"Well, ah, I guess that must have been funny. I never could figure out algebra," Richard admitted. "You guys ready for some hoops?" one of the boys asked.

"Sounds good," another answered, and all six of them got up to bus their trays and leave the dining room.

"Hey, remember 'Dick Gaines for class president'," Richard said to their departing backs. Damn-I blew that one he thought angrily. They probably won't even bother to vote.

Richard Gaines was only partially right. It was true that student elections were not taken very seriously, particularly at state universities in Missouri. It was also true that several people at the table would not remember his name an hour later.

In the election that would be held just before Thanksgiving break, five of the six classmates he had met that evening would indeed have other more important things to do, and would not bother to vote. The sixth would happen to be near the school post office where the balloting was being done, and would cast his vote for the one name he vaguely recognized. With about eighteen percent of the class voting, Richard's efforts at meeting every one of his classmates at the university would pay off. He would win the election with a solid four percent of his class supporting him.

His victory would not have been possible if those people had not known his name.

"Hey, Heinz! Remember our conversation on the Econ 11 assignment of analyzing a local business?" the tenured professor asked. The Amherst College Economics Department chairman looked up from his book at the man who had just entered the faculty lounge and called his name. "Remember you were saying all the papers on Massachusetts pizza delivery services were putting you to sleep?"

"Yes, what about it?"

"Take a look at this one."

The Chairman took the proffered paper from his associate, readjusted his glasses, and read the title page aloud.

"The Economics of the Smith & Wesson .44 Magnum Revolver and the Pricing Strategy of its

Manufacturer". He looked over the tops of his glasses. "Another butter advocate?" he asked.

"Just read it," Nicholson said with a smile. "Take you two minutes." Department Chairman Kohler was known by his colleagues in the department for his ability to digest the printed word. He folded back the title page and scanned the paper.

"'...the only double-action revolver chambered for this cartridge'..." Kohler quoted. "Hmmm...says the Springfield plant's too small for current military demand, and all Smith & Wesson commercial guns are now backordered, but 'long before the Vietnam war was a factor, this model was hard to find and in fact has always been a rarity that commands a price in excess of retail.'" He scanned a bit further, then read '"Although the factory has always honored their listed dealer price on all guns, dealers regularly charge (and get) a substantial premium for this model, particularly in the longer barrel lengths.'" Kohler lowered the paper and laughed. "Well, that just means the CFO flunked Econ 11 and the factory is incorrectly pricing their product."

"Keep reading."

'"The factory's setting of the Model 29's price below the intersection point of the supply and demand curves would initially lead one to assume that the company's Chief Financial Officer was not doing his job'" Kohler quoted, "...and should therefore be fired," he editorialized with a laugh, '"but there is an alternative explanation that bears consideration.' " Kohler looked up at his associate.

"I can't wait to hear this one," he said, and continued to read.

'"It is possible that the decision-makers at the firm believe that rarity adds to this model's appeal and, by extension, the desirability of the entire Smith & Wesson line.

'From my own experience, however, I believe there is an alternative explanation. The Models 29, 27, and 57 are made in a limited-production assembly facility involving large amounts of hand-fitting. These arms exhibit a quality of fit and finish even greater than that of the rest of the company's product line. By actual test, these premier models also shoot more accurately than Smith & Wesson's other offerings. I believe it is impossible to significantly increase production rates of the .44 magnum using existing production methods and facilities. Prices from the factory (currently $165.00) on this low-volume model are kept below freemarket equilibrium levels likely because of fears of the substantial loss of goodwill should it be perceived by customers that Smith & Wesson has suddenly started "gouging" them.

'"Accordingly, and in light of the fact that Smith & Wesson is no longer family-owned but is a part of the South American conglomerate Bangor Punta...' Dare I detect a hint of U.S. pride here?" Kohler interjected, '"I see four possible changes in the production and pricing of this arm.'" Kohler lowered his voice and read the four suggestions.

'"One: A slight reduction in standards of overall quality. Two: Construction of new plant and facilities for increased production of all models. Three: Design changes to the weapons themselves (specifically the elimination of minor features) to lower unit production costs. Four: Substantial price increases at the factory level.' Hah! Listen to this: '"Bangor Punta has already implemented number one, and has started on number two. I believe three will follow. The fourth change, a sudden jump in factory prices, is, in my opinion, unlikely to occur. The first three courses of action are less obvious to the public, and the present demands of war production will not last forever.'" Kohler read on silently, then looked up.

"So the sleazy South Americans have lowered the quality of recent .44 magnums, but according to your author, there are enough older guns around to satisfy the people who shoot..." and here he had to refer to the text, '"over ten thousand rounds per year, or who regularly engage targets over a hundred fifty yards away.'" He continued to scan the paper.

"Now here's some good advice for us if we decide that's what we want to do next semester. Your Mister Bowman says we should '...look for one with a serial number below 8300,000.' Well, that's certainly good to know, wouldn't you say?"

"Not exactly 'local pepperoni costs have risen lately, lowering profit margins', is it?"

"Give this guy an 'A'," Kohler said as he handed back the paper.

"I already did."

"The first thing I have to tell you," Ann Ellis explained, "is that my...roommate is going to be upset if she finds us here together."

"Unhh...what about the house mother?" Henry asked.

"She's kind of like the FAA," Ann replied with a laugh. "We don't want to do anything obvious that she can actually see, like running naked down the hallway. We'll keep the door locked."

"Okay," Henry said. At that moment, he didn't trust his voice with anything over two syllables. "Seriously, if Rachel arrives, she may go a little crazy." Ann looked pointedly at her guest. Henry shrugged. "Okay," he repeated agreeably.

"Do you understand what I'm saying?" Ann Ellis demanded. Suddenly Henry understood exactly what Ann Ellis was saying, and he started laughing.

"I'm glad to be a substitute, but I really don't want to get shot," he said after a moment. Although it might be worth it he added mentally.

Ann Ellis flushed scarlet. "Don't think of it like that," she said quickly. "And getting shot? No, no-she just throws tantrums."

"Is that why there isn't anything breakable in here?" Henry asked with a grin.

Ann Ellis was startled. She looked around the small dorm room in Northrop House and realized there wasn't anything fragile in it. "Don't miss a thing, do you?" she muttered, then turned towards Henry with a wicked smile. "Let's see if you think this piece of equipment's obsolete," Ann said as she moved closer to her guest.

Henry Bowman would later reflect that shooting, skiing, and flying had been the three things he had experienced in his life that had actually turned out to be much better than he had expected. That evening, he discovered a fourth.

March 14,1971 "Hey, Boone! Phone's for you! Says it's the hospital!" The bartender held out the telephone receiver. A heavy, sour-looking man looked up from the pool table. He wore blue cotton twill work pants and a stained t-shirt that was stretched taut over his substantial belly. An unfiltered cigarette dangled from the corner of his mouth. He made no move towards the bar.

"Lady says your wife is in labor. Says you need to get down there." "Tell her I'll be there in a bit. Labor always takes her a good long while." Boone Caswell gave the bartender a look that conveyed the fact that there would be no further discussion of the matter. The bartender spoke quickly into the phone, and then hung up. Caswell went back to his pool game.

"Congratulations, Boone. You're a father again!" The doctor smiled at the big man with an enthusiasm he did not feel. He did not like Boone Caswell. He did not know anyone in the town of Rolla, Missouri who did, for that matter. Too many people had noticed the regular appearance of bruises on Myra, Boone's timid wife. There were some which had not quite faded even when she came to the delivery room.

"Boy or girl?" the man demanded.

"You have a beautiful, healthy, seven-pound, two-ounce daughter, Boone, and Myra is doing well. Both your other daughters are in with Myra and the baby. Want to see them?" He started to usher the man into the other room, but Caswell turned on his heel.

"Maybe when they get home," he said with his back to the doctor as he headed out the door.

June 7,1971 "Anybody here want to go on a couple of raids? Got two in the same building. Could use some extra muscle." Lou Ciamillo looked up at the man who asked the question. Federal. Narcotics, maybe. Assholes sometimes, but hell, a raid is a raid. He glanced around the room. Just sitting on my ass here he thought to himself. Wish I had my .357, though.

"Yeah, I'll go along. I've got my PPK with me, but that's all." The fed waved his hand in a dismissive gesture at Lou's statement.

"Don't worry about that." The federal agent stared at Ciamillo, who looked like someone you would call if you had a very heavy object that you needed lifted or moved, then nodded. "We can use you on the ram." He looked around the room. "Anyone else?" Several of the other off-duty officers hanging around the Montgomery County Police Department also volunteered to join in on the raid.

"What time we going in?" one of them asked.

"We'll be leaving in a few minutes, probably hit the first one nine-thirty or so," the fed replied. Ciamillo nodded. He was about to ask for more details about the raid when he heard another Montgomery County officer call his name.

"Hey, Lou! I been meanin to ask you about this .45 a mine. Take a look at it-I can't hit shit with it."

Ciamillo laughed. Because he liked shooting and practiced a lot, he was a good shot and very knowledgeable about handguns. Other officers often came to him with gun questions or gunsmithing problems.

"Have you considered that the problem may not be the gun, Jimmy?"

"Ah, fuck you, too. No, really, look at this. Is this too much slop in the barrel bushing, or are they all like that?" The policeman pulled the slide partway back to show Lou that the gun was empty, then let it snap forward. He demonstrated how he could wiggle the end of the barrel with the tip of his finger. Ciamillo glanced over his shoulder at the fed, who was now talking to someone else. / doubt they need this much backup he thought when he saw the number of officers, then mentally shrugged. Might get in on some excitement. Sure has been a boring-ass week around here. He turned back to the problem of the inaccurate .45.

Lou Ciamillo never did get around to asking what the raid was about.

The four men nearest the door could hear the sound of a television set inside the apartment. Most of the other twenty-two police agents were too far away to hear it, so Agent William Seals, who was leading the raid, made hand motions to them. He let the men know that the apartment was occupied and that they should remain silent.

"Okay, on 'three'," Seals whispered. "One...two... three!" Ciamillo and the other three men put all their strength behind the battering ram, and the apartment doorframe splintered and gave way. Lou Ciamillo was the second officer in the room. His adrenaline level was up, as it always was on a raid, and his senses felt unusually keen. His hand grabbed the butt of his Walther as other officers and agents poured into the room. Lou was drawing the weapon in a practiced motion when his brain registered that the only occupants of the room other than the raiding party were a young girl of ten or twelve who was sitting on a couch, and the much younger child she was holding on her lap.

The girl looked terrified, and the small child, frightened by the noise and sensing the older girl's fear, started to cry. Ciamillo kept his Walther pointed at the floor as he scanned the room. It soon became apparent that the girl, who they would later learn was ten years old, was babysitting that evening, and no one else was in the apartment.

After a quick examination to confirm that the apartment was indeed empty, the lead agent scribbled a note on a piece of paper and thrust it at the child. "Give this to your parents when they get home," he commanded. "Hope we have better luck at the next one," Seals muttered as he led his comrades out of the apartment.

The girl held the paper without looking at it and stared at the strange, disheveled men leaving through the shattered doorway. She had no idea who they were, or what they had come for.

This was understandable, as not a single one of the men who had crowded into the efficiency apartment was wearing a police uniform or had ever mentioned that he was a police officer.

Lou Ciamillo was starting to get a very bad feeling about the whole evening.

Twenty-seven-year-old Kenyon Ballew was taking a bath. He would have preferred a shower, as it was a chore for a grown man to wash and rinse himself in a cramped tub. The shower head still wasn't fixed, though, so a bath it was. It wasn't the difficulty Ken minded that night, however, but rather the fact that it took more time. This was relevant because as soon as Ken Ballew finished his bath, he was going to get laid. His wife Sara Louise had made that abundantly clear ten minutes earlier.

Her exact words had been 'If you aren't out of the bathtub, dried off, and in bed with me in fifteen minutes, big boy, I'm going to have to start without you. Remember the Boy Scout's motto- "Be Prepared".' Sara Louise was joking about the fact that her husband, a pressman for the Washington Post newspaper, was also a Scout troop leader.

Newspaper articles would later mention this fact, as a point of interest.

Ballew finished rinsing himself, flipped the tub drain to 'open', and was about to stand up when he heard muffled noises outside the apartment.

"Federal officers with a search warrant," Agent Seals announced in a normal speaking voice, making no move to knock on the door. Lou Ciamillo shot him a look, and the fed glared at the local cop as if to say, You going to make something of it, asshole? The man did not like being second-guessed about law enforcement procedures by a line officer in a county department.

"Ken! I think there's somebody at our door," a nude Sara Louise Ballew shouted to her husband. "And I don't have any clothes on," she added unnecessarily. She glanced at her wrist, realized her watch was lying on the dresser across the room and scowled. Neither she nor her husband were expecting anyone, and the hour was late.

"Open the door; Federal Agents," the agent leading the raid said, his voice a little louder this time.

"I'll get it," the husband shouted back to his wife. Ken Ballew thought he had heard someone say something that sounded like 'open the door', but the rest hadn't been clear. He stepped out of the tub and wrapped a towel around his waist. He intended to send whoever it was on his way post haste.

"You catch that?" one of the officers asked. The others, including Lou Ciamillo, shook their heads.

"There's two of them, I heard that much," the lead agent stated. "The second one was a man's voice. That's good enough for me." Lou Ciamillo had been about to say that if he and the agents couldn't understand what the people in the apartment were saying, it was logical to assume that the occupants had not understood the Treasury agent's command either, but Seals was already barking more orders.

"Let's bust this door open before they have a chance to get out the back or get rid of the evidence." We got over twenty guys here Lou thought. Why aren't any of 'em around back already? He shrugged inwardly. Mine not to reason why...Ciamillo thought as he prepared to use the ram. Must be a narco raid. He couldn't think of any contraband other than narcotics that could be disposed of on a moment's notice inside an apartment.

"One...two... three!" The battering ram crashed into the wood, but unlike the door in the previous raid, this one held. Ken Ballew had installed a door that was reinforced with steel. The doorframe cracked, but did not give way. "Again!" Agent Seals commanded.

Ken and Sara Louise, who were in separate rooms of the apartment, both heard the tremendous crash at their door and realized that they were under attack. Ken Ballew ran out of the bathroom, pulled open his desk drawer, and grabbed a percussion revolver made in 1847. Sara Louise had put on her bikini panties and was about to reach for her bra when the first impact hit the entrance to the apartment. She immediately leaped out of bed and started toward the bedroom door. Dressed or not, she was going to help her husband fight off whoever or whatever was invading their home.