Meadowlarks by Thomas Holladay (novels to improve english TXT) 📗

“This time of year?” The old man walked from behind the counter and approached Kirby. “Everything’s on sale. Take these mountain bikes, now. Summer time, this one sells for four hundred eighty seven dollars and ninety eight cents, plus tax.” They all looked about the same, this one a little bigger.

“When did bikes get so expensive?”

The old guy grinned, pinching his chin, looking stingy. “You’d be surprised how many we sell. Kids get bored with fishing.”

“How much at Christmas?”

The old man pulled off his glasses and polished them with his shirttail, thinking about it. He moved to one side of the bike, propped his glasses back onto his nose and knelt, pretending to closely examine the thing. “Let you have it for four hundred flat, no tax.” He didn’t look up at Kirby, acting like he'd be saying goodbye to an old friend.

“Jesus! That’s still too much.” Kirby waited for the old fart to stand, eye-to-eye. “Listen, I need a good rifle and some special ammunition. Maybe we can work a package deal.”

The old man’s light green eyes searched Kirby’s. “Hunting bear or wolf?”

Kirby shrugged. Wish I knew.

“Both are protected, you know. Can’t issue a license.”

“I’ve been planning to buy a good rifle. Why, you really care?”

“Deer went out of season after Thanksgiving.” He cared.

“I’m not looking for deer.”

The old man stepped back a little and eyed Kirby’s clothes. “You shoot bear up here, you might have some trouble.”

“What about wolf. My friend owns a ranch. They've been having some problems with their cattle.”

The wily old fart pulled at the corners of his shirt tail with both hands and strolled back to the glass-front counter. He turned and leaned over his elbows, thinking about it. “I bought an M1 Garand from a former marine a few years back, the owner of the Sportsman’s Inn across the street. Marines don’t use them anymore.” He nodded in that direction, probably knowing Kirby had stayed the night. “He retired from the base at Pickle Meadow after the corps restocked with newer rifles. It’s got no state registration so I don’t need to report the sale. Private sale. You understand.”

Kirby knew from serving at Pendleton, M1s had been obsolete for years. “Does it still shoot?”

The old guy pushed off the counter and stepped forward with authority, closing the sale. “I’ve been a gunsmith for fifty two years. For my money, that’s the finest rifle ever made.” He grinned a little. “Still shoot? Hell yes.”

“Can you make some special bullets for it?”

The old guy looked out the window, crossed his arms and leaned close like he was telling secrets. “I get up to Virginia City every year. They’ve got a Pioneer Day celebration. I just happen to have about a pound of pure silver in back.” He leaned on the counter, being conversational. “You’re headed up Sonora Pass, are you?”

How does he know . . .

“Yes. You take plastic?”

“Master Card or Visa.”

Kirby pulled out his wallet and opened it, ready to pull the card. “How about American Express? I’d like to charge this off to my business.”

“I’d have to call that in.”

Kirby pulled the card from his wallet and handed it over.

The gunsmith took it behind the curtain in back. After a minute, Kirby heard him talking on the phone but couldn’t quite hear his words. Moving closer to the counter, leaning across and holding his breath didn’t help.

The phone hung up, the gunsmith returned and handed Kirby his card. “When I gave them the amount, they put me on hold. After a minute, they came back and approved it.”

“We’re in business, then. How much?”

“I figured two full clips. That’s all the clips I’ve got. That’s sixteen bullets. That enough?”

“God, I hope so.”

The old guy leaned on the counter and jotted numbers on a notepad. He’d already given the amount to American Express, adding them up now like he wasn’t sure. Still looking at his pad, he said, “All together, that’s eleven hundred eighty seven dollars and sixty two cents.”

“Make it eleven hundred even and I’ll pay for it now.”

The old man lowered his head and stared up at Kirby for what seemed a full minute. “Eleven fifty and no warranties?”

Wily old fart.

“Can you put a red bow on the bike? It’s for a kid.”

“It’s a boy’s twenty six inch. How old is he?”

“He can grow into it. It’s the thought that counts. Right?”

“I can let you have a smaller one for the same price. The small one costs more.”

“If there’s a problem, can he trade this one for a smaller one?”

“Sure, long as he doesn’t scratch it.”

“Let’s do it that way.”

Big one has to be worth more. 

Wily old fart.

“I’ll see if I can find some ribbon in back. If not, I’m sure the wife has something over at the house. When do you want to pick it up?”

“Can I pick it up in the morning? I know it’s Christmas Day but . . .”

“Sure. I’ll be here at ten and wait an hour. That work for you?”

KIRBY FOLLOWED THE highway nineteen miles north and took the Sonora Pass turn-off at 12:05pm. The marine base sign was bigger than the highway sign, impossible to miss. Another sign said the pass was closed. Carolyn had already told him it was closed all winter and she’d have to have it cleared by their local plow.

Three miles up the pass a wood sign on the right identified the Marine Corps Mountain Warfare Training Center. A guard shack stood a hundred yards up a side road. A little farther up, barely visible beyond a mountain of snow, he passed a group of snow covered buildings. No sign of life in the cold and gray but they were there. This was where John Potter’s recon company had trained before shipping out for combat duty.

Badass Marines.

At this elevation, low lying clouds sat like fog, bulging down in puffy shafts, hugging rock outcroppings and pine trees.

Spooky.

He needed to be careful. This car crept up in speed