"Surely your firm has somebody who could do that."

"I'm sure we do. That's just it-I'm the new guy, and the senior partners have a game they play of asking associates to comment on cases unrelated to what they're doing. They like to see who can think on his feet about cases they aren't intimately familiar with."

"One of the senior VP's at White, Weld does that kind of shit, too."

"So you know what I'm talking about. Anyway, I'm pretty good at the game, but no one's hit me with a case involving calculating how much to try to get in a lawsuit. I got to tell you, I think I'd blank if they did."

"Well, you got to figure a lawyer's going to come out with guns blazing and demanding some outrageous figure, with punitive damages, to get their attention, right? Isn't that the way everybody does it-tell the girl you want to do her roommate at the same time, and compromise down from there?"

"I guess so, yeah."

"Anyway, I assume your question is, how does the lawyer know what to finally agree to, knowing that's as much grease as he's going to get out of that one goose. Is that it?"

"Yes. Exactly."

"Hell, for that, all he'd need would be an annual report for Allied, with a balance sheet and income statement. A sixth-grader could come up with the right figure if he had those numbers. The key for the plaintiff's lawyer would be to make Allied see that he knew exactly what their financial position was, and to give them a way to pay up that was affordable, but barely. He'd use the threat of a sympathetic jury to get them up to that level where it was still affordable, but not trivial.

"Knowledge is power in any field, yours and mine especially. If I were the hurt guy's lawyer, I'd want that company to know that I knew exactly what they could or couldn't pay, and I'd want to give them fucking nightmares about what could happen if the thing went to a jury. I'd want them to see that Becker would sooner absorb a pile of plutonium than Allied Chemical."

"You'd have been good lawyer material, Tony."

"Christ, no. Three years of law school would probably have done me in, and even if it didn't, when I got out I'd be up against all those assholes that thrive on that kind of stuff. No thanks. I like it right where I am- watching all the people do dumb things with their money, and making my moves accordingly." Tony Kearns was shaking his head, and Raymond knew he had to get him back on the numbers before Tony's mind strayed permanently to something else.

"Surely it can't be that easy to figure out what a company could absorb, just by looking at an annual report."

"Oh, you mean hidden assets, undervalued holdings, that sort of thing? Yeah, you got to do a little more research and then tweak the numbers a little to account for that stuff, but that's no big deal. Here, let me show you." Tony Kearns reached over and pulled a napkin out of the dispenser. "You got a pen?" he asked Raymond.

"Here."

"Okay, first thing, you go to the income statement and..."

Raymond Johnson, the fledgling personal injury lawyer, used every bit of concentration he had to pay attention to what his friend was saying. He was about to get a very valuable addition to his education. "I wonder what these three heavy packages are?" said Walter Bowman in a loud voice when he opened the door to the hall closet to hang up his jacket. "They're from some place called 'Service Armament', in New Jersey," he added with a grin.

"My Mauser! Nobody told me it came today!" Henry Bowman ran from the kitchen to the front hall. He grabbed the long cardboard box, tore it open, and withdrew the well-oiled rifle, which was wrapped in newspaper. It was a WWII vintage German G33/40, the version with the short 19" barrel. Henry wiped off the excess oil with a piece of newsprint and threw the rifle up to his shoulder. The 8mm centerfire infantryman's rifle was about two pounds heavier than his Winchester .22. He operated the bolt several times without dropping the butt from his shoulder. The action was smoother than he had expected.

"Bring it on in the study and tell me about it, Henry," his father suggested. "It looks kind of like the one Dad had when I was little, that Uncle Cam gave him." Henry carried his new prize into his father's study, wiping it off further with another page of newsprint.

"It's a German Mauser, Dad. Paul Mauser designed this basic action in 1898, and it's still used all over the world. FN in Belgium still builds them for Browning. This one is a 33/40 model. The main difference between it and the Model 98 German Army rifle is that this one is even shorter and more than a pound lighter than the 98 carbine, and two pounds lighter than the standard 98 rifle. It fires the 8x57mm rifle cartridge. The bullet is a little bigger and heavier than the one our U.S. .30-06 fires, but not quite as fast. I'll get one." Henry ran out of the room. He returned and handed the loaded round of 8mm Mauser ammunition to his father.

Walter Bowman examined the cartridge. It was larger than he had expected. He had never seen any ammunition for the one his father had owned. Michael Bowman had sold the rifle, shortly after his younger brother's death, without ever having fired it.

"What about recoil?"

"I'll get used to it," Henry said. Then he added, "I bought a rubber recoil pad. I think I'll shorten the stock and put the pad on so it ends up the same length as the buttstock on my Winchester." Military rifle stocks were sized for adults and typically had steel buttplates. Many soldiers complained of the recoil of their rifles.

"Is this ammo expensive?"

"Charley has World War Two 8mm for less than three cents a round, by the case. About twice as much as rimfire."

"Does it all fire?"

"They promised it would. I bought two cases, and it looks good. Not corroded or anything." Walter Bowman nodded. "Let me know if you need a hand in the shop on that recoil pad installation." Henry headed for the basement stairs with his new rifle.

"Ray, you've been hinting at a claim of ten million dollars. That's ludicrous, and you know it." Ames MacKinnon III, one of the partners at MacKinnon, Reed, was speaking in a slightly patronizing tone to the younger lawyer. "Allied can't pay that kind of money! Of course they'd like to take care of your Mexican so they can get on with the sale to Becker, but you're on another planet with your dollar figure." That's what you think, asshole Raymond said to himself. You think I'm a contracts man and haven't a clue as to what the company can or can't comfortably pay.

"A jury will laugh you out of court," MacKinnon went on. "Nobody around here's ever had an award on a P.I. case anywhere near like what you're dreaming about. Pick a reasonable figure, and we'll work with you on this thing, okay? You don't want to wind up looking like a crazy man on your first real case. What do you say?"

Raymond recognized that the other lawyer was simultaneously trying to sow doubt in his mind about Raymond's abilities, point out his inexperience, trivialize his client and his claim, ridicule his lawsuit, and make Raymond revise his thinking and reduce his demands without any counteroffer from Allied. Nervy bastard, aren't you? Raymond thought. I have no intention of rolling over and playing dead. You are the one who will soon be squirming.

"Ames, I think you should sit down with Allied's CFO and come up with a serious counteroffer for me instead of dancing around with a lot of meaningless rhetoric. You're right, no one's ever paid this kind of money before, at least not around here. There's a very good reason for that. Up until now, no chemical company has ever ordered a pregnant employee to work in an environment filled with birth-defectproducing chemicals."

"There's no proof of that, and you know it. Besides, the company was going out of its way to keep her on in view of the layoffs."

"Absolute proof we don't need, Ames. You know how juries work. You need to get that CFO to sharpen up his pencil and get to work. And don't think I haven't done my homework on this one-I have. A jury is quite likely to award every nickel we're asking for, maybe even more. After all, how do you think a New York jury will vote when one of them points out in deliberation that your boys performed chemical experiments on a pregnant woman, and now is being bought by a German firm? Birds of a feather...? I'd hate to guess what they might ultimately decide to award."

Ames MacKinnon liked to think he was a master at maintaining an impassive expression regardless of circumstances, but Ames was unable to keep the blood from draining out of his face, which temporarily gave his skin a different hue.

"You pull anything like that, and I'll have you up on charges of jury tampering and improper conduct before you can open your mouth. You'll be parking cars for a living." Ray listened to this outburst and looked at the other lawyer with genuine bafflement.

"Ames, I'm not going to need to say word one on that subject to the jury, either before, during, or after the trial. They will see a damaged woman and child who are not white, and a bunch of Caucasians who caused that damage. They will see those rich Caucasians loudly protesting their innocence while at the same time cutting a big-money deal with a bunch of Germans. This is New York City, Ames, where you see people with numbers tattooed on their arms every day. It's the first thing that's going to come into the jurors' minds, even if I sleep through most of the trial. Hell, Ames, I bet it was the first thing that came into your mind," he said accusingly.

The color came back into Ames MacKinnon's cheeks as he flushed red. Raymond had hit it exactly, and it was what he had warned his client. The board at Allied had instructed him to get the case settled quickly for as little outlay as possible, so that the sale to Becker could proceed.

"I'll talk to my people," was his only response, and then Ames MacKinnon turned around and left. Raymond waited until the door closed behind the departing attorney. The he started to smile. A few moments later he was laughing out loud.

"Dad, I can't find my set of gun screwdrivers," Henry Bowman yelled as he stepped into the kitchen after climbing the stairs from the basement. He was carrying his M98 Mauser in his left hand as he headed for the living room, looking for his father. Catherine Bowman's father, Charles Collins, had had a stroke at the age of eighty-one, and the family had stayed at the house in St. Louis, instead of moving to their place on the river for the summer.

"They aren't on your workbench, where I saw th-" He stopped abruptly when he saw the family had guests. "Sorry, I didn't know anyone-"

"That's all right, son. Your Aunt Zofia and Uncle Max just stopped by to see your grandfather, and brought Mr. Mann with them. I'm sorry, I didn't tell you I borrowed your screwdriver set to work on a chest of drawers. I needed one that fit exactly. They're up in our bedroom." Henry turned to leave the room, but his uncle stopped him.

"Let me see your Mauser, Henry. Haven't handled a 33/40 in twenty years. When did you get it?"

"Last month, Uncle Max," he said as he handed him the rifle. Max Collins opened the action, checked the chamber, and closed the bolt. He threw the gun up to his shoulder, sighted at one of the wall sconces, and squeezed the trigger. There was a loud snap as the firing pin fell.

"Who stoned the trigger? It's light and it breaks clean."

"I did, Uncle Max. I put in an overtravel screw also."

"Damn good for a military trigger," he proclaimed, and started to hand the rifle back to his nephew.

"May I see that?" Irwin Mann asked suddenly. Max Collins opened the bolt and handed Henry's rifle to his wife's brother-in-law. Irwin Mann held it in his lap and turned it in his hands at varying angles. A look of concentration came over his face as he examined the rifle. Finally he looked up at ten-year-old Henry Bowman. "This is yours?" he demanded.

"Yes."

"You have...shot it very much?" Irwin Mann's tone was intense and insistent, but not in any way unfriendly.

"About a thousand rounds in the past month," Henry explained. "Dad and I are going out shooting on the river tomorrow, and I wanted to check the guard screws first."

Irwin Mann looked at Walter Bowman. "Would you and your son mind if I were to join you tomorrow? I would very much like to see him shoot this rifle." Walter, mildly surprised at the request, looked over at his son with a questioning look. Henry gave a gesture that clearly showed it was fine with him if Mr. Mann joined them the following day.

"We usually leave about eight-thirty. Shall we pick you up at nine tomorrow?"

Walter asked.

"You are certain it is not too much trouble?"

"Don't you live a few streets over from Max? That's not even ten minutes out of our way."

"Nine o'clock will be fine, then." Irwin Mann was not sure what he should expect from the next day's outing, but he had a strange premonition that he was going to learn something from it.

"Hello," Raymond Johnson mumbled into the phone as he rolled over in bed.

"You dog! Been trying to get you all weekend! No wonder you were so fucking interested in my analysis!" Tony Kearns was on the phone. "What I been hearing can't be right, though. Ten million dollars?" Tony was fishing, but Raymond remained silent. He was wide awake now. "You can't have asked for ten mil!" Raymond still said nothing. "Shit, you got big balls, you know that? Either that or you're fucking crazy."

"Listen, Tony, I wanted to be straight with you that night, but with all the laws against-"

"Hell, Raymond, I don't give a shit about that, it couldn't have done me any good anyway, but Jesus Christ, you're a contracts guy. What the hell are you doing taking on a PI case, and my God, Raymond, ten million dollars!" All of a sudden Tony Kearns was at a loss for words. It was an unusual experience for him. Ray was about to say something, but Tony suddenly found his voice. "You had breakfast yet? Scratch that-it doesn't matter. / haven't had breakfast yet, and I have got to hear more about this. Meet me at Bascomb's in a half hour, and you can buy this time, okay?" Raymond looked at the clock.

"Yeah, I can do that."

"Great." Tony broke the connection.

"Look, Tony," Raymond started to say as his friend sat down, "I really feel terrible about how I pumped you for ideas without telling you-"