The Lost Ones by Ace Atkins Page A

and looked out a large bay window while Campo walked back behind the bar and set a glass of ice and a bottle of Jack on the counter. He cracked open some kind of fancy beer brewed in small batches and handed it to Donnie. Donnie took it and lit a cigarette, figuring if Campo smoked, there wasn’t any harm. He drank some beer and studied all the animals looking down at him with those glass eyes. “You kill all these?”
    “What’s that?”
    “You kill all these animals?”
    “Shit no.”
    “Ain’t this a hunt club?” Donnie asked.
    “It’s a fucking clubhouse,” Campo said. “I shoot some deer and ducks and all that. I bought all that other shit.”
    “That seems kinda fuckin’ stupid,” Donnie said. “That’s like me putting up some all-state trophies in my gun shop that I never won.”
    Campo looked to Stagg. Stagg’s face was coloring a good bit. Donnie smiled as he watched the older man suck down a good half of the bourbon. Campo started to laugh and clasped his hand on Stagg’s shoulder. He laughed until his eyes got a little teary. “If this kid is a federal agent, I’ll cut off my own dick.”
    “Appreciate that,” Donnie said.
    “Guns,” Campo said.
    “Mr. Stagg said you could help us out some.”
    “I don’t want no religious nuts or no Arabs,” Campo said. “Couldn’t live with myself.”
    “Just some Mexes who want to shoot up each other.”
    “I can live with that,” Campo said. “Long as they don’t fuck up my time-share in Cancún.”
    “I think what we got to do—” Stagg said, starting to talk.
    “Hold up, preacher,” Campo said. “Let me and this boy talk.”
    Stagg sucked down more bourbon, his jaw working on a piece of ice. Donnie studied the cold beer in his hand, wondering just what all that German writing said. He drank down another sip, still wishing it was a Coors, and took a deep breath. “I need U.S. Army Colts,” Donnie said. “M4s. Military-grade. None of that Chinese-made shit, neither.”
    “I understand,” Campo said. “We can truck it in? OK, preacher?”
    “I ain’t no preacher,” Stagg said. “Get that straight, Mr. Campo.”
    “No?” Campo said. “That’s what my boys always call you. They say you’re the spitting image of Pat Robertson, with a little Jerry Lee Lewis thrown in for good measure.”
    Campo laughed a lot at that, looking over at Donnie to join in a bit. Donnie couldn’t help but laugh a little.
    “I’ll excuse your manners because I can tell you’re intoxicated,” Stagg said.
    “I’ve been sleeping down here in mosquitoville for five days now,” Campo said. “My wife has hired two lawyers to keep me away. My oldest son said I was a selfish prick while he’s driving a brand-new Mustang bought with pussy cash. And I have a restraining order on me, and federal agents trying to sweet-talk my bitch of a wife into letting them get a peek into my personal files. So don’t deny me some fun, Johnny T. Stagg.”
    Stagg finished the bourbon and put down the glass.
    “Truckin’ sounds good to me,” Donnie said. “Do the deal at the Rebel. Money will go through Mr. Stagg. We good?”
    He passed over the gun list he’d made with Luz.
    Campo blew some smoke out a big fat nose as he read. His big, wide forehead was peppered in sweat from the booze. He wiped it away with a cocktail napkin and walked back over to the bar and refilled his glass. He poured some more into Johnny’s glass, and Johnny looked at the whiskey with some disgust. “Y’all want to have a drink on it?” Campo asked.
    Donnie joined them and helped himself to another beer in the refrigerator. He cracked open the top on the side of the counter, drinking off the foam. He stepped a foot in front of Johnny Stagg, feeling his breath on his neck, and raised his bottle. “I say fuck your wife,” Donnie said. “You seem like a hell of a guy, Mr. Campo.”
    He looked over at Stagg and winked.
    “Maybe ole Johnny can make enough to buy a new