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Authors: Robert Adams
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can have that booby trap back, any time, take it home with you tonight/'
"Fitz, boy," Tolliver hastily expostulated, "that gun's a real collector's item, cased and all like it is. Holland and Holland, what made it, didn't never make no kind of cheap guns, ever. That eight-bore double rifle was custom-made, by hand, and ..."
"And made on order for an avowed masochist, no doubt," commented Fitz, ruefully, rubbing his right shoulder in painful memory of the elephant gun's punishing recoil.
Gus ignored him and talked on: "I allowed that feller owned it only just about fifteen hundred dollars towards a bezant he was plumb dying to have. Fifteen hundred dollars, Fitz, for the rifle, the tools, the spare parts and everything in a fitted, velvet-lined, solid mahogany case, plus ten rounds of ammo for it! And hell, boy, I give you odds that gun cost that much new, way back when. Even the cartridges had to be custom-made for that gun, and just one of the fuckers will stop a bull elephant cold—drop him where he stands."
Fitz smiled. "Well, since I haven't seen any elephants wandering around this neighborhood, not in recent months, anyway, if you can locate a sucker . . . er, a collector, rather, who can be persuaded in any legal way to pay you what you put into that cannon, by all means grab him before his keepers find him and take him back to the State Home for the Bewildered."
Later that night, after Fitz had walked Gus out to his car and was about to go down and unlock the gate, the older man looked up at his friend and host from the driver's seat and spoke in a lowered voice, his brow crinkled, his words tinged with worry and concern.
"Another thing's been bothering me, Fitz. Feller owes me a few favors at the bank tells me there's been a whole lot of folks trying to pry into my accounts lately; yours, too, he says. Some of them, they could just flat out refuse to show the bastards anything . . . but some of the others, they had to show them anything and everything they wanted to see . . . if you gets my drift."
"Government?" queried Fitz incredulously. "What the hell about? I, we're not breaking any laws that I know of. . . are we?"
Gus shrugged, his meaty shoulders rising and falling under the fine wool of his coat. "Maybe, maybe not. The way the fucking laws is wrote out, it's a 'heads, they wins; tails, you loses' propersition. If the Guvamint is really out to get you, boy, they'll sure-Lawd find them a way or something to get you on, and you can make book on that, too. And, too, you can figger anytime a little man starts making money in big chunks, the prick-ears of all them I.R.S. boys is gonna perk up like a coon hound what just spotted a ringtail."
"Well, good God, Gus," Fitz burst out, louder than he had really intended, but a little angry at the thought of the intrusion of utter strangers into his personal accounts and affairs, "I've been leaving all the business end of this, the promotion and advertising and sales, to you and you alone, just as we both agreed in the very beginning of it all. You've got a lawyer, a good one, I hear tell. So, what does he say about all this government mess?"
Gus nodded. "I talked to Hamill, and he said exactly whatall I just told you, 'cept he said it better'n me, of course. He said he'd give me, you, too, all the pertection the law allows him to. But he said, too, to
make damn sure we didn't have us nothing to hide, that our business was all legal and on the up and up.
"So, how 'bout it, Fitz? Have we . . . you, got something to hide? Something you couldn't tell nobody in a court, under oath?"
Suddenly, he grabbed Fitz's shirt collar and pulled his head down to his own, seated level, locking his eyes in an unwavering gaze with those of his friend.
"Tell me, Fitz! Tell me one more time that that gold ain't hot. Tell me that you come by it all legal and proper. Tell me, misterl"
It was not in any way, shape or form a request. The long years of command—in peace and in war,
"Fitz, boy," Tolliver hastily expostulated, "that gun's a real collector's item, cased and all like it is. Holland and Holland, what made it, didn't never make no kind of cheap guns, ever. That eight-bore double rifle was custom-made, by hand, and ..."
"And made on order for an avowed masochist, no doubt," commented Fitz, ruefully, rubbing his right shoulder in painful memory of the elephant gun's punishing recoil.
Gus ignored him and talked on: "I allowed that feller owned it only just about fifteen hundred dollars towards a bezant he was plumb dying to have. Fifteen hundred dollars, Fitz, for the rifle, the tools, the spare parts and everything in a fitted, velvet-lined, solid mahogany case, plus ten rounds of ammo for it! And hell, boy, I give you odds that gun cost that much new, way back when. Even the cartridges had to be custom-made for that gun, and just one of the fuckers will stop a bull elephant cold—drop him where he stands."
Fitz smiled. "Well, since I haven't seen any elephants wandering around this neighborhood, not in recent months, anyway, if you can locate a sucker . . . er, a collector, rather, who can be persuaded in any legal way to pay you what you put into that cannon, by all means grab him before his keepers find him and take him back to the State Home for the Bewildered."
Later that night, after Fitz had walked Gus out to his car and was about to go down and unlock the gate, the older man looked up at his friend and host from the driver's seat and spoke in a lowered voice, his brow crinkled, his words tinged with worry and concern.
"Another thing's been bothering me, Fitz. Feller owes me a few favors at the bank tells me there's been a whole lot of folks trying to pry into my accounts lately; yours, too, he says. Some of them, they could just flat out refuse to show the bastards anything . . . but some of the others, they had to show them anything and everything they wanted to see . . . if you gets my drift."
"Government?" queried Fitz incredulously. "What the hell about? I, we're not breaking any laws that I know of. . . are we?"
Gus shrugged, his meaty shoulders rising and falling under the fine wool of his coat. "Maybe, maybe not. The way the fucking laws is wrote out, it's a 'heads, they wins; tails, you loses' propersition. If the Guvamint is really out to get you, boy, they'll sure-Lawd find them a way or something to get you on, and you can make book on that, too. And, too, you can figger anytime a little man starts making money in big chunks, the prick-ears of all them I.R.S. boys is gonna perk up like a coon hound what just spotted a ringtail."
"Well, good God, Gus," Fitz burst out, louder than he had really intended, but a little angry at the thought of the intrusion of utter strangers into his personal accounts and affairs, "I've been leaving all the business end of this, the promotion and advertising and sales, to you and you alone, just as we both agreed in the very beginning of it all. You've got a lawyer, a good one, I hear tell. So, what does he say about all this government mess?"
Gus nodded. "I talked to Hamill, and he said exactly whatall I just told you, 'cept he said it better'n me, of course. He said he'd give me, you, too, all the pertection the law allows him to. But he said, too, to
make damn sure we didn't have us nothing to hide, that our business was all legal and on the up and up.
"So, how 'bout it, Fitz? Have we . . . you, got something to hide? Something you couldn't tell nobody in a court, under oath?"
Suddenly, he grabbed Fitz's shirt collar and pulled his head down to his own, seated level, locking his eyes in an unwavering gaze with those of his friend.
"Tell me, Fitz! Tell me one more time that that gold ain't hot. Tell me that you come by it all legal and proper. Tell me, misterl"
It was not in any way, shape or form a request. The long years of command—in peace and in war,
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