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right road all the time.
At last we came to a lonely spot, a wilderness of hillocks and
valleys. There was no habitation for miles, yet cars and vans had
gathered here. Men and women were standing around guzzling
from cans. That worried me straight off: guns and alcohol the
worst marriage.
As soon as we stepped out of the car we could smell it: the air
was thick with cordite. We couldn t tell if there was smoke or not,
we d kicked up so much dust along the track. I was glad I d
bought the Trans Am and not some anonymous Japanese car.
These were Trans Am people. There were a couple more parked
nearby, along with Corvette Stingrays and Mustangs and a cou-
ple of LeBarons.
Somebody yelled, The line is hot! and there was a sudden
deafening fusillade from behind the nearest rise. Instinctively,
Bel ducked, raising a knowing smile from the beer drinkers. The
sound of firing continued for fifteen seconds, then died. There
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were whoops and sounds of applause. A man came up to us, beer
can in hand.
It s six bucks each, buddy. I was handing over the money
when I heard an unmistakable voice.
You old dawg, what in the hell are you doing here? It was
Spike Jackson. He had a baseball cap on his head, turned so the
shield was to the back. He took it off and ran a hand through his
hair. He had thick wavy brown hair swept back to display a high
prominent forehead. He wore steel-rimmed glasses, sneakers, and
old denims, and a T-shirt with the sleeves ripped off, showing
rounded muscular shoulders and thick upper arms. He stopped
suddenly, arched his back to the sky, and threw open his arms.
This is gun heaven, man! I died and went to gun heaven.
Didn t I always used to tell you that, Wild West? That s what this
country is, man.
His audience voiced their agreement. Now he came up to us,
arms still open wide, then closed them around me in a hug that
lifted me off the ground.
Wild West, man, how in the hell are you doing? He let me
down and gave Bel a smile, touching his crotch for luck, then
turned back to me. You old dawg, you! Come on, let s go where
the action is. He went to a stack of beer cans and pulled off a
few, tossing one to me, but opening Bel s and handing it to her
with a bow from the waist.
Name s Spike Jackson, ma am, and this one s for you.
Bel took the beer but didn t say anything. Spike led us around
to where, as he d put it, the action was. In another clearing peo-
ple milled around examining the damage the latest fusillade had
done to a couple of wrecked cars, a lean-to shack, and an array of
crates and bottles and cans. Fresh targets were being set up by
sweating volunteers.
I knew what this was, of course. Spike had taken me to a
Texan shoot before. Forty or fifty enthusiasts would gather to-
gether and fire off a range of weapons. You could spectate, or you
could participate. A couple of arms dealers, who supplied much
of the arsenal, would then take orders. I could see the dealers.
They were short and dumpy and wearing holsters under
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drenched armpits. The day was fiercely hot, and I half wished I d
bought a Stetson, or at the very least a baseball cap.
Spike never officially organized these shoots, because he wasn t
officially a gun dealer. He worked the black market, and got a lot
of his stuff from army bases throughout Texas. He bought from
overseas too, though. He just didn t do any of this legally.
Look at this, he told me. He had led us to where today s
arms were displayed, spread on sheets of plastic on the ground. It
looked like an arsenal captured from the Iraqis. Spike had picked
up a Browning antiaircraft gun. It showed off his bronzed arm
muscles. Something for the lady, he said, laughing.
I laughed back, and Bel gave me a disgusted look.
We got your M16s, your AK-47s and 74s. Spike pointed
out the most interesting items. Look here, we even got some-
thing from Finland or Sharkland or someplace, a Varmint.
Valmet, I corrected. The M62.
Whatever. We got armor-piercing ammo you wouldn t be-
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