“That’s right. Here I am.”
Wilcombe pushed his glasses up on his nose again. “Well, I’m not sure how much our mutual friend told you, but if you’re looking for distribution into Florida, I hate that you came all this way just for me to tell you that isn’t something I can do.”
Gareth scratched at his beard again. “I’d hate that, too. Luckily for me, it’s like I told you. I ain’t here selling. I’m buying. We want guns.”
Wilcombe smiled. “I think that might be something I can help you with.” He reached down beside him and laid the briefcase on the table. He spun in the combination on the small dials with his thumbs and popped the locks. He opened the lid and turned it toward Gareth so he could inspect the contents. Gareth reached into the form-fitted case and removed the collapsible pieces of an AR-15 assault rifle. He turned them over in his hands and clicked the stock into place. “Well, if you can rustle up a few more of these, I reckon you can help me.”
“As many as you can afford, my friend. But they are not cheap.”
Gareth smiled.
“Bracken, bring Mr. Burroughs and me two fingers of Jameson.”
The big man looked unhappy but fished the bottle of Irish whiskey from the shelf. He poured the whiskey, picked up the glasses, and brought them to the table.
The top dog is still just a dog, Gareth thought, and pushed the glass away.
“Make mine Evan Williams, Mr. President, and don’t forget to include my partner in the round.”
Bracken looked to Wilcombe, who nodded approval, then walked back to the bar. He returned and set a glass and a bottle of Evan on the table.
“Pour it yourself.”
“Thanks, Bracken,” Gareth said, exaggerating the sound of the man’s name. He poured the bourbon three fingers deep and drained it. Val, who’d sat silent until now, looked back at his friend and made a sound in his throat loud enough for them all to hear.
“I’m good, Val,” Gareth said. Wilcombe and Bracken exchanged a swift curious look as Gareth refilled and downed another whiskey like it was apple juice. He filled the glass a third time and let it sit. Bracken took a seat next to Wilcombe.
“Bracken,” Gareth said again. “What the hell kind of name is that anyway?” The big man didn’t answer. Gareth put the gun on the case without bothering to break it down and slid it back across the table to Wilcombe. “So you built that?” he said, motioning to the gun.
“I suppose our mutual friend has been—how did you say?—talking out of school,” the little man said. “It’s sufficient that I have them.”
“Well, I like my people to keep me apprised, and all that, too. So . . . you build these?”
“I do,” Wilcombe said.
“You don’t steal them?”
“They’re not stolen.” Wilcombe looked insulted. He quickly slid the case over to Bracken, who picked up the gun, disassembled it, and returned it to the foam-rubber inlay. He clicked the case shut and set it at his feet.
“Motorcycle parts, right?” Gareth said, mulling it over. “That how you hooked up with the Hells Angels?”
Bracken twisted his weight in the booth and began to say something, but Wilcombe put a hand on his forearm to remind him whose conversation this was. “Mr. Burroughs, I’m quite sure you understand better than most the concept of respect, as was demonstrated by your friend at the bar earlier on Mr. Pinkerton. I backed your move there, because I believed you and your associate were righteous in your action, but now you are bordering on disrespecting me and the people I consider to be my family. Family is important to you?”
Gareth didn’t speak, but Wilcombe didn’t wait for an answer, either. “My father, God rest his soul, and Mr. Leek here started this club in 1965, and since then the Jacksonville Jackals have been an integral part of creating and sustaining the very business that has brought you to our door. They are men of honor and deserve to be treated as such. Are we on the same page here?”
Gareth finished the bourbon in his glass, swishing it around in his mouth before swallowing it. “Fair enough,” he said. “I want two hundred to start.”
“I can do that. I’ll need twenty-five thousand up front and another twenty-five on delivery.”
“I can do that.”
“I can assume you brought the money with you?”
Gareth smiled. “It’s close. I’ll have it when I need it.”
Bracken reached into his jacket. Val took notice, tensed and readied himself. “Relax,” Bracken said, and slowly removed his hand, bringing out a crumpled pack of Lucky Strikes. He shook one out and laid the pack on the table. Gareth took one and waited for Bracken to light it. He didn’t.
“There’s a warehouse off the highway I use for these kinds of transactions. Mr. Cartwright knows where it is. You did bring Mr. Cartwright with you?”
“He’s around,” Gareth said.