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The maid brought Beckman his drink. He drank from it. His lips looked cold and red and glossy, as though they had been freshly lipsticked. “You don’t shoot at a target that resembles a man?”
“That’s correct.”
“Inside you asked me whom I sell to. I could tell you the world. But that’s not accurate. I sell weapons to collectors, and I sell them to people who need them to defend themselves. I also supply them to motion picture companies.”
“But your big purchasers are nations?”
“Not any nation. The ones in danger. Do you know who those happen to be?”
“I haven’t thought about it.”
“As soon as the Bolsheviks get things tamped down in Moscow, they’ll be after East Europe. The Japanese want China’s resources. They also want Southeast Asia. North Africa is up for grabs. The Arabs thought they were going to win their independence from the Ottoman Empire. Instead, they got royally screwed. You look uncomfortable.”
“I need to sit down.”
“Are you in pain?”
“It passe
s,” Ishmael said, easing himself into a chair.
“You don’t look well, Mr. Holland. Let me get you a drink.”
Ishmael shook his head. The countryside was going out of focus, the birds from the bell towers freckling the sky. “I apologize. My knees get weak if I stand too long.”
“That’s understandable. I took one through the kneecap at Gallipoli. A Turk got me from one mile out. I had to hand it to the nasty bugger. It was a magnificent shot.”
“I remember hearing of an arms dealer in Mexico. I never saw him, but I was told he was German or Austrian,” Ishmael said.
“There were many. I was one of them.”
“This one was in business with General Lupa. The Wolf.”
“Lupa’s nickname was a compliment. He was a swine.”
“He lynched four of my men at a bordello. He lured others into a trap.”
Beckman raised his eyebrows as though being forced to speak on an unpleasant subject. “Lupa was a bastard. I heard he was killed, maybe by his own men. I didn’t do business with him, so I’m not well informed as to his fate.”
“Did you know Huerta or Villa?”
“No, I supplied Emiliano Zapata, a true man of the people. He was pure of heart and wanted nothing for himself. He’ll probably be assassinated. No Mexican story has a happy ending.”
“I thought that was the Irish.”
“They both get a regular fucking. It’s the nature of the beast. Why grieve on it?”
“What kind of salary goes with the job, Mr. Beckman?” Ishmael said.
“Eight thousand dollars a year. To start. At some point, your commissions will be greater than your salary, and eight thousand dollars will seem a pauper’s salary. Which of these rifles do you favor?”
“The .30-40 Krag. For its smooth action and the way you can keep loading while you’re firing and never be empty.”
“Shoot it for me.”
“The angle of your range isn’t good. I think there’re some trucks down by that old mission. I don’t want to use your targets, either, sir.”
“That mission has been deserted for years,” Beckman said.
