A God in Ruins - Leon Uris [112]
“Why?”
“I, uh, ran into a number of militia boys and Klan people. All of a sudden I’m organizing them against the niggers, and the niggers are out to get me.”
“Hoop, it’s not in my power. Let me speak with the deputy director,” Quinn said.
“Hello, Governor,” George Appleton said.
“Hoop is about to give us the key piece of information, but he thinks he’s been fingered by the black prisoners. He’d like to be transferred to a facility where he isn’t known and can be isolated.”
Appleton blew a long whistle. “You’d better pull this off or God save us all. Here’s Hooper.”
“Well, now,” said Hooper, “I’ve met two guys I don’t trust in the same day.”
“Let’s have it!” Quinn said abruptly.
“It’s me or him,” Hoop Hooper thought. “If he was in my place, he’d snitch on me. There will be an exhibition table belonging to Chad Murtha. He exhibits plastic, Teflon, titanium handguns, ammo, and clips.”
Lovely, Quinn thought. Everyman’s weapons to beat the metal detectors!
Dawn Mock was at her door jotting notes for her assistant: Get a layout and index of the exhibition tables…Chad Murtha is the exhibitor…Call up Detective Boedecker and draw ten thousand dollars in marked bills, mixed…Try Tennessee penal system and drivers license bureau to see if we can bring up a photo of Chad Murtha…
“Okay,” Quinn went on. “Does Murtha’s exhibit have any kind of identification sign or banner?”
“Yeah, the back banner reads ‘Glock Almighty!’ and a smaller one under it reads ‘Glock ’Em All!’”
“Now tell me about you and Chad.”
“Me and him been on the circuit twelve years or something. He hit on the plastic weapons because they’re a big-turnover item. They’ll only shoot up a few clips when they start to crack.”
“All right. After I find the Glock Almighty sign and I’m talking to Chad Murtha, what do I say?”
“Say, ‘I think I got the wrong table. Billy Joe said I could get some real metal here.’ Chad’s gonna say, ‘I ain’t seen Billy Joe in a coon’s age,’ and he’s gonna ask you where you last saw him. Then you say you seen him at the gun show last year in Fort Smith, Arkansas.”
“I follow you,” Quinn said. “What does Chad look like?”
“Heavy guy, big gut, used to wrestle professionally. Blond hair, he dyes it, like sixty years old and usually wearing a baseball cap.”
“Can we get a photograph of him?”
“Probably. He’s done some time in Tennessee.”
“Continue, Hoop.”
“Chad’s gonna say something like, ‘What kind of metal you looking for?’ and you say, ‘Swedish metal.’ He’ll want a ten percent deposit. Then he’ll give you the location of his camper park and the number of his parking space. He’ll probably tell you to show up at two or three in the morning.”
“Couldn’t he just take off with the deposit?”
“No, not and deal in gun shows for a dozen years. Honor among thieves. That’s the standard time when the deliveries take place.”
“Hmmm.”
“See, he’s got to keep his exhibits open at the convention hall until they close, usually around ten-thirty to midnight. Then he has to get the guns.”
“And, in theory, he’ll lead us to the mother lode.”
“That’s the ticket, Governor.”
“Next,” Quinn said, “there is a special parking lot for exhibitors at the convention center. What’s he driving?”
“A light blue Ford pickup, trades it in every other year for another light blue Ford pickup. It has a stainless steel camper shell over the truck bed. He’ll have Tennessee plates.”
“Hoop, think hard, are there any other exhibitors who can be as helpful to us as Chad Murtha?”
“No, he’s the main man. He’ll look over the exhibitors, and if there are some who have worked with him, he’ll select maybe four or five, depending on how sales are going.”
Hooper was unaware of pressure in his chest. He had always thought the pain was a part of his being. As he spoke, he blew out words coming from his deep interior, and it was like a relief from a tremendous crushing machine.
“Let me speak to George,” Quinn said.
“Appleton.”
“I’m setting some things into motion. Can you put Hooper in a holding cell so I can stay in contact, if needed?”
“The present setup is very secure,” Appleton