"Did you say the Governor promised the same prison to two different legislators, and they both sold us out?" Bedderson asked.

"Yeah. Rivetts is the biggest whore in the Senate. His district's down near the Arkansas border, where a lot of the family trees are straight lines. Barnes is a freshman from just outside St. Louis who hasn't figured out how the game is played. He's the one who'll get fucked."

"Anything we can do to Rivetts?" Bedderson asked.

"Not politically. No one runs against him. Last election he got 80% of the vote."

"There's got to be something," Bedderson wondered aloud.

"Okay," the young man said to the assembled group. He was the aide to the Democratic senator who had sponsored Missouri's concealed carry bill. "Here's the deal. The Majority Leader is going to fuck us. He's going to cry about this made-up death threat and filibuster until the clock runs out. Only way to avoid that is to turn the bill over to the House members, who have promised the Governor to put t he referendum on it. If we do that, though, Harold loses control of the bill entirely."

"You mean it isn't his any more? He can't withdraw it?" Cindy Caswell asked.

"That's right. He wants to know what you people want him to do."

"Kill it."

"Kill it."

"Damn right. Kill it."

"Have him tell Flanagan we'll be back next year. The referendum is going to be on his Governorship, not our bill," Tom Fleming said. "Civil rights issues don't go away."

"Anybody disagree?" the aide asked. No one did. "I'll tell him," the young man said. Then he smiled. "The Governor is going to be pissed."

"Can you believe the long faces of our opponents?" the president of the Retailers Association asked. "You'd think they'd be happier. The bill's dead."

"Yeah, but only temporarily," a man named Greg pointed out. "It'll be back next session, which is during an election year, and these guys were all counting on being able to duck it permanently with that referendum scheme. I think the Governor just lost the next election."

"I don't know if that'll be much consolation to Linda Kravis," Arthur Bedderson said. He was referring to one of his employees who had been beaten and raped by a gang while she was leaving the St. Louis Union Station shopping mall. She had lost the vision in one eye during the assault.

The others nodded. Kravis' story was familiar to everyone in the group. Also well-known was Bedderson's wish to open a second plant in North St. Louis, which was a blighted, high-crime section of the city which the businessman felt was ripe for economic development. Arthur Bedderson refused to go ahead with his plans until he could be assured that all of his workers could legally protect themselves while traveling to and from their place of employment.

"B.I., you've just pointed out the thing that's always bothered me the most about this whole 'throw-thebums-out' process," Thomas J. Fleming said.

"How so?"

"I mean, let's face it. We send Ken Flanagan packing next year, and what happens? He gets to keep all the campaign funds he's got left over from his failed re-election effort. Put that together with what he's been able to pile up selling pardons and doling out State contracts and other favors, and he's a rich man. Rich for rural Missouri, at least," he amended.

"Self-protection isn't just some political difference, subject to majority vote, like a bond issue or a speed limit," Fleming went on. "It's a fundamental right. Flanagan swore an oath when he took office to defend our fundamental rights, and he's violated that oath. Flanagan can retire and live damned well, while Linda Kravis and a hundred other decent citizens are maimed or dead because of him.

"My wife's Jewish," Tom Fleming reminded Bedderson, "and I look at this situation just like when I read they'd finally located Klaus Barbie. A lot of folks said, 'Hey, the guy's eighty years old, he's not bothering anyone, let him be.' My reaction was, we should have executed him fifty years ago. This bastard's had fifty years of good living while the people he's murdered have been six feet under. If he draws breath one more day it's one day too many."

"You got a point," Bedderson agreed, "but I think we'll have to settle for returning Flanagan to the private sector."

"I guess so."

"So what's this thing we're going to, again?" the girl in the back asked. "The leasing company, or something?" Theresa, do you have to be such an airhead? Cindy Caswell thought. In the front seat, Henry and Cindy looked at each other.

"You know, it's great to have a girl around who'll do whatever you want, no questions asked. 'Want to go with me?' 'Sure.' 'Need to know where we're going, what we're going to do, where we're going to stay, what kind of clothes to bring?' 'Naah.' I tell you, Cindy, Theresa's the ideal companion."

"Well, I figure we'll...have a good time," the young woman said with a laugh. "And clothes? You said we wouldn't be going anyplace dressy. My thong, couple T-bars, cutoffs, and a few tops-in this weather, what else am I going to use?"

"What else indeed," Henry agreed. "But to answer your question, we are going to the annual New Lease Body Armor Shoot. It is run by a good friend of mine, David Richards. David makes what most people call 'bulletproof vests', and every year he has a big-Goddamit, Theresa, don't do that," Henry yelled, glancing at the girl in the rearview mirror. Cindy Caswell turned around in her seat and looked at their companion. Every boy's fantasy...she thought.

"Babe, the back's all full of guns and the last thing we need is to have some radar cop pull us over for contributing to the delinquency of a minor," Cindy said gently. "Those people might have a car phone," she added, as Henry accelerated away from the station wagon in the next lane. Inside the other car, a wide-eyed junior high-schooler was getting yelled at by his mother.

"Sorry," Theresa said as she once again faced the front of the vehicle and put her halter top back on.

"What I was saying was, every year David has a week-long competition up near the factory. Bowling pin shooting, where the shooters see how fast they can shoot five bowling pins off a table with a pistol at twenty-five feet. It's three feet to the back of the table, and so your gun has to have enough power to throw the pin that far. The timer doesn't stop until the last pin hits the ground. The more effective your gun is at clearing the pins off the table, the harder it is to shoot fast, because of recoil. Just like real life."

"I've been practicing at Henry's place for the 9mm event," Cindy said. "That's a newer class where they put up nine pins instead of five, but only a foot from the back of the table, because the guns hold more cartridges, but they aren't as powerful as a .357, .44, or .45."

"She's pretty good," Henry admitted to Theresa. "David has a bunch of other competitions to enter. Twoperson teams, a shotgun event, and the Book Depository shoot."

"What the hell is that?"

"David set up a mock-up of the Texas School Book Depository window up on a hill, with a couple old convertibles, some department-store mannequins, and an armored tractor with a long cable to pull the vehicle at the right speed through a clearing. You have to use a 6.5 Carcano with a four-power Tasco scope from 1962. The idea is to see if anyone can duplicate what Oswald is alleged to have done, because a lot of people have said it's impossible."

"This Richards guy sounds like a piece of work," Theresa said with a laugh. "So what did you two invite me along for, kinky sex after all the shooting's done for the day?"

"Basically, yeah," Cindy Caswell admitted.

"I could go for that," Theresa said agreeably.

"Shooters ready...guns on the rail...timers ready..." David Richards shouted from the announcer's stand. Then he fired a blank pistol in the air. At the sound of the shot, the three timers pressed the buttons o n their electronic stopwatches. Henry Bowman had been holding his 5"-barreled .44 Magnum Smith & Wesson with its muzzle touching the waist-level barrel rest in front of him. When he heard Richards' muzzle blast, he swung his gun up into firing position, locked into the Weaver stance, and began to shoot pins off the table twenty-five feet away. The bowling pins flew eight feet off the back of the table before landing on the ground. Big splinters blew out the backs of the pins as they flew through the air. The fifth pin split in two as it bounced in the dirt.

He's slowed down a tiny bit Cindy Caswell thought as Henry removed the five empties and the single loaded round from his revolver.

"Four point one."

"Four point two."

"Four point one."

"Four point one it is," David Richards announced for the official scorer, throwing out the odd time of the three. There were seven separate ranges set up with tables of pins to shoot. Five of the tables had a single worker with a stopwatch at each. One table used two timers. David Richards stood on a platform that overlooked the table reserved for the fastest guns. The better the shooter, the more timers Richards put on him. A couple of the fastest shooters would have five watches on them by the final round.

"That's a four point oh average for the string," the scorer called out.

"Nice shooting, Henry," Richards said as Henry Bowman stepped off the line. "Maybe I'll develop a Magnum event." Then Richards went to check the schedule.

This is really fan here Cindy Caswell thought as she looked around at all the shooters. A number of the competitors were women, and that had surprised her.

"Congratulations," Theresa said as Henry walked up to where she and Cindy were standing. "That's the fastest I've seen." Yesterday she couldn't have cared less about what was going on during the daytime Cindy thought with a smile.

"The really good shooters aren't up yet. Jerry Miculek shoots in the high twos."

"Is he a cop?" Theresa asked. Henry and Cindy both started laughing.

"No," Henry said, after he had calmed down. "Very few cops shoot enough to get any good. Almost none of them show up here-it's too embarrassing."

"How come your gun blows the pins so far off the table, and splits them apart sometimes?" Theresa asked.

"I don't load down for this event. I shoot the full-power load in the .44, which is more than you need to take the pins off the table. When I tried loading down, it was screwing up my timing, because I've been shooting this one load since I was a kid. I could practice a bunch with mid-range ammo, but I'd still never get as fast as the top guys. How'd you do?" Henry asked, turning to Cindy.

"Twelve point three."

"That's pretty fast for nine pins and no more practice than you've had with that Glock. How'd my loads work for you?"

"Great. No rollers." Cindy was referring to loads with low momentum knocking the pins over but not off the table.

"What was the fastest you saw anyone shoot in the nine class?"

"High eights. Mr. Richards said I was best time so far in the 9mm Novice Division."

"Good deal. Although he may be trying to make time with you. He's getting a divorce, and I think it's been a while for him."

"Hmm," Theresa said, "maybe we should invite him over. What's he look like?"

"You haven't met him? He was just here. He's that guy over there in the gym shorts and shower flip-flops." "Oh, he's adorable!" Theresa said. "Like a teddy bear." Henry laughed, and then thought of something. "You two want to get his heart rate up a little? I got an idea." He told them what he had in mind. "I've got a better one," Cindy said when she heard it. Henry agreed with her assessment.

"We clear?" David Richards asked over the PA system. He looked out over the seven ranges. "Range four? Yes? Good. Okay, people, we're going to take a one-hour break, give the timers a rest and give the pin sorters a chance to cull out the bad ones. Got plenty of barbecue, plenty of soda, we'll hit it again at two o'clock. All ranges are now closed." Richards put down the microphone, switched off the amplifier, and used his cap to fan himself. The midday sun was warm for Michigan, and he had been going nonstop for almost four hours.