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Inside, it was everywhere. On pens and keychain, fridge magnets and drink glasses and travel bottles, all hanging and arranged around the checkout tills. They even had it plastered on tents and sleeping bags, all of which sat in one corner set up to look like a small campsite scene straight out of Jellystone Park. All that was missing was Ranger Smith chasing a picnic basket snatching Yogi Bear.
Maybe Yogi and Boo-Boo had taken shelter in the clothing department. There certainly were plenty of hiding places amidst the waterproofs, camo overalls, shirts and trousers, boots, socks, gloves, beanies and just about anything the typical Rambler could want. And it had all got the logo treatment. There were other brands, too, but it was lower of the range stuff, the cheap and cheerful brands- not much from North Face.
And then there were the guns. Rows of them sat heavily along the back wall. Rifles and shotguns of every kind and calibre- enough of them to fight a small war- were all safely secured behind the security glass. Professor David Reilly was working there, manhandling three big boxes branded with logos I didn’t recognise.
The professor didn’t exactly have the Indiana Jones vibe, but he made a half decent impression, even missing the fedora and whip. He was wiry and lean in his Wild Frontier’s branded check shirt and jeans, with a shiny bald crown encircled by a collar of white brush and a thick snowy lord Kitchener moustache that drooped down past the chin of his long face.
Courtesy of the lack of a bell on the door, he was blissfully unaware he had a new customer, so I went over to examine the weapons. I didn’t need him to notice me yet. In fact, it would serve my needs better if he didn’t.
I did a quiet perusal of the rifles, paying particular attention to the models and the rather high price tags. Someone must have been trying to rebuild their bank balance, double quick. Either that, or they were pretty desperate.
And it wasn’t just the big guns that were overpriced. There were pistols and revolvers, too. Those ranged from big hunting revolvers to the tiny shooters ladies kept in their handbags and that made their attackers appreciate their remaining ball. The weapons were all solemnly arranged in display cases, along with all the usual collections of accessories and boxes of ammo.
There was even a selection of bows and, much to my amusement, a few crossbows.
Seeing a few out on display, I couldn’t resist picking up one of the bigger models and giving it a once over. The label said it was a Thunderbolt X10, and had the legend ‘The only thing faster is light’ scrolled along the butt in the style of a lightning bolt. There also was a cartoon sketch of a hunter dressed up like Elmer Fudd firing it at an advancing grizzly.
“That’s quite a rig. You like it?”
I glanced up and saw the good Professor Riley walking up to me, giving his best big and friendly grin between his mustachios.
“Yeah, it feels a bit light for me though,” I told him, making a show of weighing it with my hands before putting it back down on the display. “And personally, I prefer something with a bit more stopping power. Bit more bang, you know what I mean? You wouldn’t happen to have an M&P 10 out the back, would you?”
“Oh, you a fan of Smith & Wesson?” he asked in a pleasant, softly spoken voice rich with the exaggerated punctuation that only came from a good Oxford or Cambridge education. Much more David Attenborough than Indiana Jones, but tempered by a north-western drawl. That didn’t stop him beaming with a look that might as well have turned his eyes to dollar signs. In his position, I guess that was a fair one. Since the 70s, when big bold Harry Callahan had walked onto the silver screen with his 44, Smith & Wesson had become the gun of choice for all True Blue Americans. This meant they were also expensive, and if the prices I’d seen already were anything to go by, this place would charge a literal arm and leg.
“Who isn’t? Clint Eastwood’s ‘do you feel lucky?’ Blow your head clean off and all that crap,” I lied, forcing myself to grin like just another wannabe gunslinger.
Not that S&W were a bad choice. They had produced some excellent gear. I’d just never gotten attached to any particular weapon. So long as you can hit your target, pretty much any gun would do the job. The rest was just semantics for gunsmiths and salespeople.
“Right,” he said, still beaming, not missing a trick as he walked up to the display case and gestured his hand out. “Well… no, I’m afraid we’re all out. But there is a very nice Remington 783 over here that you might like to have a look at.”
I ignored his suggestion. Clicking my tongue thoughtfully, I made a show of perusing the wall of rifles. “Oh, that’s a shame. Well, what about a Bushmaster AR-15 Predator?”
“Err… No, sorry.” His smile dropped slightly for a moment. The AR was about as controversial a weapon in the States as it was possible to get after it had become the weapon of choice for the perpetrators of mass shootings. However, that hadn’t stopped the NRA from dubbing it America’s rifle.
Selling guns but not having at least one AR-15 in stock was akin to having a gun control sticker on the till.
Desperate then, good.
“Waiting on delivery?” I asked, smiling pleasantly.
“Something like that…” He nodded, the wheels in his head turning. “If you don’t mind me saying, mister, you don’t look much like a hunter.”
Oh, how did you do it, Holmes? Between my leather jacket, oxford shirt, faded Levis and Doc Martens, I looked about as much a Davy Crockett wannabe as he did a Freddy Mercury tribute act.
“Well, that’s probably because I’ve never been game hunting in my life,” I chuckled dryly. “But a man always needs a good gun to uphold his constitutional rights.”
He relaxed a little at that. “You mean household security?”
“Something like that,” I parroted, to let his mind jump to its own conclusions.
Beaming again, he waved a hand at the wall of weapons. “Well, everything I have here will more than keep your house safe at night. Though I’ll need to see a weapons licence and go through the standard checks the state requires for-”
“Ah yes, about that,” I cut in. “A mutual friend of ours suggested you might have a way of getting around all the red tape, Professor Riley.”
“Excuse me?”
Perhaps it was the implied familiarity, or just my use of his previously unmentioned name, but Professor Riley suddenly had a look on his face like he was sucking a lemon under that moustache.
