.

Ham shook his hand. “Ham Barker. This is my daughter, Holly.”

Rawlings nodded at where Ham’s stripes used to be. “You ex-military?”

“We both are,” Ham said. “I put in thirty-eight years, and Holly did a double sawbuck.”

“What kind of service?”

“I was in Special Forces for a long time, then I trained a lot of folks, and then they started pushing a lot of paper at me.”

“Yeah, they’ll do that,” he said.

“What about you?”

“Oh, nothing exotic. I was just a grunt noncom. What about you, little lady?”

“I commanded an MP battalion,” she said, “and if you keep calling me that, you’re going to get even shorter.”

The man gave her a shocked look, then burst out laughing.

“Holly doesn’t take any shit from anybody,” Ham said.

Rawlings bowed from the waist. “I apologize, ma’am,” he said. “Just a figure of speech.”

Holly nodded, and as she did, they were joined by two other men.

“Oh,” Rawlings said, “these are my neighbors, Jim Cross and James Farrow.”

Hands were shaken all around.

“What brings you folks to our little event?” Rawlings asked narrowly, and it was clear he wanted an answer.

“We didn’t come to your event,” Ham said. “We were just looking for some bass fishing, and we saw the lake on the map and just wandered down this way. Haven’t seen the lake, yet. What’s the fishing like?”

“Not bad, but nothing to write home about,” Rawlings said. “That’s a nice pickup you’re driving.”

“Ford’ll sell you one,” Ham said, “but not cheap.”

“Where do you folks hail from?”

“Over at Orchid Beach, in Indian River County.”

“Oh, yeah, that’s pretty ritzy over there, isn’t it?”

“Some parts are,” Ham said.

“What do you do over there?”

“Every day, I explore the meaning of the word ‘retired,’ ” Ham said.

“So do I,” Holly chipped in.

“What sort of little town you got here?” Ham asked.

“A homogeneous one.” Rawlings chuckled.

“I didn’t see it on the map.”

“That’s the way we like it. You know, I can’t remember anybody ever turning up here who didn’t have an invitation.”

Ham turned to Holly. “Well, I guess we’re intruding here, babe; let’s take a hike.”

Rawlings threw up his hands in a placating manner. “Hold on, now, Sarge; I didn’t mean any offense. It’s just that this is a private affair, here, and we’re unaccustomed to visitors.”

“Sorry, I never heard of a private gun show,” Ham said.

“Well, it is, but we’re glad to have you. Just go on and wander around and pick up some hardware for yourself, if you’re in the market. When you get ready to leave, though, I’d appreciate it if you’d check with me, so I can clear you out.”

Ham looked at Holly. “You want to stay?”

Holly shrugged.

“All right, we’ll have a look around,” Ham said. “Thanks.”

“And we’re going to have a little firepower demonstration a little later,” Rawlings said, “if you’re interested.”

“I’ll let you know. C’mon, Holly.” They walked slowly on around the big tent. “Well,” Ham said, “I guess we’re getting the feel of the place.”

“Not a very good feeling, is it?” Holly asked.

“You notice anything unusual about this crowd?” Ham asked.

“You mean the lack of anybody any color darker than pink?”

“That, and the absence of any girls in cutoffs with bare bellies or guys with nose rings. I mean, this is still Florida, right?”

“It reminds me of the crowd at a PX,” Holly said, “absent the people of color.”

“I guess I’ve gotten so used to what you might call a more diverse population of former hippies and current rappers that I find it strange to be in this crowd. And it’s not exactly comforting, either.”

“I know what you mean.”

They looked at weapon after weapon, at ammunition-loading kits, at holsters, at collections of knives and at more than one collection of Nazi memorabilia.

“I don’t think I’ve ever seen this many Lugers in one place,” Holly said.

“Me neither.” Ham looked to his right. “What’s going on?”

The crowd had thinned, and now people were streaming out the back entrance of the tent. There had been no announcement, no signal.

“Let’s find out,” Holly said. She and Ham went with the flow, and soon they were back in the humid Florida outdoors, walking down a broad path through pines. Shortly they emerged into a large clearing and stopped in their tracks.

“Good God!” Holly said under her breath.

Fifteen

BEFORE THEM WAS A SLANTING PIT, BULLDOZED out of the sandy Florida earth. It was shallow at the end near them and deepened as it went back another two hundred or so feet. At the far end it was maybe ten feet deep, and earth was piled up behind it for another twenty feet. At the deep end of the pit was the ruin of a school bus, two dead pickup trucks and a collection of other junk vehicles. Immediately before them, as the crowd strung out across the width of the pit, was an assortment of weapons, most of them automatic, on tripods, in shooting stands of various kinds and some in the hands of shooters of both genders.

Ham went to a picnic table, picked something out of a box and returned to Holly. “I reckon we’d better use these,” he said, offering her a set of foam earplugs.

Holly rolled the plugs into narrow strips, then inserted them into her ears, where they expanded quickly to fill the ear canals.

“There’s the Barrett’s rifle,” Ham said, nodding toward the firing line.

“I can’t hear you,” Holly said. “I’ve got plugs in my ears.”

“What?”

“What?”

Ham pointed, and Holly followed his finger toward the evil-looking weapon, mounted on the roof of a Humvee, which was parked on the firing line.

“Oh,” Holly said.

“What?”

“Oh, shut up, Ham!” she half shouted.

Ham started to reply, but, at some unnoticed signal, all hell broke loose.

A cacophony of gunfire erupted, and Holly saw holes appearing in the rusted bodies of the vehicles, but not the school bus. Glass shattered and danced in the light.

The earplugs were not enough, and simultaneously, Ham and Holly clapped their hands over their ears. The firing continued for a full five minutes, then, apparently at another signal, abruptly stopped. The shooters all lowered their weapons, and all turned to look at the Humvee. A man climbed up onto the vehicle’s roof and shoved a large clip into his weapon, then sat down cross-legged and sighted on the school bus. The crowd grew quiet.

The shooter took his time, then squeezed off a round. Holly was amazed at how much noise the gun made. Then the projectile hit the front of the school bus and two things happened almost at once. First, the bus’s hood flew into the air, then it was followed by the engine, which popped up out of its bay a good three feet high.

Then the shooter sighted again and put three rounds into the bus, along its length. Abruptly, the bus exploded into a huge ball of flame.

Ham reached over and pulled one of Holly’s earplugs out. “That’s your phosphorus-tipped round.”

“But why the big explosion?” Holly asked.

“I guess they must have put a few gas cans in the bus.”

The crowd erupted in cheering, and the man on the Humvee roof stood up and took several bows.

“Well,” Holly said, “I don’t think I’ve ever seen anything quite like that.”

“I have,” Ham said.

With the show over, the crowd began to drift away from the pit, back toward the tent, revealing picnic tables spread along the grass on the lakeward side of the tent. Holly had not noticed until now that they were on a rise, and that the lake could be seen a couple of hundred yards away.

“I don’t think I feel like staying for lunch,” Holly said.

“Let’s take a hike, then,” Ham replied. “But we’re supposed to check with that Peck Rawlings guy first.”

“There he is,” Holly said, pointing.

Ham led the way, and they approached the man who was, apparently, their host. “Mr. Rawlings?” Ham said.

Rawlings turned. “Call me Peck,” he said.

“Well, Peck, we’re going to be on our way. You said to check with you first.”

“What did you think of our little demonstration?” the man asked.

Holly tried to muster some enthusiasm. “That was really something,” she said.

“Yeah, boy,” Ham echoed. “I haven’t seen that much firepower all at once since Desert Storm.”

“We do that at every show,” Rawlings said.

“How often do you have them?” Ham asked.

“Oh, every now and then.”

“Why don’t you put us on your mailing list?” Holly asked.

“We don’t have a mailing list,” Rawlings said.

“Well, whatever,” Holly replied.

“Ham, you want to give me your number?”

“I’m in the book,” Ham said. “C’mon, Holly, let’s hit the road.”

“Right,” Holly said.

Rawlings pulled a small walkie-talkie from his shirt pocket. “Hey, Charlie,” he said.

“Yeah, Peck?”

“Our guests are departing in a Ford pickup with a boat in the back.”

“Got it.”

Rawlings put the radio away and stuck out his hand. “We’ll see you again sometime, Ham.”

“Maybe so,” Ham said.

“You never know.” He offered his hand to Holly. “See you, little … uh, excuse me, Miss Barker.”

“It’s Holly,” she said, shaking the man’s hand.

“Bye-bye.” Rawlings turned and walked toward the picnic tables.

Back in the truck, Holly called Hurd again and checked in.

“What’s going on out there?” Hurd asked.

“I’ll fill you in later,” she said, and punched off.

“What’d you think of our morning?” Ham asked.

“Funny what Americans do for recreation, isn’t it?”

Sixteen

HAM DROVE BACK TO HOLLY’S HOUSE, AND, once Daisy had been properly greeted and apologized to for her lonely morning, they had some lunch.

“I like a ham sandwich,” Ham said, munching away.

“I believe I knew that about you,” Holly said. “Hence, the ham in the fridge.”

“I knew a woman once who said she liked a Ham sandwich, with a big H.”

“You don’t have to spell it out for me, Ham. It’s more than I want to know about your life.”

“You mean, a father shouldn’t have a sex life?”

“No, just not one that his daughter knows about.”

“Oh. I didn’t know you were so sensitive.”

“Funny, you never asked any questions about
my
sex life,” she said. “I mean, when I had one. See what I mean?”

“Point taken,” Ham said.

“And anyway, how did this woman make a Ham sandwich, without another woman to help?”

“I wasn’t going to bring that up,” Ham said, washing his sandwich down with a beer.

“Ham, are you telling me you had a threesome?”

Ham took another swig of the beer. “You said that, I didn’t.”

“That is appalling,” she said.

“What’s appalling about it?”

“Not the idea of a threesome; just the idea of you in one.”

“You don’t find the idea of a threesome appalling?”

“Not if I got to pick the guys.”

“Now you’re telling me more than I want to know.”

“Truce on sex lives?”

“Truce,” Ham said, raising both hands as if to ward off ideas of his daughter in a threesome.

“Okay, then.” Holly turned her attention to her own sandwich.

“So,” Ham said, “were you ever in a threesome?”

“
Ham!
I thought we had a truce!”