The Howling

Chapter Twenty-Five

Chris Halloran's hopes of getting away early for a weekend of loafing in Ensenada were fading fast. He had planned to hit the border by midmorning, but here it was afternoon and he hadn't left yet. His mistake had been to drop in on one of the clients of his engineering firm to see how a new tool-design concept was working out. There were problems. Nothing serious, but as long as Chris was on the scene he could hardly refuse to have a look. By the time he finished it was two o'clock.

On the way home he had made one more stop at a drugstore to pick up a few small items for his traveling bag. He waited impatiently in the checkout line while everyone ahead of him, it seemed, had to cash a check written on a Hong Kong bank.

At last he pulled into the underground parking area of the Surf King Apartments. The image conjured by the name had always amused Chris. Blond young giants in deep tans and cutoffs hanging ten as they hotdogged in with the heavies. Actually, the average age of Surf King tenants was comfortably over thirty, and there weren't half a dozen of them who could stand up on a surfboard. The whole marina scene was beginning to pall on Chris. The same funky-chic people in the same overpriced bars on Friday nights, telling the same lies over the same drinks and looking for… what?

Chris shook the thought away. He was not by nature a moody young man, and he did not much like himself when he became gloomy. That was the main reason for spending a weekend in Baja. He would go down by himself, get a small, comfortable hotel room, drink a little tequila, maybe do a little fishing. Or maybe just loaf. He liked to walk among the local people on streets where the tourists didn't go. He smiled in anticipation of tortillas hot from the fire and beans and Mexican chilis washed down with icy Carta Blanca. A weekend in Ensenada had always been effective therapy for Chris. He was in a hurry to be on his way.

Back in his airy two-level apartment Chris quickly packed his one small travel bag. He pulled on a comfortable old suede jacket and headed for the door. He stopped before going out to take a last look around. This was the day the cleaning lady came, so everything was shipshape — the big mirror polished, the ash trays gleaming, magazines fanned on the coffee table, cushions geometrically arranged on the three-piece sectional sofa. Chris walked over and pushed the magazines into an untidy stack. When he came back he did not want to feel he was walking into a setting for Home magazine.

He started out the door again, but once more he hesitated. Should he play back the morning telephone calls? What if there was one from his office with some problem or other that would mean further delay? He could ignore the message, of course, but it would bother him all the time he was in Baja. If he never heard the message, he wouldn't feel guilty. And who else but the office would call on a Friday morning?

No, he could not ignore it. Now that the thought had occurred to him, he would have to play the tape. It shouldn't take long, and then he could leave with a clear conscience. He walked back into the apartment, dropped onto one end of the sofa, and switched on the machine to play back the taped telephone calls.

The beep sounded, there was a short silence, then a male voice said, "Oh, the hell with it." A hollow click followed, and the rest of the allotted thirty seconds was dial tone. Many people, Chris had found, refused to talk to a machine. He didn't much blame them.

The machine beeped again. Karyn Beatty's voice came over the tiny speaker, and Chris sat suddenly upright. He was so surprised to hear her voice that the first time through the message did not fully register. Something about being in trouble and a gun and silver bullets. He recycled the tape and played it through a second time, listening carefully.

It was not a joke. There was no mistaking the urgency in Karyn's voice, and she was not the type to play this kind of joke, anyway. But the message… Load the gun with silver bullets… It was crazy.

Chris played back the thirty seconds of Karyn a third time, trying to pick up any kind of clue or hidden meaning. As far as he could tell, there was none. He had to assume that she meant exactly what she said. But, silver bullets?

He played out the rest of the tape to see if there was anything more from Karyn, but the only other call was a reminder from his dentist to come in for a checkup.

Chris snapped off the machine and sat for a moment frowning in thought. He would go at once to Drago, of course. It was possible that Karyn was imagining some kind of peril — she had certainly acted irrationally the last time he had seen her — but something in the way she spoke told him the danger was real.

His first impulse was to call the police. But what would he tell them? "My friend's wife is in a little town called Drago and she needs help and says to bring silver bullets." It didn't take much imagination to picture some desk sergeant's response to that. And Karyn must have reasons, or she would have called the authorities herself. He would have to go on his own.

Bring a gun. That would be no problem since he did own one — a.22-caliber Stoeger automatic patterned after the old German Luger. He had bought it a couple of years before for plinking at cans in the desert, and had not fired it since. It was not a weapon that would knock down a moose, but there was no time to get anything bigger. It would have to do.

But silver bullets? Where the hell did you go to get silver bullets?

He had to start somewhere, so he grabbed the fat Los Angeles Yellow Pages and riffled through to Silversmiths. He called the firm with the most impressive ad.

A young man's voice answered. "Glendenning Silver, good afternoon."

"Hello," Chris said, feeling foolish, but trying to sound businesslike. "I wonder if you do anything in the way of making bullets?"

"You said bullets?"

"That's what I said. Bullets."

"I think what you want is jewelry. We deal primarily in silverware and plating."

"I don't mean jewelry bullets, I mean real bullets. Real silver bullets."

"Perhaps you'd like to speak to our manager, Mr. Roth."

"I don't have time to play games with your manager. All I want to know is, can you or can you not make me silver bullets?"

The young man's voice went cold. "We do not make bullets, not gold, not silver, not any kind."

Chris slammed down the phone and swore at it. All right, silversmiths do not make bullets. Who does make bullets? Try a gunsmith. Back to the Yellow Pages. Chris picked out the K&K Gun Shop. Their ad featured a businesslike revolver and stated that their services included ammunition and reloading. He dialed the number.

"Yeah?" a gritty voice answered.

"K&K Gun Shop?"

"Yeah."

Might as well get right to it, Chris decided. "Can you make me some silver bullets?"

"You mean bullets made out of silver?"

Stay calm. "That's what I mean."

"Sure."

Chris stared at the phone. As easy as that.

"Bring your own silver. I don't stock that. Naturally."

"I'll bring the silver," Chris said. "Let's see, you're located at…" He read off the Vermont Avenue address from the advertisement.

"Yeah. I close at six, so if you're comin' in today you better hurry it up."

"Yes, it has to be today." Chris checked his watch. Jesus, could it be after four already? "I'll try to make it by six, but wait for me if I'm a little late, will you? I'll pay you for any overtime."

"This ain't a joke, is it?"

"It's no joke."

"Okay, but be here as soon as you can."

"I will."

Chris hung up and turned quickly back to the Yellow Pages.

Silver Bullion — See Coin Dlrs… 547

He flipped the pages quickly and found the Excelsior Coin Co., Gold — Silver — Platinum Coins & Bars Bought & Sold. The address was on Venice Boulevard in Culver City. There was no need to bother with another telephone call. He could save the time by heading straight over there.

Chris started out the door on the run, then snapped his fingers and turned back. He went into the bedroom and reached up to the high closet shelf for the Stoeger.22. He checked the magazine and chamber to be sure it was empty, then pulled the trigger to test the action. The pistol gave a sharp, satisfying click. He dropped it into a jacket pocket and hurried out to his car.

It was twenty minutes to five when he pulled into the lot beside the Excelsior Coin Company. The sun was low in the west and turning an angry red. Chris jumped from the car and ran into the building. A clerk looked at him in surprise from behind the counter.

"I want to buy some silver," Chris said.

"Yes, sir. Coins or bars?"

"Bars, I think."

"In what quantity?"

"What sizes do they come in?"

"Most of our bullion transactions are in five-ounce and ten-ounce bars. For anything larger we'd have to — "

"Those should be large enough. Can I see what they look like?"

"Certainly." The clerk stepped to the rear of the store and returned in a minute with two ingots of pure silver in the shape of tiny Hershey bars.

Chris hefted them, one in each hand. How much silver did it take to make a bullet? He said, "How much for the ten-ounce bar?"

"A single bar is sixty dollars, but if you intend to purchase in volume — "

"One will be enough."

Chris walked over to the cash register to discourage further conversation. He paid for the ingot with his Master Charge card and took it back out to the car.

The Santa Monica Freeway was clotted with rush-hour traffic. Chris pounded the steering wheel in frustration as all lanes jerked along in an angry dance of flashing tail lights.

The sky was dark when Chris finally turned off the freeway at the Vermont Avenue exit. The surface street traffic was lighter, and he reached the K&K Gun Shop in a few minutes.

The inside of the shop smelled of cosmoline, wood polish, and leather. The walls were lined with rifles and shotguns. In a heavy glass case were handguns ranging from tiny Derringers to a cannon-sized.44 magnum. In the back of the shop a chunky man in a T-shirt worked a piece of metal on a lathe.

"Hello," Chris said. "I called you earlier."

The man turned off the lathe and looked up. "Oh, yeah, the silver bullets."

"That's it."

The gunsmith came around the counter and locked the front door. "Might as well close up," he said. "Won't be no more customers tonight." He pulled an expanding steel lattice across the show window and locked it into place. "Hell of a neighbourhood for a gun shop. Did you bring the silver?"

Chris fished the ingot out of his pocket.

"Uh-huh. What caliber bullets you want?"

Chris showed him the Stoeger. "To fit this."

"Twenty-two Long Rifle," said the gunsmith. "How many?"

Chris had not thought about it. The magazine of the Stoeger held eleven. And one in the chamber. Surely that would be enough.

"Twelve," he said.

"Jeez, you brought enough metal."

"Well, use whatever you need."

"Come on in the back."

Chris followed the gunsmith into the workroom and watched as he shaved off what looked like very little of the silver bar and put the shavings in a crucible.

"Is that enough?" Chris asked.

"Hell, yes. A.22 Long Rifle slug only weighs forty grains."

"Oh."

The gunsmith placed the crucible over a gas flame and turned to a shelf behind him to select a mold.

"How hot does it have to get to melt the silver?" Chris asked.

"Nine hundred and sixty point five degrees Centigrade," the man said without turning around.

"You know that by heart?"

The man turned to face him. "Look, buddy, I didn't go to no fancy college and I don't read a whole lot of books, but guns and ammunition are my business. I'd be a piss-poor gunsmith if I didn't know the melting point of metals."

"Hey, no offense," Chris said. "I'm impressed, that's all."

The gunsmith relaxed into a grin. "Don't mind me, I've had a long week." He stuck out a big hand. "My name's Buzz Klinger. Call me Buzz."

Chris took the offered hand. "Glad to know you, Buzz. I'm Chris Halloran."

Klinger returned to his work and went about it with the smooth economy of motion that comes with true craftsmanship. Chris stayed out of the way and watched. When the silver shavings had melted, Klinger poured the molten metal into the molds, filling twelve of them exactly.

"You want regular load or high-power in the cartridges?"

"Better make it high-power." It occurred to Chris that Buzz Klinger had not asked what he wanted with silver bullets. His respect for the man increased.

When the silver had cooled in the molds, Klinger mated the twelve slugs to the loaded cartridges and handed them to Chris along with the unused portion of the silver ingot.

"What do I owe you?" Chris said.

"Ten bucks will cover it."

"How about your overtime?"

"I figured that in already."

Chris peeled off a bill and handed it to Klinger. "Thanks, Buzz. It was a pleasure watching you work."

Klinger unlocked the front door and Chris started out.

"Hey," the gunsmith called as Chris started down the sidewalk.

Chris turned back.

"Give my regards to Tonto."