Parker 02 - The Guilty (17 page)

across this table, you look at me the same way I used to look

at Petey Vincent."

"The name rings a bell," I said.

"Petey Vincent was my idol growing up. Those days,

newsmen were the toast of the city. You reported the hot

stories, had more groupies than ballplayers, spent the evenings

at your Park Avenue homes and ate caviar. Nowadays the

only way a reporter eats caviar is if an I-banker sends it to them

at Christmas. It's a thankless job, so you gotta really love it."

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Jason Pinter

"I do," I said.

"What I'm saying is," Jack continued, "if you want to be

a great reporter, you need to keep Amanda this far from you."

He held out his arm, as though holding up a wall.

"Why would I want to do that?"

"I'm not going to ask if you love her," Jack said. "Love is

easier to find than you think. But nobody remembers great

love. People remember great men and women for who they

are,
not who they love. At some point in every relationship,

you have to make a choice as to what your priorities are. At

some point this job will demand more of your time than your

loved ones are willing to give up. And when that happens, you

can either be prepared for it or you get overwhelmed. You'll

end up a half-assed reporter and a half-assed husband. And

then you'll have nothing."

The waitress came back with a refill of Jack's drink. She

noticed that neither of us were speaking. "Getcha another?"

she said, nodding at my half-finished beer.

"No, thanks." She clicked her gum and walked away.

"I don't think I could ever give her up," I said. Jack sighed,

looked down.

"Then you'll make a fine beat journalist. Live with exposed

brick and take the subway because you can't afford taxis."

"That's not why I do this job."

"Of course it's not," Jack said. "But in any industry, the

money level rises as the talent itself does. The better you are,

the more you're needed. And when the money comes, so does

love. It might not be the forever kind of love people with shitty

mortgages have, it might not last until you die, but it's good

enough to make you smile every once in a while. And that's what

life is about, in the end. When you stare into the abyss, you want

a smile to come back at you. Even if it's just sometimes."

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143

"I have that," I said. I felt a pressure on my chest. I took a

sip of beer and swallowed it down.

"You try to make everyone happy, you wind up making

nobody happy. Anyway," Jack said, raising his glass, "here's

to the story. Let's find out more about this asshole, and hopefully put an end to it. Keep digging, Henry. Just don't stand

too close to the hole."

22

I needed to find out who might have gotten hold of an authentic 1873 Winchester, and how. Thankfully Jack had managed to pull together a file of many major gun collectors and

museums. It was a haystack, to be sure, but one of these haystacks either sold their needle, or had it stolen. Jack had given

me another thread, and now I needed to pull.

I went to the office, turned on my computer and ran a

search for "Winchester 1873" and "stolen."

Only 149 hits came back. I searched through every entry,

looking for anything that could be a piece of thread. Most of

the articles were police and newspaper reports of replica Winchesters stolen from gun shows. No help there. I wasn't

looking for a replica. Whoever was using that gun was using

the real deal. None of the 149 hits went anywhere that looked

promising.

I ran a new search, this time for "Winchester 1873" and

"museum." Over four hundred responses came back. I refined

my search by adding the words "authentic" and "working."

Now we were down to thirty-two hits.

I sifted through each entry, arriving at the estimation of

fifteen museums in the United States that listed authentic

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145

Winchester 1873 rifles among their collections, along with

some sort of reference to the gun being in working condition.

My first call was to the Texas Ranger Hall of Fame and

Museum, located in Waco. I got an automated system, pressed

zero for the operator. A nice woman with a wonderful Southern drawl picked up the phone.

"Ranger Museum, how may I help ya?"

"Hi, do you still have an exhibit featuring the Winchester

1873 rifle?"

"Gun that won the West, we surely do. It's open from nine

ayem to six pee-yem. Day passes are a dollar fifty, yearround pass is twelve dollars. That's the better deal, y'ask

me."

"How long have you had that rifle?"

"Oh, heck, I've been here three years and it's been here

long as I have, I'd have to ask for sure though."

"And you've had no other rifles come and go since then?"

"Why no...may I ask your interest?"

"That's okay, I appreciate the help." I hung up.

I called ten more museums. Each one could currently

account for their Winchesters, and had seen none go missing

in recent memory.

Then I dialed the twelfth number on my contact sheet, the

Museum of Outlaws and Lawmen in Fort Sumner, New Mexico.

"MOL Museum, this is Rex speaking."

"Hi, Rex, I'm calling because I read somewhere that you

have an authentic, working Winchester 1873 rifle in stock. Is

that true?"

"It ain't in stock," Rex said, "this is a museum, not a

sidewalk sale, son."

"Sorry, but you do have one."

"Why yes, sir, we do."

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Jason Pinter

"Just one?"

There was a split second of silence before Rex answered,

and I picked up on it.

"Why, yes, one's just about all we need."

"Have any rifles come in or left the museum for any reason

over the last year?"

"Listen, you care to tell me what all these questions are

about?"

"I was just wondering..."

"Our gun is here, it's in great shape and it looks a lot better

in person than it does over the phone."

For a moment I assumed we'd been disconnected, but then

I heard the dial tone and knew Rex had hung up on me. My

heart began to beat faster. But I had to confirm it.

I dialed the number again. The same man picked up.

"Hi, I just called about your Winchester 1873 model

rifle, and--"

"Hey, either come to the museum like all normal folks or

stop calling."

Once again I was greeted by a dial tone. I stared at the

phone for a moment. This museum clearly didn't like my line

of questioning. Then I recalled that the museum was in New

Mexico. The heart of the Old West.

I picked up the receiver and dialed again. This time a different number. It picked up on the first ring.

"Hey, Henry," Amanda said. "Missed me much?"

"I have to go to New Mexico," I said. "And I need to

leave tonight."

There was silence on the other end.

"Does that mean I shouldn't wait for you for dinner?"

"If you don't mind waiting until tomorrow to eat."

"As if I don't have enough trouble getting out of bed in

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147

the morning," she said. "So you found something out there?

New Mexico?"

"Yeah, something to do with the murders. I know it."

"Something about the gun?"

"Yeah, I think I have a lead at a museum."

"Then go. Do whatever you can to find this guy," she said.

"I'll be here when you get back. Dinner might be a bit cold,

though. I'll just rename it vichyssoise and call it a gourmet

meal."

I laughed. "No way. When I get back you're getting the

finest grilled cheese in North America."

"I'll keep a bowl of Kix nearby just in case."

"Thanks, babe. I'll call you when I leave."

Then I hung up and checked departure times for flights to

New Mexico.

23

I cashed Jack's check at a local Chase branch, then took a

cab home and threw a pile of clothes into a duffel bag, hoping

I'd buck the odds and end up with a matching outfit or two.

I took the Xeroxes from Agnes Trimble's book, packed them

in a valise.

As I zipped up the duffel, I stared at the bed. Neither

Amanda nor I had bothered to make it that morning. I could

still make out the ruffled sheets where we'd lain the night

before. I could re-create it; where Amanda's arm lay across

my chest, where her legs curled around mine. My hand gently

stroking her leg, the way she smiled and kissed my cheek.

I had to leave before I thought about it anymore, because

the more I did the more Jack's words resonated.

I made sure my phone was charged and I had a clean

notebook and tape recorder. The bills made my wallet fat.

I thought about the last time I traveled across the country, several men wanting me dead and Amanda unaware of

the lie I'd fed her. And now she shared my bed. I still had

to prove myself to her, and to do so I had to put her life

before mine.

And yet for the first time since we started seeing each

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other, despite how much I loved her, I thought about my

conversation with Jack and wondered if Amanda deserved

better.

Another cab sped me to the Continental terminal at LaGuardia Airport. I ran to the reservations desk and made the

seven-thirty nonstop flight to Albuquerque, New Mexico. I

paid the five-hundred-and-sixty-dollar round-trip ticket with

a handful of cash, drawing a slightly raised eyebrow from the

woman at the ticket counter.

"How long is the flight?"

"Four hours and thirty-five minutes," she replied, eyes

down as she counted out the numerous crisp twenties.

"And what's the time difference in Albuquerque?"

"New Mexico is on Mountain Standard Time. Two hours

earlier than New York."

"Is there an in-flight movie?"

"Let me check...that would be
Shrek 2.
"

"Couldn't get
Shrek 3?
"

She did not find me funny.

My flight was scheduled to land at midnight, or ten New

Mexico time. On arrival, I still had to rent a car and drive

down to Fort Sumner, which was about a hundred and sixty

miles southeast of Albuquerque. Barring any major driving

mishaps or being kidnapped by a herd of mountain lions, I'd

make the drive in two, two and a half hours, putting me in Fort

Sumner at about twelve-thirty. The museum would be long

closed, so I'd have to find a friendly bed-and-breakfast. All

of this, of course, while having no clue about local customs

or directions. You had to love seat-of-your-pants journalism.

I grabbed my boarding pass, bought copies of the
Gazette
and

the
Dispatch
and headed toward the gate. There I sucked down

a cup of coffee and a cheese Danish, and waited. There were

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Jason Pinter

barely twenty people waiting for the flight, reading newspapers

and paperbacks and counting the minutes until departure.

The plane boarded a mere twenty minutes later, and I was

lucky enough to get a whole row to myself. I took the window

seat, raised the armrests and spread my legs. I put the newspapers on the seat next to me and yawned, my head resting

gently against the window, the fading light making my eyes

heavy. The next thing I knew I woke up as the plane was

landing.

I ambled drearily off the plane, then pissed off a dozen

grumpy passengers when I had to double back and grab my

carry-on bag. After a pit stop at a Coffee Beanery, I followed

signs to the car rental area and filled out the paperwork for a

beige 2001 Chevy Impala. I paid in cash, hemmed and hawed

about insurance and finally caved in. With any luck Jack

would get reimbursed. I took half a dozen maps of every conceivable location and asked the clerk to highlight the best

routes for me to drive to Fort Sumner.

"Lot of history there," he said. "You going for business

or pleasure?"

"Little of both."

"Well, don't spend so much time on business you don't

enjoy yourself. If you're an Old West buff, you can't do any

better than old Fort Sumner."

"That right?"

"Damn right. Buy me a few replicas down there every

year, give 'em to the nephews to play cowboys and Indians.

Three littlest ones always fight to see who gets to be Jesse

James. Funny, everyone always wants to be the bad guy."

"Guess being a good guy isn't as much fun."

"Guess not," he said.

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151

"Is it hard to find a motel down there? Somewhere for a

bite?"

"Shoot, not at all. Second most popular attraction Fort

Sumner has after old guns is vacancy signs."

I thanked him and took the keys to my Impala. He told me

to wait outside for a company shuttle, grabbed it for a silent

seven-minute ride to the lot.

I stepped outside, remembering to reset my watch. Then I

took a deep breath. The Albuquerque airport resembled a

mesa as designed by Frank Lloyd Wright--the facade a dark