Authors: Stephen Schottenfeld
“Yes,” Kipp says proudly and admires the veterans display, an Ike jacket and fatigues with Yewell’s name stenciled over the pocket. “I miss him every day of the week,” Kipp says and Huddy nods at the uniform and looks down. On the base shelf of the cabinet, there’s a helmet liner, an ammo case and gear pouch, manuals and maps and an officer’s handbook, a booklet entitled “Characteristics and Effects of Atomic Explosion.” Huddy returns to the fatigues and pays tribute to Yewell’s military service while also knowing the value of militaria, just like there’s money in the sharpshooter photos he observes in the next display case, trick-shot artists like Annie Oakley in hipshot pose, Lucky McDaniel in quick-draw, Adolf Topperwein pointing a six-shooter at one of his bullet drawings. Huddy leans in to check for autographs, but he won’t ask about memorabilia.
“You shoot much?” Huddy says, keeping Yewell, father-and-son stories, out.
“Couple a times. Spent more time shooting at cans, with friends. I went in a different direction sportswise. But we worked on cars together. You see that GT in the garage?” Huddy did, the classic car on the other side of the brand-new Lexus. “Well, not that one, but the one before it. And before that. An MG. We had us some fun with cars.” The son wearing a far-off smile, some enjoyed yesterday, that unnerves Huddy. He watches the son study the room and the guns, leaning forward, and Huddy senses a dangerous thinking. Talking about
we
and
us
, and Huddy knows he’s gotta be careful with sentiment and nostalgia and dreams—long-ago days of being fifteen with his daddy beside him and wanting the guns now because he isn’t a son anymore, can’t feel twelve or ten or younger, little about being a Yewell to want to get away from, nothing hard or hateful back in the memories, nothing to snub or let go of but only what to hold, the guns never touching Huddy’s hands but passing down to the son.
Huddy needs to calmly disconnect the past, drive the son out of his childhood and into this room which is still theirs but at least Huddy’s here, too, and then he can give them a payday that won’t mend hearts but is useful elsewhere. Their memories will have to return from other rooms. Huddy turns from the displays and sees an L-shaped couch, a desk with a bookcase of specialty books. A floor lamp made from an old rifle; shell casings making an American eagle. “This looks like his inner sanctum.” On the wall, a bullet board. Model cannons and submarine deck guns on the desk.
“He built this room himself,” Kipp says, which is better for Huddy, hearing admiration in what got assembled, but not shared experience. A place where Yewell went solo and separate. “He says he wished he could’ve put saloon doors in the wall, but he knew he was stocking more than bourbon.”
“Yeah,” Huddy says. “He sure went stronger than swinging doors.”
Huddy seeing all the good-looking wood and the bluing and the beautiful scopes. You got your guns out, just like I thought.
I always liked to see what I’m collecting.
Who needs a safe when the room’s a safe?
“Guess I’ll migrate over,” Huddy says as he moves toward the racks, having to control his skips or else he’ll start hopping like some rabbit going over a fence. Kipp walks to the desk and sets up in the chair—to track me, Huddy thinks, until he hears the computer switch on, so maybe it’s just bargain-hunting. Or last-minute price checks. Or just planning the next trip of a lifetime.Whatever, Huddy thinks, putting his eyes and mind forward, drawing tight on the guns. He unzips his pouch and slips on cotton gloves. Time to test. Lever-actions grouped together just like the list. Huddy starts picking, lifts a ’73 off the rack, holds it by the wood. Checks the chamber, eyes the finish. See what’s operating, but he ain’t going in the field with these, ain’t even gonna dry-fire. Only break the bank, and not the guns, to get ’em. Pulls the lever down. Removes a bore light from his pouch and shines it down the receiver—no pits or dirt. Closes it up. Holds the hammer, lets it down gently, works the action the same gentle way. Clean and tight. He inspects every rifle on the first rack, studying the outside and going inside the barrel and finding no residue—going from the list back to the rack, checking models and calibers and serial numbers, making his own column of prices, one for cost and one for retail—and it doesn’t take long to see the list making sense with the guns; made sense as soon as he checked the first handful and verified the correct grading. So Huddy switches to ballpark, not opening every rifle but scanning surfaces, just a cattleman looking at fence posts, eyeing gaps and fits and edges and lettering and admiring case colors without expressing it outside. Doesn’t want to bring attention. Wants the numbers to slide in, have nothing seen except what he’s adjusting in his mind: these aren’t blue Winchesters but browned-out guns, and guns are tools, so Huddy’s just walking down the aisle of a hardware store looking at hammers and screws and pins. There they are, the Henry and the Yellow Boy—the Yellow Boy with its brass receiver, the Henry without the wood on the fore end and with the loading mechanism on the front—in the middle of a rack in the middle of the row, like all the surrounding rifles are a guarding posse. He doesn’t even lift them. Never put his hands on these two except in a catalogue, but he’ll work the smooth actions later, and he can see enough of the condition and care without touching. Already thinking about a few phone calls that’ll make half the money he hasn’t raised yet back.
“Nice, huh?” the son says, and Huddy steps away and says, “Sure are. Your daddy sure cleaned his guns.”
He’d rather talk about gun care, rust prevention instead of prices, put the son to sleep talking about bore brushes and brass cleaning rods, and then wake him up after the deal’s been made. Or talk about what’s not here, cracks and scratches and all other downgrades.
“You don’t need to check them all?”
“Well, these old utility guns got used real hard, so I don’t wanna tear ’em up.” Huddy looks back at the Henry and Yellow Boy without meaning to, so he adds a shrug, like they’re two relics from some period of American history nobody much thinks of anymore, except for a few families feuding across the battle line.
On the rack, Huddy sees a tag hanging off the trigger guard of an ’86 saying
fake
. Must’ve left your glasses at home, Yewell. Huddy studies to see what got doctored. Reblued it and then took part of the finish off, making it newer then older again. The fake could be a warning except that Yewell’s the one that caught it, too late for him but early enough for Huddy. All in all, he’s never seen so many original parts on so many old guns. “Sold this to your daddy,” Huddy says, and he turns to show the son a ’94 he’s been reunited with.
“My uncle Pete wants the double that dad went hunting with.”
Huddy sees a piece of paper unfolded in the son’s hand.
“Model 21,” Kipp says, and Huddy’s happy that the gun language didn’t come from the son’s mouth, but he wonders what other notes are hiding.
“Twenty-one in twenty-gauge,” Huddy says. “Side-by-side.” Already passed it two racks back, but now it’s gone farther. The seated son, but he just walked across and around and seized a ten-thousand-dollar Super Grade and walked it out the room. What other relations and favors and voices are hidden inside those pockets? “I’ll be sure to set it aside for you,” Huddy says, and he’s done chatting. The son probably thinking about hand-me-downs—about next saying, “I might want to pick out a few for myself,” so Huddy moves away, hard not to feel hurried, but it doesn’t matter, he’s already seen his pot of gold in the first rack, and the rest might be maybe-gold, but he’s long past making a mistake. Does quick work with the shotguns, which are superclean; he checks the martial marks on the militaries. He wishes he could tell a joke that would make the son laugh for the entire inspection. Or just lock him away in the pistols cabinet.
Huddy changes position, moves to the handguns hanging on L-hooks inside cases. All the good names, Colt and Remington and Smith & Wesson; S&W break-top, Colt SAA .45 with 95-percent case colors. Huddy pulls the latch, swings the cylinder out, pops it back. Checks the timing. The revolvers labeled proof he’s gonna keep that way, leave the cylinder unturned. Won’t talk to the son, only to the dead man, tell him about his select wood, his extra finishes. Yewell, this is one beautiful single-action. Too bad about the broken grip. You had it almost right.
That’s why I had to get this one, too.
Huddy finding the next one more perfect. He sees ivory grips on handguns worth as much as the guns. This pearl grip with a chip out the side, but who cares? Little nick in the front sight but only a bit of holster wear. Dings on the grips of the next couple, but the fittings are tight. Checks the clips on the pistols and they all make sense.
“Myself, I haven’t decided yet,” the son says, his words again in the way. He gazes into a bottled boat and Huddy can’t tell if it’s a gun or the whole deal he’s unsure about. “My mother wouldn’t say this, but we’ve had other collectors call. Our attorney has recommended we go with a national concern.”
“Well, thing is,” Huddy says, his face and voice neutralized but his blood pressure climbing higher than the number of guns in the room. “With these big gun brokers, here’s what’ll happen. They charge twenty percent, and by the time they get through taxes and fees and all the other Mickey Mouse . . . you’ll get your
check
. What you get from me is gonna be
money
. And I pay on the spot. You sell ’em to me and you’re done. End of sale.”
The son returns to the boat and Huddy to the revolvers, but what else is there to see? What’s inside and outside these pistols is clearer than the smoke signals coming from the chair. Time to pull the trigger. Buy them at his price, but make it sound like theirs. If he offers silly money, they’ll go elsewhere, so the figure must be big. Six figures. Just the bottom of it. “Alright,” Huddy says, and he steps into the middle of the room and waits to be joined, but the son stays seated. “I’m not even gonna ask about the memorabilia. That’s precious stuff. Can’t put a price on that. The racks, you can probably find another use for. For the guns, I can offer you a hundred thousand. And I can have it in two days.” Huddy hoping the speed counts as money, too. What he can get quick is what he can get forever, when there are only a few places it can come from. His voice sounded right, like the tool pouch he’s wearing doubles as a money belt, and the rest is near, too, just needs to go home and collect what’s dropped behind couch cushions and stashed in cigar boxes or wadded up in dirty jeans.
“A hundred thousand,” Kipp repeats in a voice so concealed and equal to Huddy’s price it’s as if he’s said it first.
Huddy waits for him to nod, but he doesn’t. And Huddy doesn’t know what’s been accepted or passed. He’s stuck—only a single shot at the offer—and how can a payment so large and unspoken in all the years he’s been a pawnbroker still be low? And how can the number ever be high enough when he’s saying it to someone born into the millionaires’ club?
Huddy’s thinking about step two. He’ll go back to the widow and tell her the whole world will know about these guns. Not just dealers but every scumbag and gunrunner calling nonstop, every Bubba and Bubbette that ever wanted a gun. Disconnect the phone but you’re still a widow at night hearing gun taps on your nightstand, these guns locked away but loaded like an armory clogged up with ammo and about to explode, as unavoidable as the exhale of your held breath.
A palm uncups from the son’s chin. “Hundred thousand,” he says again, but the voice isn’t matched—the pitch lifting to mean an answer, and he nods to tell him which one.
And Huddy’s just won the lottery. His life has never felt luckier. He only needs to start buying the ticket.
“Just me,” Huddy says to Joe, who looks around for a second face, then squints to the street like Harlan’s split into the night. “I know, getting to be a regular thing,” Huddy adds and waits to be let inside. “Thought you might be out back again, talking to your plants?”
“Was,” Joe says. He eyes the dress-up clothes. “You must be finding a church.”
“Something like that. Just down the road: Our Lady of Perpetual Help.”
He gives Huddy a tired, beaten face, but Huddy won’t take it. “I’m having a long day.”
“Yeah, good thing about being a pawnbroker is each day you getting paid.”
Joe gestures him in and turns and leads and Huddy pursues close behind, passing the living room, where the TV is on, and Lorie stands there but Joe veers directions and Huddy shrugs a greeting, which she answers with a friendly smile that still finds fault with his visit and needs. He follows Joe and because of seeing Lorie feels not just uninvited but a little like a beggar straggling in as they enter the stainless kitchen, the smell of made food, but mostly what scrubbed and cleaned it after, filling Huddy’s nostrils. His stomach grumbles from the snack in his truck. Tiered against the center island is a table and Joe sits with his back to the window, and Huddy sits at the other end to envy again the grand landscapes people build for themselves or get handed down, but it’s too dark with only bug lights to see; there’s enough shining inside, the silver appliances and polished hardwood, the glassware in the glassed cabinets arranged in clinking rows. “You still liking grilled cheese and potato chips?” Huddy eyes the stove, the massive range hood motorized and gleaming with enough power to suck the air out of the whole house, like if you walked by it and bumped a button it would suck you up dead. “When you was a kid, I remember how much you liked eating that.”
“You come out here to talk about how I ate?”