Free The Island by Peter Benchley Page A

signs: on the left, 10-, 12-, and 16-gauge shotguns; on the right, rifles caliber .30-.06 to .44-.40; this way to handguns, automatic; that way to handguns, revolver; aisle number four for military rifles, to the rear for black-powder. A placard proclaimed this weekend’s special: a Marlin Golden 39A .22 lever-action rifle for $125, a Hammerli .45 Frontier revolver for $175. Buy two and get a box of bullets free. Each gun was in its own locked glass case. Green-jacketed salesmen patrolled the aisles, master keys chained to their belts.
    There were six check-out counters, where clerks examined identification cards, took money, and wrapped purchases.
    “It looks like an automat,” Maynard said.
    “What’s an automat?” Justin didn’t wait for an answer. He darted ahead.
    Maynard caught up with him at a wall case filled, on one side, with AR-15 combat rifles and, on the other, with similar-looking weapons called Valmets.
    “Man!” Justin said. “Are they cool!”
    “Can I help you?” A salesman had come up behind them. He was in his mid-forties, bulky, built like a footlocker with legs. He wore rimless glasses; his hair was slick with pomade, and he reeked of Aqua Velva.
    “I didn’t know you could sell those,” Maynard said, with a gesture at the combat rifles.
    “AR-15s? Sure. Of course, they’re not full-automatic. These are the sporters.”
    “They can be changed over, can’t they?”
    “Not by us. What a gunsmith does to them after they leave here, that’s not our affair.” The salesman extended his hand. “Stan Baxter. Call me Bax.”
    As Baxter’s blazer moved, Maynard caught a glimpse of the butt of a revolver snugged against his belly in a small holster. “Maynard,” he said, and shook Baxter’s hand.
    “And who might this be?” Baxter reached for Justin’s hand. “You look like a gun person to me.”
    “Yeah.” Justin pointed at the Valmets. “They’re cool. What are they?”
    “Finest military rifle ever made. Finnish design. They took the best of the AR-15 and married it to the best of the AK-47 and gave birth to the Valmet.”
    “What’s so good about it?”
    “Simplicity. Very few moving parts. Almost never jams, even in mud and sand. Much more reliable than either of its parents. Uses 7.62 NATO ammunition, interchangeable with almost every rifle in Eastern and Western Europe. That .225 the AR-15 uses does a fine job of tearing a man up, but it isn’t good at any distance. And sometimes the tumbling bullet’ll torque and stray on you. Valmet gives you a clean kill at great distance.”
    Maynard said, “I thought these were ‘sporters.’ ”
    “That they are.” Baxter winked. “But sport is always in the eye of the sportsman, isn’t it?”
    Justin had moved down the aisle. He stood at a case filled with pistols. “Dad! Look at this.”
    Baxter smiled at Maynard. “Looks like your boy’s found a friend.”
    Justin was excited. “That’s the James Bond gun!”
    “Right you are, son,” Baxter said. “Walther PPK. A real fine starter gun.”
    “Starter gun!” Maynard said. “When I was a kid, we started with single-shot .22 rifles.”
    Baxter nodded. “But when you and I were boys, all you had to know how to shoot was rabbits and your odd snake. You didn’t have to worry about when they were gonna come over the hill.”
    Maynard did not ask who “they” were.
    A shot exploded, then another, then a third. Maynard grabbed Justin’s arm, prepared to throw the boy to the floor and fall on him.
    Baxter laughed. “It’s just folks practicing out back. An in-house range lets the customer try out the merchandise before he buys it. Saves us a lot of hassle in returns.” He turned to Justin. “Would you like to shoot that PPK, youngster?”
    “Boy, would I!”
    “Hold on . . .” Maynard said.
    Baxter was already unlocking the case. “Comes to about a dime a round. You won’t find a better buy anywhere.”
    “That’s not the point.”
    “Oh, don’t worry.