The Guilty Part 14

"Yeah, you do, but they go by quick. Wasn't long ago I was meeting my boss for drinks. Now," Jack said. "That girl you're with. Amanda's her name, right?"

141.

"That's right." In the year and a half since I'd known Jack, we'd never discussed Amanda other than plat.i.tudes and pleasantries.

"And you two met during the Fredrickson fiasco."

"They say the best relations.h.i.+ps are born out of extreme circ.u.mstances."

Jack's eyes had a flicker of recognition. "I think I heard that in a movie once."

"Probably."

"How are things going between you two?"

I shrugged my shoulders. "Good, I guess. We're living together. Soon, I know, after everything that happened, but it feels good."

"That's nice," Jack said wistfully. "Another thing you can never underestimate is companions.h.i.+p." Jack, I knew, had been married, and divorced, three times. "So I guess you'd say it's serious."

I laughed. "Yeah, I think so. Besides, if Amanda ever knew I said no to that question I'd wake up the next morning with no teeth."

"Feisty, is she?"

"She'd kick feisty's a.s.s down the block."

"That's good," Jack said, smiling. "You know I look at you 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."

142.

"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 n.o.body remembers great love. People remember great men and women for who they are, not who they love. At some point in every relations.h.i.+p, not who they love. At some point in every relations.h.i.+p, 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-a.s.sed reporter and a half-a.s.sed 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 s.h.i.+tty 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."

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 n.o.body happy. Anyway," Jack said, raising his gla.s.s, "here's to the story. Let's find out more about this a.s.shole, 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 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 pa.s.ses are a dollar fifty, yearround pa.s.s 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."

146.

"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 a.s.sumed 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 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.