"This is our biggest. It has all the blades I showed you before, and also some others." He opened one and since it was obviously a tiny pair of scissors, he did not bother to explain. "This one here," he continued, opening a new blade, "is for scaling fish." Henry had never been fishing. He remained silent. "This one," Al went on, "is a wood saw, and this one is both a metal file and a metal saw that will cut though steel if you keep at it." His tone of voice was the same as if he was reading the telephone directory.

Henry was transfixed. A saw that will cut through wood, and another for steel! Henry realized Al was explaining again, "...is a toothpick, which is kind of pointless I think, but the thing that slides out of this side is a small pair of tweezers, and they can come in handy when you get a splinter."

Henry Bowman's eyes were wide as he stared at the amazing knife. "Which one do you like best?" Al asked finally. Henry's gaze went back to the beautiful two-bladed CASE knife, and he bit his lip. He knew he would not use it or carry it as much, but he would love to own it.

"What the hell are you giving the kid a hard time for, Al?" Max demanded. "He obviously likes both of them, or have your eyes really gotten that bad? Maybe you should let Harold run the sales floor from now on."

Al Goodman looked up and saw the big man grinning at him. The storeowner had never pushed a sale on Max Collins in the twelve years they had known each other. Max, in turn, had accounted for more business than any other individual customer. The Goodman brothers kept very meticulous records of things like that.

"I'll put both of these aside for you," Al told Henry, "over here by the register, so that you and your Uncle Max can look around the rest of the store." He scooped up the bigger Swiss Army Knife and the two-bladed CASE and walked over to the cash register. Max walked over to a display case in front of a rack of fine shotguns. Henry followed his uncle, but his mind was elsewhere. He was having a hard time believing the good fortune which had just befallen him.

"Al, let me see that Model Twelve pigeon gun." The short man handed Max Collins the pump shotgun. Its receiver was ornately engraved. Max opened the action to make sure the chamber was empty and threw the gun up to his shoulder. "Decent rib pitch, and the comb's about right," he pronounced. "Been using a double, but the patterns aren't exactly matching. After watching Herb, I think a pump may be even faster since your left hand will pull it out of recoil." He laid the shotgun down on a rectangular pad on top of the display case and squatted down next to his nephew.

"You see that picture there," Max said, pointing across the room. Henry nodded. "That's Herb Parsons. He's an exhibition shooter who works for Winchester. He can hit seven clay birds with seven shots before they hit the ground, all thrown in the air at the same time, using a gun just like this one. He's doing it right there."

Henry examined the photo. A man with his back to the camera had a shotgun pressed to his shoulder. There were five black puffs of smoke hanging in the sky and two clay birds about to be hit. "A Model Twelve will fire as soon as the action closes, if you've got the trigger held down," Max explained. "Not all pump shotguns will do that, 'cause most of them use a disconnector. If a man practices enough, he can shoot a Model 12 accurately even faster than an automatic. Herb'll be at the range next month. We'll go shooting out there and you can meet him." Max stood up and turned to Al Goodman.

"We'll take this one, too. I'm going to see if I can learn to shoot it the way he does. If not, I'll trade it back for something else." Henry stared at the photo for a few moments longer, then remembered t he thing he had intended to ask.

"Do you have a 4-bore here?" he asked the older man. Al Goodman was startled at the six-year-old's question, but he answered immediately in his trademark nasal monotone.

"It's illegal to hunt birds in the United States with any shotgun larger than a ten-gauge. Has been for fifty years or so. I'm afraid you hardly ever see those big old wildfowl guns any more, except in museums and once in a while in a private collection." He turned to Henry's uncle. "Does he understand the way the gauge system works?"

"As a matter of fact, he does," Max answered, nodding.

The day that Walter had given Henry the Guinness Book, he had explained to his son that shotgun bores were sized based on how many pure lead balls exactly the diameter of the bore would equal one pound. Thus, a twenty gauge had a bore the diameter of a pure lead ball that weighed l/20th of a pound, (about .610"), and a 12-gauge gun had a bore the size of a pure lead ball that weighed l/12th of a pound, which measured .722". The smaller the number of the gauge, the bigger the gun. Max had been surprised on the drive over to the store that the boy understood this system of measurement.

"Not a shotgun," Henry broke in. "A 4-bore rifle. A double barrel. Really heavy- about 25 pounds."

Al Goodman opened his mouth and was about to tell the six-year-old that such a rifle did not exist, but he paused before speaking. Gun shops tended to attract people who possessed tremendous amounts of misinformation about firearms, and Al and Harold both put up with ridiculous questions each business day. They had an ironclad rule never to embarrass or shame a customer no matter how stupid his claim, and Al was not going to break that rule just because the customer was six years old. Furthermore, to Al Goodman's knowledge, Max Collins had never uttered a single wrong statement about firearms, and he noticed Max wasn't correcting his nephew now. Al closed his mouth and revised what he was about to say.

"I have never seen a 4-gauge rifle, Henry, either single or double barrel. Did you see a picture of one somewhere?" Henry shook his head.

"I just read about it." Al Goodman nodded. He was imagining a piece of fiction in a 'Real Guts' type magazines, but what Max said next caused him to revise his thinking once again.

"Saw an eight-bore double rifle once, out in Vegas," Max said. "Underlever hammer gun with nice engraving. Huge goddamn thing, must have weighed over sixteen pounds. Took a big brass case about three-and-a-half, four inches long, with a cast lead bullet in the end as big as your thumb. Guy from California had it. Wasn't looking to sell, he'd taken it to Africa and killed a buffalo with it and I think he wanted to show it off. Said it was made about 1890."

Al Goodman looked at the boy with new respect. "Where did you read about this 4-bore rifle, Henry?" "In the Guinness Book of World Records," he replied immediately.

Al nodded again. "Always learn something new from my customers." Henry felt flattered at the comment. "I'm afraid we don't have either a 4-bore or an 8-bore rifle here right now, but we get a lot of guns in every week. I'll tell Harold to keep his eyes out, and we'll call your Uncle Max if one comes in. Wouldn't surprise me if he bought it on the spot," Al added in his monotone.

Goodman's for Guns was arguably the finest gun store in the midwest. Its owners, ironically, had no interest whatsoever in either shooting, hunting, or owning fine firearms. They had a very keen interest in making money, however, and it was their insight in attracting and pleasing good customers who did love fine arms that was the foundation of their success.

As it turned out, though, the Goodman brothers never would see a 4-bore rifle come into their store. None of the three there that day knew it, but there we re fewer than fifteen of the massive guns in existence in the entire country.

"Henry's learned a lot from the Guinness Book," Max explained to Al. "His father gave it to him a couple of weeks ago, and I think he's read it cover-to-cover by now."

"If Henry likes to read, maybe he'd like this year's Gun Digest. It's got a lot of interesting articles in it." The way Al said it he might as well have been reciting a recipe for meat loaf. He reached up to a shelf and took down a large softcover book about an inch thick. The Gun Digest came out annually. Al Goodman had himself never read a single article in it, but customers bought a lot of them, and were forever quoting from it. He handed the book to the boy.

Henry looked at the cover. It was a color drawing of the strangest-looking pistol Henry had ever seen, lying on top of a wooden bench with five paper targets standing in the distance. He opened the cover and found the table of contents. He was looking at the articles listed in the left-hand column when two-thirds of the way down a title leaped out at him: Ed McGivern-Fastest, Fanciest Sixgunner by Chad Wallin..............................................................80 "Ed McGivern!" Henry exclaimed, turning quickly to page 80.

"You know who Ed McGivern was?" his uncle asked in surprise. Henry nodded. "He died a year ago last December," Max added. Al Goodman knitted his eyebrows together. He had never heard of the man. "He could fire a revolver five times in less than a half a second," Henry said wi th confidence. Al opened his mouth to comment on this obvious exaggeration when Max Collins spoke again.

"Damn right he could. I saw him do it at the Montana State Fair almost thirty years ago. I think it may have been even faster than that. Sounded like one quick roar-faster than the Tommy guns I shot in the Army. But Jesus, you should have seen him shoot things in the air-marbles, washers with paper pasted over the hole, clay birds, two guns at once-I never would have believed it if I hadn't seen him do it." "Like this?" Henry held the book open. On the left-hand page was a photo very similar to the one on the wall of Herb Parsons, except the man doing the shooting was holding a revolver instead of a shotgun, and there were five black puffs of smoke in the air instead of seven.

"I'll be dipped in shit! I saw him do that! There it is-Central Montana State Fair in 1931. Had a job on a cattle ranch the summer after high school, and we went to the fair one weekend and damned if Ed McGivern wasn't there. Never saw anything like it." He looked at his nephew with interest. "You really do like to read, don't you?" he asked the little boy. Henry nodded.

"I've got Ed McGivern's book at home. Tells all about how he trained himself to do all the things he did." He looked at the store owner. "Al, do you have a copy of Fast and Fancy Revolver Shooting here?" The owner shook his head. "Hell, kid, I'll let you have mine." He turned to Al Goodman. "Put the Gun Digest on my tab, too." The big man turned to his nephew. "Ready to go?" Henry glanced over to his right. Max Collins had a knowing smile on his face when he asked the next question. "Want to go over and look at the bear, while I see if Al's got anything else for me to take home?"

A huge grin appeared on Henry's face and he ran over to where the mounted polar bear stood. As he did so, the door to the store opened and in walked a slender man of about thirty-five. He was carrying a long gun under his arm. It had two shotgun barrels side-by-side, with a rifle barrel underneath. The owner looked up and acknowledged him as he walked over.

"Good morning, Major."

"Morning, Al. Thought I'd see what you'd give me for this German drilling," the man said, using the correct term for the hybrid sporting arm. Al Goodman took the gun from the young man and opened it, looking down the bore of the rifle barrel. The newcomer continued. "Picked it up during the war. Hardly been shot at all. Tightest action you've ever seen. Sixteen gauge over 8x57 Mauser. Balances beautifully, and can take any kind of game on the continent. Gorgeous engraving, and look at that wood!"

Al examined the Teutonic engraving on the metal and the deep-relief carving on the wood. He had never liked carving, and much preferred standard checkering, to the extent that he cared at all. He was evaluating the gun, trying to decide what a customer might pay for it. He knew that Max Collins thought combination guns were for fools. Before he could say anything, the young man finished his sales pitch with what he believed to be the clincher.

"And what's more, this was the personal weapon of Hermann Goering." Al Goodman looked up at his customer, who was grinning broadly.

"Well, of course that would endear it to me."

Al's face and voice, as always, were both entirely devoid of emotion or inflection. Al was wearing an opennecked shirt, and a mezuzah hung around his neck. The Army Major either did not see it or did not care. "I can't give you a price until Harold sees it, and he doesn't usually work on Saturdays. You can leave it here and I'll call you Monday, or you can bring it back any time during the week."

"Hang on to it," the man said airily. "I'm going to see what you've gotten in lately in your pistol case." He moved away from Al and Max towards the far end of the store.

Max Collins reached in his pocket and leaned over to whisper to the smaller man. "Al, I'll give you a hundred bucks right now if you call that guy back over and say 'Sir, I've considered this very carefully, and I'll give you twenty dollars for this gun'."

For the first time that day, Al Goodman smiled. Even if Max Collins had not been Goodman's best customer, he would still have been Al's favorite customer. The store owner had no doubt whatsoever that Max Collins would carry through on his offer, and be glad to do so.

"I'd do it for nothing, Max, but he's a good customer. Just a little slow, that's all."

Max Collins shook his head and clenched his teeth to keep himself from breaking out laughing. He laid three hundred-dollar bills next to the cash register and Al Goodman rang up his sale. "All set, kid?" He called out as Al handed him his change and the shotgun. Henry came running over, and Al held out a sack containing the boy's Gun Digest and his two pocket knives.

"Thank you, sir," Henry said solemnly.

"Let's get you home so you can fool with that pocket tool kit of yours and read up on Ed McGivern." The big man and the little boy walked towards the door. As he was about to exit the gun shop, Henry Bowman looked over his shoulder and called out to the owner.

"I really like your store."

"Well, thank you, Henry," replied the proprietor.

Al Goodman smiled for the second time that day. It was a record for him.

"Hey!" the man yelled out across the office, his hand covering the mouthpiece of the telephone he held. "Wagner just had a heart attack. DOA at Barnes. We've got to move fast-the vultures will be circling."

His partner sat bolt upright. His mind was racing, and he was already thinking several steps ahead to the necessary special election that would be held to replace the dead legislator. "Shit! On the first week of the session, for Christ's sake!"

"If Holmes and Armitage get into it, they'll be at each other's throats the whole time. They hate each other, and the last thing we need is a mudbath between those two, fighting for Wagner's seat. It might even throw it to the Republicans," the first man warned.

The second man grimaced with distaste at this last thought. There had never been a Republican state rep in his district during his lifetime. He intended to do his part to see that it stayed that way. "Can't have that," he said, shaking his head.

"What we need is someone everyone can live with. "Belson?"

"Too young. Need someone older, that the unions can go for."

"Andrews?"

He shook his head. "A lot of people see him as mean-spirited. You won't get Holmes or Armitage to step aside for that guy." His friend nodded in agreement.

"How about Joe Hammond?"

"Joe Hammond..." He said the name slowly as he mulled it over in his mind. He hadn't thought of Joe, but the suggestion had a certain logic to it. His friend held up his left fist and started to enumerate points by raising fingers one at a time.

"He's sixty, or thereabouts. Made a pile in construction, and always used only union labor. I never heard of him screwing anyone on a deal, and the only people who don't like him are the ones who resent him for being a success when they weren't. He's given a lot of dough to the Party over the years, and I think he's ready to get out of his business."

"We might sell that..." His wheels were turning. "Think he'd want it?"

The other man shrugged. "Can't tell 'til we ask him. Decent chance, though, if you ask me. Political power can be pretty attractive, particularly if getting it's painless. You know anyone who'd turn it down?" "Not many. Particularly if they're already about to get out of what they're doing. Let's run it by Harris and Fields, and then let's meet with Joe Hammond."

The State House representative for the 92nd District of Missouri in south St. Louis had just been decided. Henry Bowman was as excited as he could ever remember being. This was even better than the last time he had been to Goodman's, a year and a half before. As he and his father walked through the door, he smelled the faint aroma of Hoppe's #9 solvent. It was very pleasant, and it brought the memory of his first visit to the store into brilliant focus in his mind.

"Mr. Goodman, Walter Bowman. I understand you've already met my son, although it was a couple of years ago. The tenth was his eighth birthday, and we're here to get his first rifle." He held out his hand to the older man, who took it in a lifeless grip.

"Please, it's 'Al'. Your son made quite an impression on us when he and his uncle came in last. He's quite a reader, as I recall, and I learned a few things from him. Tell me, Henry, are you still looking for a 4-bore rifle?"

"Do you have one here? Henry asked immediately with unconcealable excitement.

"No," replied Al Goodman, shaking his head and putting a sad expression on his face, "we've never had one come in. I found out that they're terribly rare, and the few that do exist are mostly in Europe. But I did find a book by a man that used a 4-bore in Africa, and I also have a photo of one." He walked over to a shelf and took down a copy of Wild Beasts and Their Ways by Sir Samuel White Baker.

"This man hunted all over Africa with some very large rifles about a hundred years ago. You're welcome to borrow this book and read about him." Al Goodman opened the cover and withdrew a photograph. "This is a photograph from a store in England that sells fine guns." He handed the photo to the boy.

Henry stared down at the picture. Two guns were lying on a tabletop. The first was of normal size, and appeared to be a double-barreled shotgun with fine engraving. The gun below it was slightly shorter in length, but massive in its construction. The barrels were twice as thick, and the huge receiver had a pair of exposed hammers above the breech. The engraving was of even higher quality than that of the smaller weapon.

"I promised to return the picture, but I told the owner I had a friend who would like to look at it, and he let me keep it until you had a chance to come in." Walter Bowman smiled at the older man's characterization of eight-year-old Henry as his friend. "He told me the 4-bore weighs 24 pounds empty, and 25 1/2 pounds loaded." Al turned to Henry's father. "I've been in this business for thirty years, and your son told me about a rifle I had never heard of. It wasn't until last month that I even saw a picture of one."

Walter Bowman looked with great pride at his son, who was staring intently at the photograph. "Henry is very good at learning all there is to know about subjects that interest him."

"Has he told you what kind of rifle he wants?"

"As a matter of fact, no, he hasn't. I thought we'd get your suggestions, and then maybe Henry will be able to pick one out."

Al Goodman nodded, but he wasn't learning what he really needed to know, which was how much Walter Bowman was willing to pay for his son's first .22. A Marlin single shot bolt action .22 with birch stock retailed for $17.25. A Browning autoloading .22 with a beautifully figured French walnut stock and Grade III factory engraving retailed for $159.50. The recently discontinued Winchester 52 sporter bolt action was the same size and quality as their Model 70 centerfire, and had sold for $200.

Al Goodman would have been amazed if Walter Bowman intended to buy either of the last two rifles for his son. Most fathers bought the cheapest single shot available for their sons' first rifle, for children were not always good at taking care of valuable equipment. The same was true of some adults, and Al recalled the condition of some of the used guns that people brought in the store. Assuming that a customer was going to want the least expensive choice, however, was not how Goodman's had become such a great success. Walter Bowman's next comments clarified things considerably for the store owner.

"He probably needs a repeater. I think it's a foregone conclusion that Henry's going to do a lot of shooting. We spend each summer in the country on the Mississippi River, and he can shoot every day there if he wants to. I don't think we want a rifle for formal competition shooting at paper targets. It's my understanding that they are rather heavy, and I think Henry's more interested in shooting sticks floating in the river right now." He looked over at his son, who was nodding agreement.

"Also, I'd like him to have something of good quality. I don't know much about guns, but I believe in good tools that will last a lifetime. Henry's Uncle Max shoots guns that his father gave him almost forty years ago. I think Henry's first rifle should be something that he'd still be proud to own even after he's grown."

Al Goodman nodded sagely. "I can show you a few choices. Is it fair to say that if they're all in about the same price range, the one that feels the best to Henry is probably going to be the one you want?" "Yes, I think so." Walter Bowman suppressed a grin as he watched the least enthusiastic sales technique he had ever seen.

"In that case, if you want a repeater for doing a lot of shooting, one with a tubular magazine is easiest to load and holds the most cartridges. You won't have a separate clip that can be misplaced or get separated from the gun. Some rifles have their tubular magazines under the barrel, and some have them in the buttstock, but they both work the same way. Do you know if you are interested in a bolt action, a lever action, a pump, or a semi-auto?" The two men looked at Henry.

"If it's okay, Dad, I'm pretty sure I want a pump or an autoloader." Henry did not say so, but he knew exactly what he wanted. He wanted either a Winchester Model 61 pump, or if he could really have any rifle at all, a Winchester Model 63 semiauto.

Henry had seen Herb Parsons use both of these guns 18 months before at the Olin range in Alton, Illinois with his Uncle Max. With the pump gun, Parsons had turned the rifle on its side and held it at chest level. He worked the action briskly to eject the fired case vertically into the air. Then he had snapped the rifle up to his shoulder and hit the airborne empty with the next shot. He had repeated this procedure until the gun was empty. With the Model 63, he had hit three eggs thrown in the air at the same time with three shots. Henry did not think he would ever be able to hit fired .22 cases in the air, but he thought he might learn to hit a tossed hen's egg. Herb Parsons had also told him that each of the two guns had over 100,000 rounds fired through it, and that if they ever broke just from shooting, Winchester would fix them for free. Henry had been impressed.

When Henry had done research in his 1959 Gun Digest, he had discovered that the Winchester 63 was the most expensive .22 made, not counting special target rifles and guns that were engraved. It sold for a few cents under eighty dollars. Other pumps and semiautos sold for less than half that amount. And the price on the Winchester has probably gone up in the last two years he thought dismally.

"Remington and Winchester both make good pumps and autos, and Browning makes a nice auto but no pump." The short man gently lifted two rifles from the rack. "For customers interested in guns of lasting value, we suggest sticking to those three makes, at least as far as twenty-twos are concerned." He laid the two rifles on the padded counter. "In the slide action, Remington makes the 572 and Winchester makes the 61. The Remington comes in two versions, either a steel receiver, or an aluminum one for a bit more money. The aluminum-receivered gun is lighter, has a chrome plated magazine tube, and an aluminum cover on the barrel. Some people like the lighter weight but neither gun is very heavy. The one here is steel, but I can show you the aluminum model also. It comes in different colors." Al Goodman did not think Mr. Bowman would think much of an anodized aluminum rifle.

"I can imagine what my brother-in-law would say if we brought home something like that: 'I thought you were going to Goodman's, not a goddamn whorehouse!'" Al Goodman laughed at Walter's startlingly accurate impression of Max Collins.

Henry looked at the two men, and they both motioned for him to pick up one of the rifles.

"Press this small lever with your trigger finger, and work the slide with your opposite hand to make sure the gun is empty," Al instructed. Henry did so, and then closed the action and threw the rifle up to his shoulder, aiming at a spot on the wall well away from any people in the store. The stock was large for him, as almost any stock would be for an eight-year-old, but his position was right and the sights lined up with his right eye.

"Try the Winchester." Henry repeated the procedure, and realized that the second gun's stock and forend were slightly smaller and were easier for his hands to grip comfortably.

"This one feels better. Especially in my left hand."

"Winchester makes their stocks a little slimmer, and they groove the forend deeply to give a good grip when you work the action. Remington made their gun look like one of their centerfires, but it doesn't seem to handle as nicely for most people as the Winchester." Al put the Remington back in the rack and withdrew two more rifles, laying them next to the Winchester pump.

"In semiautos, you have more choices," Al went on in his expressionless voice. "Remington makes three. These two, the Model 550 and 552, are somewhat similar. The 552 is newer, and is designed to look like one of their deer rifles. It has a few aluminum parts, and weighs a few ounces less than the 550. This one," he continued, lifting a third rifle from the rack, "is their newest model. It's called the Nylon 66. The entire one-piece stock is made of DuPont Nylon, and that's what all the pins ride on. It's not very pretty, but it works well. Remington advertises you can drive a truck over it and it will still work." Al looked up at Walter Bowman. "I'm not aware that any of our customers make a habit of driving over their guns, but perhaps Remington has found an untapped segment of the market." Walter smiled at Al's deadpan humor.