The Famous and the Dead Read Online Free PDF Page A

as?”
    â€œI do some firearms. Licensed stuff, all legit. Nothing goes south. It started as a hobby, actually.”
    â€œHmmm.” She lifted a tumbler of what looked like sparkling water, and looked over the top of the glass at him. “I’ve got a colorful little three-eighty. County wouldn’t give me a permit to carry, but it’s in my purse and I don’t care who knows. I walk out of here at night with tip money, it makes me feel better.”
    â€œLet’s hope you never have to use it.”
    â€œYou don’t sound like a gun dealer.”
    â€œWhat’s a gun dealer sound like?”
    â€œWell, he’d be curious what make and model I chose.”
    â€œSuzy,
colorful
was kind of a giveaway. How about a Sig P two-thirty-eight? With the rainbow titanium finish. That’s the one the Gun Bin puts in their front window, with the purses and boots and accessories. Chances are, you bought it there.”
    She smiled again and this softened her face and seemed to bring light into it. “Okay. So you’re a dealer. Another beer?”
    â€œNext time.”
    She swept away his empty glass and dunked it into the rinse water. Hood stood and counted out his money, then pulled his phone off his belt and leaned closer to her. “These three gentlemen should be here in El Centro right about now. I’d appreciate a call.”
    Hood handed her the phone and she scrolled through the six shots. He set a Charlie Hooper card on the bar.
    She looked past the phone at him. “I thought you were a cop. I shouldn’t have told you about my gun.”
    â€œYour secret is safe with me, Suzy. If and when you’d like to purchase another sidearm, let me help. You might want real stopping power someday.”
    She gave back the phone and glanced at the card. “I’ve
got
real stopping power when I’m not slinging drinks and wearing whore’s clothes.”
    â€œI can see that.”
    â€œIf they come in, I’ll call.
Charlie Hooper.
It doesn’t say anything on your card about vintage cars.”
    Hood put a finger to his lips, then set the gambler on his head.
    She gave him a minor smile, then walked away, waving over one shoulder. Suzanne Jones, he thought, walking across the dining room of her ranch house, Valley Center, California, August 2008.
    â€¢Â Â Â â€¢Â Â Â â€¢
    Hood was made pensive with this, but the Fuzzy Dice was loud and cheerful with a younger clientele, a mix of Anglo and Latino and even a group of Asians in a booth. Some jocks from San Diego State stood at the bar in their Aztec clothing. There was gangsta rap and
banda
on the jukebox and a small dance floor crowded with intimate couples. Hood smelled the perfumes and colognes and the hair products and the high-pitched smell of alcohol. He ordered a beer and sat at the far end of the bar, near the bins of cocktail garnishes and napkins.
    Just after eight o’clock the three men from Russell County walked in, the beefy Peltz in the lead, followed by thin Clint Wampler. Next came Skull, head shiny and held high, eyes hard. Last came El Centro businessman Israel Castro, a man well-known to Hood.
    There was a mirror behind the bar. In it Hood watched as two young couples stood in unison when the Castro party approached their table, swiftly gathering up their drinks to abandon ship. Israel smiled and shook hands with one of the men.
    The last time Hood had seen Castro was four years ago, in the dead of night, the rain pouring down on a little border town called Jacumba. Hood had caught a bullet in his back that night. He remembered the cold mule kick of it knocking him into the mud as it went through him. He’d lost consciousness believing he was dying.
    But I’m alive
, he thought.
I am not dead. Neither is the past: It’s swarming all around me.
    When Castro went into the restroom, Hood walked out of the Fuzzy Dice and got into his car. He set his hat on