"Maybe you better bring it up, so he won't find out from somebody else."
"Okay." Ham took a bite of fish. "I think it might be best if I let him know, somewhere along the line, that I didn't approve of Jackson much and that that was a sore spot with you."
"Good idea. I don't think he liked me too much when we met."
Ham chuckled. "Well, when you offered to make him shorter, that probably didn't go down all that well."
"He'll have me pegged as somebody he can never trust."
"I guess he will."
"So you've got to make out, one way or another, that you and I aren't as close as we could be."
"I guess I can do that."
"I wish there were some other way to do this, but I think Harry Crisp is right: it would take too long to put an FBI agent in there."
"Probably."
"Ham?"
"Yep?"
"See if you can find out if this outfit has a name. That could be a big help."
"You mean, if they call themselves the United White Brothers of the Klan, that could tell you something?"
Holly laughed. "No, I mean if they have a name, we can use it to find out more about them. There are people who track extreme organizations, keep files on them."
"Okay, I'll see what I can do."
Holly looked at her watch. "I've got to get back to work. Call me when he leaves, will you?"
"I will."
She gave him a big kiss on his forehead. "Don't piss him off, Ham; I wouldn't want to lose you."
22
Ham selected a weapon, field-stripped it and spread the parts out on a towel draped over a table on his back porch. Then he waited.
At six o'clock sharp, there was a loud knock on the front door, and a male voice yelled, "Ham?"
"Yo!" Ham yelled back, then went to the door, wiping his hands on a paper towel.
Peck Rawlings stood on the front porch, a thick envelope tucked under one arm. "Hey, there."
"Hey, Peck, come on in," Ham said, opening the door. "Come on out on the back porch. Can I get you a drink?"
"Well, I guess the sun is over the yardarm," Rawlings replied. "Sure, if you've got some Scotch."
"Go on outside and grab yourself a chair, while I pour." Ham went to the kitchen, poured himself a bourbon and Rawlings a Scotch, then joined him.
Rawlings was bent over the table, examining the pistol. "What the hell is that?" he asked.
Ham handed him his drink, set his own down, quickly reassembled the pistol, screwed on the silencer, and handed it to Rawlings. "There you go."
Rawlings examined the evil-looking.22 automatic. "Jesus, Ham, that's an assassin's weapon. Where'd you get it?"