The Enemy Within

“Two nights?” The old man seemed even more astonished, but not so astonished, Halovic noted, that he neglected to grab the money in front of him. “You can have number five. Tidied it up myself yesterday.”

He reached under the counter for the right key and dropped it onto the desk in front of Halovic. “Scuse me for asking, mister, but you’re a foreigner, ain’t that right?”

The Bosnian smiled politely. “Ja, that is right. I am German.”

“Thought so,” the old man said with satisfaction. “I thought so.” His eyes narrowed in speculation. “Now, I don’t mean to pry or nothing, but I was wondering what you’re doing here in town. Can’t say as we get many foreign tourists here in Walker’s Landing.”

Halovic allowed himself to look embarrassed and eager at the same time. “I have come for the shooting. To shoot the guns, you understand?”

“The shooting?” Understanding dawned on the motel owner’s lined face mixed in with some surprise. “You mean you come all the way from Germany to fire off a few rounds at our local gun club?”

“Oh, no. That is, not only to shoot.” Halovic paused, pretending to search for the right English words. “I am in America on a holiday. A sabbatical. I was in Richmond when I was told of your gun club.” The Bosnian shrugged. “It seemed a good opportunity, you understand? Firearms are restricted in my country. There are few places to shoot. It is not like here.”

The old man nodded slowly. “I’ve heard about them goddamn gun control laws like they gotwer~pe.” Although obviously still puzzled that anyone would come ad way to Walker’s Landing when there were more and better firing ranges closer to Richmond, he had clearly decided not to look a gift horse in the mouth. “Well, mister, I sure do hope you enjoy your stay.”

He nodded toward the door. “There’s a working phone in number five. You need anything, you just give me a holler, you hear?”

“Dazzle.”

“If you get hungry or want a drink, there’s a couple of bars and a diner in town, just up Route 250. Okay?”

Halovic politely nodded his understanding and turned to leave. He could feel the old man’s interested gaze as he walked back to his car. That was not surprising, really. In fact, he fully expected the story of the gun-crazy foreigner to be all over Walker’s Landing by nightfall.

That was exactly what Sefer Halovic wanted.

It was still daylight when he wandered up the road into town, trudging slowly along the grassy verge in the stifling heat. Although an occasional car or pickup truck passed him, the traffic was extremely light. Walker’s Landing was not really on the road to anywhere in particular. Certainly, the hamlet had very little to attract anyone to itself, he decided. Two churches, wood-framed houses, and a combination general store, post office, and pharmacy lined Route 250. Poorly paved streets on the right and left led off to more houses and a tiny school.

He stopped first at one of the local bars, the Riverfront. He didn’t stay long.

A loud rock sound track pounded at him as he walked in the door. Four or five customers were scattered around the bar, all of them in their early to mid-twenties. Halovic frowned at the bare wood dance floor and drum set that dominated one end of the interior. This place was not what he was looking for. This was a dance club, not a drinking saloon. Besides, the bartender and two of his patrons were black.

Halovic made sure that everyone noticed the hard, angry scowl he directed at them before he spun on his heel and stalked out. He had an image to create and maintain.

The Riverfront’s sole competitor looked more promising.

The Bon Air Bar sat at the north end of town, flanked on one side by a rutted, boggy field the bar’s customers used as a parking lot, and on the other by a small stand of trees. The ‘brick building’s brown-painted wood-shingle roof might seem rustic or even homey at night, but the harsh late afternoon sunlight would not tolerate such friendly illusions.

Right now the Bon Air Bar looked bleak and shabby. A neon sign on the roof advertised Budweiser beer, but Halovic wasn’t sure it would actually light once the sun went down.

This time he heard country-western music coming out of a corner jukebox. There was no sign of a dance floor. The room smelled of tobacco smoke and beer, and its dark wood paneling seemed to absorb the dim light. The only bright color in the bar was a five-foot American flag tacked up across one wall. Two middle-aged men sat together, talking, while a younger man, thin with long hair, tended bar. A TV blared in one corner, tuned to yet another baseball game.

Halovic stood in the doorway for a few moments, taking in the scene in front of him. He actually liked country-western music, which had a fair-sized following in Eastern Europe. And this appeared a quiet place, one not used to strangers, but certainly more restful than the Riverfront. It should suit his needs.