Activity at the Coney Island is increased otherwise also. Vito, Paletello's son-in-law, stands in high profile tonight. Jeans and western boots and belt buckle, with thick country-cut black hair—no one would take him for a second-generation Italian-American, but rather a rural boy grown from the gumbo earth itself. He purports to work for a grain-selling concern in one of the delta parishes, commuting each day while Sophia, Paletello's daughter, remains at home in the city.
Numerous friends of Vito mill about in like attire, pronouncing his name to rhyme with "skeeter," unsure what precisely there is to do besides eat a hot dog. Those here have largely never visited the Coney Isle, returning the regulars' sullen glances with like sentiments. Word is, a country cousin of one of the printroomers is to arrive any moment with interesting cargo to display.
Fairly hopping with customers, Paletello has pressed Annie—who was only passing through—into service. Mac is less than usually jovial with her, an unnoticed fact as he consorts with Martin over recent developments in the friction between State Police and the local sheriff's department. The police radio is attended by Veeter, the agent of planning for this gathering, glancing significantly each time there's a location on a patrol car.
Paletello, aside from gratitude for the business, looks irritated by the air of things. Traffic on DeSiard even seems substantial. There's a run on Budweiser longnecks. Something approximating a din escapes through the perpetually open front door.
The promised emissary finally arrives with leaky muffler and a crowd forms upon the sidewalk. The cousin, a young hellbud from a rural central parish, eyes each participant closely, including Martin and Mac, as though for signs of plainclothes disguise. Then, hatching the trunk of a sixties-era Toronado, he holds forth on the various types of weapons he carries.
The hardware lies loose within the trunk, no cartons, no boxes. Hopefully uninitialized. His spiel lasts a good ten minutes without interruptions. More than just a sales convention, the affair is a tacit announcement of an organization in the chalk hills for which the AR 15s and assorted supplements are bound. The hellbud, in an obligatory drawl, disperses details of the necessary drop-in parts which convert the AR 15 to an automatic weapon, as well as reciting inflammatory (but carefully non-racial, in deference to Paletello's occasional clientele) implications about the Federal Government. He receives questions from those with interest on both fronts, and soon Martin drops out, followed by Mac.
Cooper arrives late, interjecting loud comments on the sidewalk. "Hey, Coop! Coop!" Mac is beside himself waving, always fascinated by unexpected encounters. Cooper glances at Mac, grimaces, then turns back to the spiel.
Boom-boom, boom-SHSHHHHHHHHHHHH. The gathering tenses; the trunk lid lower is lowered. A low-rider is coming down DeSiard toward them. A Monte Carlo? All participants edge a little closer, more erect. Taking forever, the Eldorado with wide whitewalls slides by, the dark faces within barely discernable. "Hell," is the shared sentiment. "They're scoping us." "Just let 'em get a whiff of what's in the trunk." "Shit. Ain't a Eldorado front-wheel drive?" "Hell."
The Toronado's engine has a surprisingly deep, sickish sound. The following disperses, late for duties at the newspaper plant and elsewhere. Veeter strolls around the premises like he has a stake in the business. The Coney Island is nearly vacant again. Annie hollers for Paletello. "Hey! Pay me! I got to go."
"Got that line down, dontcha."
"Very funny, Pally-tallywhacker."
He opens the register, selects an amount, hands it over. Annie slides a hand over Mac's chin as she leaves, smirking, but not without humor. Mac goes red.
