“He’s right, Dad. Nothing more to this than two men separated by almost a century who happen to have the same name. God knows, the guy who sent the picture to you could have doctored it just as a joke. There’s nothing to it.”
Jack Naile supposed that it was only fate that one member of the family had to be sensible.
Jack sat at his desk, but his eyes weren’t on the screen of his computer, nor did his fingers stroke the keyboard. In his hands, he held one of his most prized possessions, a Colt Single Action Army .45, a second-generation gun made in the early 1970s, worked on for him by the world’s fastest draw, and one of the finest trick shooters in history, Bob Munden. The revolver had originally been nickel plated, but after Bob’s work on it, the Colt was sent to another old friend, Ron Mahovsky, who had Metalifed it over the nickel, making it look like brushed stainless steel but more impervious to rust. The original checkered hard rubber grips were replaced with black buffalo-horn two-piece panels from Eagle grips.
The barrel was seven and one-half inches long. The trigger pull was fourteen ounces. It was the perfect Colt.
Jack Naile set the single action down on the desk and picked up the telephone.
“Hi. This is Jack Naile again.”
Jack recognized the voice on the other end, and the woman belonging to the voice recognized his. “Arthur Beach is back. I’ll connect you, Mr. Naile.”
“Thanks.”
After a moment, there was a voice announcing itself as that of Arthur Beach. Unlike the mental image Jack Naile had formed of a historian in a small Nevada town, someone old and perhaps a bit stodgy, Arthur Beach sounded barely thirty and seemed quite intrigued at the call. “When they told me about your calls, I did a little digging, Mr. Naile.”
“Ohh, wonderful! Who was this guy Jack Naile?” Jack asked.
“Well, understand I haven’t really been able to look into this too thoroughly yet. And, if you’d like, I’ll get you more information.”
“Anything you can dig up, yes. A photograph would be great, if one exists.”
“I’ll do my best. But here’s what I can tell you so far about your namesake, Mr. Naile. The original Jack Naile was a prominent citizen, not only owning the store but a large ranch as well. After a time, he became very influential behind the scenes in Republican politics within the state and at the national level. Jack Naile’s store became a Mecca for people from all over the area, people interested in the highest-quality products or just the unusual. As time went on, for example, Jack Naile’s store was the first in the area to offer phonographs, radios and the like. In that respect, the store was more of a hobby for Naile. Naile grew to be one of the richest men around, with an uncanny ability to predict trends in public interest.”
Jack Naile lit another cigarette. “What about Jack Naile’s personal life? Do you have anything on that?”
Beach told him, “Well, Naile and his wife—I don’t know her name off the top of my head—had two grown children, teenagers, I guess, when they first came to town.”
“So none of them were born there, then.”
“No. They just showed up in town one day, evidently coming from somewhere back East and en route to California. I understand that you’re thinking about using this information as the basis for one of the novels you and your wife write.”
“Yes, if we can dig up enough information,” Jack Naile responded, keeping his cards as close to the vest as possible.
“I’ll be happy to help all that I can. But you’ll have to promise me an autographed copy of the book if you write it.”
Jack agreed to that, he and Arthur Beach exchanged complete contact data and the conversation ended . . .
Ellen waited as long as she dared before the answering machine would pick up. Jack wasn’t answering the telephone. She lifted the receiver, shook her hair back and put the receiver to her ear. “Hi. Can I help you?”
And Ellen almost passed out. It was their old agent, Lars Benson. A very nice guy, Lars had also been the most incompetent literary agent imaginable. “Jack around?”
“What’s up, Lars?”
“I got you guys a sale, Ellen!”
Ellen Naile thought that she’d heard Lars Benson, who, in the first place, hadn’t been their literary agent for more than five years and, in the second place,