The Famous and the Dead (20 page)

C
lint Wampler lay on his trailer bed in Bombay Beach, peacoat buttoned against the desert cold, head against the buckling wallpaper, watching yet another news story on the shooting of the congressman in San Diego. He thought,
The federal government sucks and Freeman deserved it
. The next story was of course about him and the “cold-blooded murder of Agent Reggie Cepeda.” They showed the same picture of Clint they'd been showing for seven straight days.

He answered his phone to good news.

“Clint, I have a buyer at thirty-five thousand.”

“It costs forty.”

“It's a solid offer from a dependable client.”

“Solid shit is what I call it.” Wampler rang off and dropped the phone to the bed beside the .44 Magnum. Of course Castro called back ten minutes later.

“He wants three.”

“I ain't got but one.”

“He can go forty on the one if you can get two more at thirty-seven five.”

“Nope. These things are hard to come by. If they're worth thirty-seven five, then they're worth forty. Tell him to go to hell.”

“Let me tell you something about business, Clint. You have to learn to be flexible. You have to offer up a little bit to keep your customers happy. You take care of them and they take care of you. Sometimes you take a little more and sometimes you take a little less. This is how things get done.”

Wampler did the math while Castro lectured him. “This is the deal, then: forty for one, thirty-eight each for two more. I need the money up front for the second two. I don't get 'em on promises and you aren't either.”

Clint hung up again and dropped the phone and went to the front door window. He cracked the curtain and looked out at the late morning. He saw the dirt patch with the derelict cars, some up on concrete blocks, some resting on their wheels or rust-eaten brakes. Not a one of them less than thirty years old, he thought. He hated this place, hated living locked down like a criminal. But this hole was hard to find and cheap. And the old lady who took his cash was so blind she made him fish out the key with the
TRAILOR
tag on it, though not too blind to count the money.

And near blindness was a virtue because, even though the murder of the congressman in San Diego had knocked Clint out of first place on the news, Clint was still everywhere Clint turned. For two straight days after he'd killed Cepeda, he had made the front page of all four newspapers for sale outside the Bombay Beach convenience stores. He bought some to see what they were saying about him. His picture was shown and his name bellowed out on every news show he watched on the wretched little TV in his trailer, and every radio station he could get, from Yuma to San Diego, L.A. to San Bernardino. But even with the fresher dead congressman to prey on, they were still yapping on about the fallen hero, Cepeda, and showing his official fed mug shot and a portrait from his wedding day, over and over. And of course, most of the focus was on the growing manhunt for Clint Wampler, a militia-affiliated extremist who had thus far escaped arrest. The papers and TV kept showing his worst picture, the one that made him look like some kind of rotten-toothed sixties rock star, with stupid bangs and big ears and an IQ of ten.

In the few brief minutes that he'd spent outside this miserable aluminum refrigerator over the past three days, he'd personally seen more cops per mile of road than anywhere he'd ever been. It was like a convention of them. He saw local police, sheriffs from God knew how many California and Arizona counties, Highway Patrol, Tribal Police, even Fish and Game had units out looking for him. And of course ICE and Border Patrol in their SUVs. And then there were all the unmarked-but-still-obvious cars the feds were driving—Mercs and Chevys with little whippy antennas on top: FBI, ATF, DEA, U.S. Marshals. Even the U.S. Postal Service investigation service was after him again because of that post office fire back in Missouri, is what the TV said. He had also seen unusual numbers of small helicopters and low-flying aircraft. He had almost been trapped at a CHP checkpoint that, as if by a miracle, had shut down when he'd advanced to fifth in line, a pistol lying under a rag on the passenger seat of his second stolen car, his cool and clarity settling over him.

Looking out past the junked cars he saw the rutted dirt drive and the Jackalope Lounge sign, and beyond that the Jackalope Lounge itself, an almost windowless, low brick box decorated with Christmas lights. Quiet, this time on a Sunday. It sat just off a wide dirt road. Beyond the road was a white expanse of what looked like sand or maybe salt, then the flat silver mirror of the Salton Sea. The whole place smelled of dead fish and foul water, and there were screeching goddamned birds everywhere you looked.
Bombay Beach
, Wampler thought. Worse than anywhere in Russell County. Plus he was hungry and worried about going out for groceries and his money was running low. And his left middle finger might be getting infected because it got redder and hurt more every day. The pain made him think of spectacular ways to return it to its rightful owner: Charlie Hooper.

Thinking of revenge on Hooper gave Clint just a taste of that cool, clear feeling he liked. So he went to the middle of the small “living room” and practiced his draw. He was a pocket man, not a holster man—easier to conceal and easier to draw fast if you had the right jacket, which he did. The peacoat had wide slit pockets at perfect angles. He whipped out twenty quick lefts, then twenty rights, then twenty doubles. On the two-gun draws he alternated bracing left over right, then right over left for steadiness, none of that waving-'em-around bullshit like in westerns. Wampler liked short-barreled guns with flush or internal hammers that wouldn't catch on things. He turned around and went through the routine again. Not a snag or fumble. Gotcha. The best was doing it live, out in the woods by Little Creek, using the skinny poplars and willows for targets—if you could hit them, you could hit a man practically with your eyes closed. Plus it sounded great. Clint did another twenty draws each way.

Then he stepped into the “kitchen” and instead of drawing a gun with his right hand he whipped out his hand-made blackjack and rapped it righteously against one of the wooden cabinets. The weighted end left a quarter-size dent in the wood, just like it would leave on a skull, Clint thought. He hit another cabinet, harder, and this time the sap went all the way through and he had to wrench it back out through the ragged hole. When he finished his workout, his pulse and breathing were right up where he liked them and his vision was clear and sharp.

Half an hour later Castro called to say he could go the full forty thousand on a new crated Stinger. “And he'll front the money on the next two, at thirty-seven five.”

“Fine. Deal. See how flexible I can be?”

“I vouched for you, Clint. I think you understand what that means.”

Wampler felt flush and lucky, though still hungry. “Oh. And I want five thousand of my money to be in the form of a dependable used car, Mr. Car Dealer. A good one, not some fucked-up little economy car. I want it legal and mine. I also want a sawed-off shotgun and some ammo and a blanket to cover them up with. The gun, the car, and thirty-five grand gets you the missile. And seventy-five thousand more gets you double trouble. Or is it triple?”

“I've got a secure place we can meet.”

“That's good, but I'm not moving one inch until I've got my money.”

•   •   •

Five hours later Wampler parked his '09 Sebring in the Denny's parking lot in Fallbrook and stepped out into the cool winter air. He left the sawed-off shotgun on the backseat, covered in a bright yellow-and-black serape. The pistol under his Windbreaker felt useful and he was assured by the flat, hard combat knife strapped to his calf. His fingertip throbbed in the cold, same beat as his heart.

Skull's two Pendleton friends were older than Clint had expected. One short and one medium. They had tattoos and military haircuts and moved with brisk authority. They reminded him of Skull. The parking lot was dark but busy enough, and the friends had told him that Fallbrook had some sheriffs for patrol but not many. Wampler saw a security guard who seemed not to notice them. His heart rate always fell in dicey situations like this, and he saw things in a slowed-down kind of motion. For the two Stingers he handed over $50,000 in the backpack in which it had come to him. The other $25,000 was his end, already stashed in the car. The Sebring had a big trunk and the crates fit fine alongside the plastic bags of his cash.

Wampler shut the trunk and got back into his new $5,000 used car. The balance of $35,000 from Castro for the first Stinger sat on the front passenger seat in a steel navy ammunition box covered with the heavy wool coat he'd brought from home. He wondered again if he should keep Skull's and Brock's shares. With the blood of a murdered federal agent on their hands, it might be a long, long time until they saw the light of day. There was a question of honor, however. He had honor. Up to a point. One of the men was coming to the car so he drew his .44 and kept it in the dark and rolled down the window.

“More where those came from,” said short, who called himself Skip.

“All the business I'm giving you, Skip, seems the price might come down some.”

“Take a thousand off the next two, if that helps.”

“Off each one or both?”

“Off each of however many you want, my friend. We aim to please. Where are these babies going?”

“If it mattered to you, you wouldn't be selling them.”

“It's a big world out there, partner.”

“That's why you need me. 'Cause I know where the customers are.”

“You know how to find us.”

Wampler rolled up the window and slid the big pistol under the coat on the passenger seat. With this part of the deal done he headed south again for El Centro. He stopped at a motel on the edge of Fallbrook and used the pay phone to call Mary Kate Boyle. “I got some money in my pocket now, Mary Kate. Where are you at? You there? What's that clicking sound?”

“It's my damned phone falling apart. I got to get something better.”

“Where you at? Are you coming out here to California to be my girl or not?”

“I'm coming to California to see some friends. There's nothing in this about being your girl, Clint.”

“But you are coming, now, aren't you?”

“Didn't I just say that?”

“I made the biggest deal of my life today. I got a new used car and thirty-five
thousand dollars
in it, every cent of it mine if I want it to be. All I got to do is deliver two more missiles and I'll have even more. I think I might be in the missile business for a while to come.”

“I don't understand how you can make so much money so fast. Thirty-five thousand dollars and a car, Clint? Skull never made money like that in one day.”

“Then you know it's Clint can take the best care of you.”

“Where do you get 'em? You can't just buy missiles in El Centro, can you?”

“Like I'd tell you?”

“Did you go to El Centro like Skull said you were going to?”

“Maybe. Why are you asking so many damned questions?”

“I'm trying to talk to you.”

Wampler let his suspicion run its course while he pictured Mary Kate Boyle. Last he'd seen her, one of her eyes was puffed up purple and her lips were cut. But she had a good figure and one of them alluring smiles when her mouth wasn't all swollen. He'd been pissed off at Skull for messing her up, but what could he do? You couldn't fight a guy that big. You could kill him but that wasn't fair. “I was in El Centro for a while. That's where Lyle and Brock got busted and I got away. I'm out of that desert now. Like I said, I've got my money and now I'll get myself a place to stay. A good place, not some trailer. You going to come join me in it or not, Mary Kate?”

“I don't know.”

“You sound like you might could.”

“I've got friends in San Diego.”

“I ain't moving to San Diego, girl. We went to see some business contacts there. Too many people in that city.”

“What kind of place you looking for?”

“What kind of place
you
looking for?”

“Someplace I don't get hit by Russell County hell-raisers, Clint. I've had enough of that for the next about hundred years.”

“How about the beach? Chicks like the beach.”

“It's up to you.”

“I can't believe you're coming to see me. I feel happy about that.”

“I never said it was to see you.”

“It ain't what you say, MK, it's what you do. I got a real nice Sebring, decent sound and just about new. One of my friends out here, he owns a Ford dealership. He set me up with a good deal.”

“What color did you get?”

“Kind of a gunmetal gray.”

“Why'd he sell you a Dodge if he owns a Ford lot?”

“What kind of question is that? It's a used Dodge. What are you talking about, Mary Kate?”

“Shall I call you when I get to California?”

Clint thought about that for a short moment. “No. You don't call me. I call you. You driving or the bus or what?”

“Trailways. And I'll need to be picked up, Clint. I can't be dragging luggage all over San Diego.”

“Clint's your man! What a great day this has been. How are those lips of yours healing up?”

“Not bad.”

“So, whatcha wearing right now, Mary Kate? That black lacy top with them little shiny things on it?”

She hung up and Wampler laughed but didn't call back.

•   •   •

He met Castro off a dirt road near Jacumba to deliver the Stingers. The night was cold and the breeze hissed in the treetops. Wampler blew into his hands while Castro opened and closed the crates, then started loading them into a beaten-up old F-150. When Castro had pushed in the last crate and closed the squeaky tailgate, he started toward Wampler, reaching inside his sport coat. The pistol seemed to just appear in Wampler's hands, holding steady at Castro's forehead.