"Does this new-receiver gun function as well as the original?" the man asked Henry. "I can't tell them apart."

"There's no difference," Henry agreed. "So now you're thinking that no one's apt to find this piece of iron 'collectible', and five hundred versus a thousand dollars seems like an awfully big price difference, right?" "Well, yes, actually."

"The reason for that is yet another government-mandated distortion in the system, this time on the demand side. World War II and earlier weapons, if they use the original receiver, are considered 'Curios and Relics' by the U.S. Treasury Department, which regulates these things. Guns that are still standard issue like the M2 .50 don't qualify, but everything obsolete, yes. Curios and Relics may be sold directly interstate between holders of Curios and Relics licenses without going through a dealer. That in itself is no big deal, but some states have laws that say the only machine guns that private citizens may own are the ones on the Curio list. I forget how many states there are like that, five or six maybe, but Michigan is one that I know of for sure."

"So if I lived in Michigan, I could buy this one," the man said, holding up the first STEN, "but not this one?" he asked as he raised the other.

"Right. So the demand for Curios is much higher in those states, ergo the high price." Several of the people listening snorted at this, but the wealthy man's expression did not change. Guy's got a lot of self-control Henry thought.

"If you are interested in a shooter, and I mean any shooter, not just a STEN, I recommend the less expensive gun. With an AK47, for example, you can pay five thousand for an Amnesty-registered pre-1968 Vietnam bringback like this one here," he said, pointing, "or half that much for a semiauto that was remanufactured to full auto and registered prior to May 19,1986 by a licensed NFA weapons manufacturer, like this one. If by some miracle they reve rse that manufacturing ban, the price will go back down to $150 for the machine work and registration on your semiauto, done by a licensed machine gun manufacturer, but right now, with a fixed supply, the price is way up there." Henry turned his hands palms up in supplication.

"Fact of the matter is, dealers like me have a hard time finding decent guns to sell with the laws as they are, and if you can find someone with an original STEN or AK, and all the federal documentation intact, I'll pay 80% of the price shown here, less the $200 tax, of course, regardless of condition. That's how hard they are to find."

"What $200 tax?" the man asked.

"Feds get that every time a machine gun changes hands, other than dealer-to-dealer, inheritance by lawful heir, or sale to or from a police department." Henry watched as eyebrows went up with this last bit of information.

"With the laws you've described, how do you guys stay in business?" the man demanded. Henry laughed.

"Good question. There are a few people who manage to make a full-time living out of it, like my friend Allen. This is his display, not mine," Henry said for the benefit of the newcomers who were listening to the discussion.

"Remember that all these guns were twenty or thirty dollars each back in the 'sixties, and a lot of guys who've owned them since then are now retirement age. Major player like Allen will buy hundred-piece machine gun collections from guys who've owned them for thirty or forty years, with a cost basis of next to nothing, when the guys want to cash out and spend the money in retirement. He'll pay up front, maybe seventy percent of retail, and then sell off the guns over the next six, eight months.

"Won't that game dry up?" the man asked, mixing his metaphors.

"Yeah, eventually." Henry took a breath and went on. "The other thing dealers like Allen do is travel overseas, looking for the correct accessories that the serious collectors demand. You can still import rare tripods, and stuff like that. This gun here," Henry said, laying his hand on a tripod-mounted German MG34, "is worth $3500. The tripod it's sitting on, which is a rare Alpine version, sells for about $4000 'cause the Krauts only made a handful, and I bet you can't find another one for that price.

"Allen's the best man I know at finding indirect-fire sights, wheeled mounts, and all those other things they made in limited quantities for these guns before the wartime factories had to revise their production priorities."

"So serious collectors buy these guns, just like pre-war Purdey shotguns and English double rifles?"

"Sure," Henry said. I bet he's got more doubles than I do he thought with a small smile, remembering the four double rifles in his gun safe. "Thompsons can be worth over ten grand, and I know more than one person with a million-dollar machine gun collection. For people like that, I recommend only buying all original guns, like the first STEN I showed you, not guns with new-manufacture receivers. However," Henry went on, stressing the word heavily, "I strongly recommend that you do not buy any machine gun with the expectation that it will increase in value over time, like you might with other guns."

"Why not?"

"One law change, and your whole collection could be worthless. Personally, I think confiscation is unlikely. It would outrage too many influential people. But proposals have already been made to ban all further transfers. You'd keep what you had 'til you died, basically, then the government would seize the guns from your estate and cut them up."

"No one would stand for that!" another man in the group exclaimed. Henry shrugged.

"Lots of people already have, on a local level. In several cities they've already banned certain rifles based on appearance, not function, and there haven't been any riots. In 1986 the feds banned further manufacture of an entire category of gun. That's pretty drastic, but you don't see anyone doing much except whining."

"You're the most straightforward dealer I've met," the wealthy man said abruptly. "And it sounds as if you know your machine guns. Which ones do you like best?"

"Well, I'm a dealer, and I own or have owned over fifty different types of squirt guns," Henry explained, lapsing into Class 3 dealer jargon. "If you're asking which half dozen or so I'd sell last, you need to understand that I shoot a lot, so I like guns that are very controllable on full auto, last forever, and use inexpensive magazines. On any gun I really like, I plan on spending between fifty and one hundred percent of the gun's cost on magazines. It's nice when that means getting a few hundred magazines, instead of only a couple dozen. I pay kids to load them for me, and I always have at least ten thousand rounds in magazines, ready to shoot." That got their attention Henry thought as he saw eyebrows go up. The man with the Rolex listened attentively without any reaction to what Henry had said.

"I also prefer rifle-caliber machine guns. With those...personal preferences in mind, last gun I'd get rid of is the Belgian FN Model D. It's the final refinement of John Browning's BAR, with a self-cleaning gas regulator, quick-change barrel, and a clock-type rate reducer. My shooter is a police-only demonstrator with over a hundred thousand rounds through it. I've worn out four barrels and broken a dozen firing pins, and that's it. There are less than ten on the civilian registry that can be sold to private individuals, like this one here," Henry said, touching a gun to his left. "Allen's got $7000 on this one, and he'll get it. That's with five hundred magazines, by the way. If that's too much dough, I'd get the U.S. BAR, which are much more common, for about half the cost.

"Gun number two would be a 1917A1 watercooled Browning, like this one. They run like clockwork, don't burn the barrels out, and shoot much more accurately than the aircooled version because the barrel's supported at the muzzle. Five thousand on the correct mount with a hundred belts, two spare barrels, spare bolt, and a belt loader.

"After that, I'd have to have an original Colt Thompson and a hundred mags, which would be about five grand for a 1921 model in decent shape, like this one here. Then a British BREN gun, that's this one over on this table, which would be six Gs or so after I got done buying a few spare barrels and a hundred magazines. BREN gun is the British version of the Czech ZB26, that this one over here, and both these guns'll go a half million rounds without breaking ten dollars worth of parts. That's not counting wearing out barrels," Henry added quickly.

"Next I'd have to have a .50, and I like watercooled guns, so I'd get the original Colt MG52A, over there, instead of the aircooled heavy barrel gun most people choose, down here on the end. That M2 mount is the wrong one, but no one's seen an MG52 tripod in this country for thirty, forty years." Henry remembered something and went on. "Allen got the documentation on that old Colt, and it originally went to a coal company, back in 'thirty-one. "

"A coal company?" one of the people standing there said. "What for?"

"Labor relations," the man with the platinum Rolex answered, before Henry could say anything. "That's how it was done back then."

"Exactly," Henry added. "They didn't spell it out in their annual report, though." He went back to answering the man's original question.

"For a 9mm, I'd want one that used cheap STEN mags, so I'd get a Lanchester, like this one here, which would be about $1500. The gun's heavy and the bolt doesn't bottom against the back of the receiver, so the gun's real controllable. I like the Lanchester-and the STEN, for that matter-a lot better than the UZI. STEN magazines are two bucks each, five hundred at a whack.

"If I wanted a .223-caliber gun, the M16 is the way to go. Parts are everywhere, you can swap uppers to change barrels in five seconds, and used mags are three dollars each in quantity." Henry pointed at a halfdozen M16s on the table behind him. "I'd rather shoot a BAR, but' 16s are good for girlfriends to shoot. Two grand for a nice original Colt, fifteen hundred for a remanufactured semiauto.

"Last of all, and this may sound weird, I'd want a rimfire machine gun. Guy in Arkansas named Norrell designed a beautiful conversion of the Ruger 10/22, and made a bunch before the '86 ban. Works like a champ, fires from a closed bolt, and uses the 50-round aftermarket magazines. Barely any recoil at all-it just vibrates. Those full-auto trigger groups go for about a thousand, and can be installed in any 10/22 with no receiver modification. The trigger group is the registered machine gun; your gun is unaltered." The man with the Rolex nodded.

"Those are the guns I'd keep for shooting," Henry said. "There's others I'd want just because they're pretty, like this 1897 Argentine Maxim with the brass jacket, but I'd get the blasters nailed down before I concentrated on the museum pieces."

"Your advice sounds well-reasoned," he said to Henry as he lifted an aluminum attache case onto the table in front of him. "And I think I'll follow it. I believe I brought that much cash with me today. Do you or your friend here have one of those .22 triggers you were talking about? All the other suggestions you made look like they're available."

"I've got one back in Missouri I can transfer to you," Henry answered, then licked his lips. "I don't mean to sound like a bait-and-switch sleazeball, but the prices I threw out at you, which are taped on all the guns here, do not include the $200-per-gun federal transfer tax." The man waved his hand in dismissal.

"I'd never expect your posted prices-or anyone else's, for that matter-to include tax. I assume you-or your friend-will handle all the paperwork?" he asked as he opened the case to reveal stacks of hundreddollar bills. "What kind of identification do you want? Driver's license?"

"The procedure's more involved than that," Henry said evenly. "If you were hoping to take any of these home with you, I'm afraid that's against the law."

"Five-day waiting period, huh?" the man said. "Asinine law, but I can live with it. How much of a deposit do you want, then?"

"Ah, mister..."

"Recht. Sam Recht," the man said, sticking out his hand for Henry to shake. "It's Doctor Recht, actually, but I'd just as soon you call me Sam."

"Henry Bowman, Dr. Recht," Henry said as he shook the man's hand. "Lot of successful doctors I've met like guns. What I mean to say," Henry explained, "is the procedure is a lot more involved when you buy these things, and it won't be any five days, either. We've got to submit the forms in duplicate, with a passport-size photo of you on each form, so that's fourteen photos for the seven guns. Then you'll have to go to your local police station and get fourteen copies of your fingerprints taken-we'll give you the fingerprint cards you need to use. Then you-"

"Fingerprints? And fourteen sets of them?" Recht exclaimed. "That's absurd!"

"It's federal law, Doctor," Henry said gently. "After you get your prints done," he continued, "you have to get your local police chief to sign all fourteen of the forms, saying that he has no knowledge of you intending to use the guns for criminal purposes. That's where the trouble-"

"Wait a minute wait a minute," Dr. Recht broke in. "I have to get permission from a guy who didn't even finish high school?" he asked, shaking his head. "I'm a neurosurgeon. I cut on people's brains, for God's sake, and I can check out any drugs I want from the lab. The police chief in my town has a tenth-grade education, and last year his wife came into the ER with a subdural hematoma. Said she fell down the stairs, but since they live in a trailer, I'd say he slugged her."

"Regardless of whether or not he's a wife-beater," Henry said, "you have to get all the forms signed, and that's where people run into trouble. Some chiefs refuse to sign any forms for anyone. Chief in Olivette, Missouri, near where I live, refused to sign for one of his own officers. Fortunately, there are other people who can sign that the feds will accept, like the sheriff where you live or the local Prosecuting Attorney. But it sounds as if you might have a little leverage over your chief, what with having worked on his wife, and knowing her condition. If everybody you go to still says no, I suggest you talk to the people who manage the DA or the sheriff's reelection campaigns, and make a five hundred dollar contribution. That'll often get you your forms signed. But if you're thinking of buying more guns later, I recommend you have the guy sign a bunch of extras, or you'll end up coughing up another five hundred on the next go-round." Sam Recht stared at Henry.

"Is that it?" Recht demanded. "Or do you have some other little surprise for me, such as only being allowed to buy one gun a year?"

"No, you can buy all the guns you want, as long as you go through all that crap for each one, and you already know about the $200 tax per gun the feds get. But there is one other thing you won't like, that I started to mention before: The wait."

"How long?"

"There's no set time period. The forms, fingerprint cards, and money get sent off to the feds, and they send the prints to the FBI, who does a background check. That's why the cards have to be perfect-any smudges or incomplete impressions, they'll kick 'em back, demand new sets, and that delays the process.

"Assuming the prints are okay, and assuming the FBI doesn't turn up any skeletons in your closet, ATF will keep one copy, and send the other one back to the seller with the $200 tax-paid stamp stuck to it usually within five months, though sometimes it takes close to a year."

"Five months to a year?" Dr. Recht almost yelled.

"That's what it takes for a first-time buyer. On subsequent transfers I always enclose a copy of a prior approved Form 4, and then it usually takes six to eight weeks. But not always," Henry added. "Dealer-todealer transfers also use duplicate submissions, without the police signature, prints, or photos. I've had some of those take six months, although six weeks is probably more normal." Henry looked at the flabbergasted doctor.

"I know it's surprising, first time you hear about it, and if you want to blow off the whole idea, you'll have a lot of company."

"I'll have to think about it," Dr. Recht said slowly. He still looked stunned by the whole conversation.

"Where do you live?" Henry asked. "When Allen gets back, I'll see if he's done any transfers in your area. Maybe one of the people the feds will accept to sign your forms is someone he's used before, and you won't have any trouble."

"I doubt it," Dr. Recht told him. "I live in a small town near Urbana." Oh, fuck Henry thought. "Urbana, Illinois?" he asked. Recht caught his worried look.

"Yes. Why?"

"You're screwed," Henry said simply. "Illinois state law bans private ownership of full autos with the singular exception of police officers. Sorry."

"I see," Dr. Recht said. His expression was hard to read. Then he leaned over so that his words would not be heard by anyone else standing nearby. "Tell me, Mr. Bowman," he said softly, "do you ever wish you could watch the people in our government be boiled in oil?"

"Not more than four or five times a day," Henry answered. He was not smiling when he said the words. "Excuse me, sir," a boy who looked to be about eighteen said, and Henry pulled away from Dr. Recht. "Yes, how can I help you?"

"Can I look inside this AK, see how it's different from mine?" Here we go Henry thought to himself. Kids always want to see how machine guns work, just like I did more than twenty years ago.

"No."

"No?" the young man asked, startled. Henry shook his head.

"Remachining semiautos to select-fire is a felony. Discussing how to do it can be interpreted by a court as conspiring to violate the law."

"But-"

.' "I suspect," Henry said loudly, cutting the young man off, "that you are genuinely interested is seeing how a machine gun functions. I should know, because I was the exact same way when I was fifteen. Problem is, we can both get in big-time trouble, because when it comes to guns, the Constitution is out the window, including the First Amendment. So I don't discuss differences between semi- and full-auto guns with anyone except federally licensed machine gun manufacturers. Ever. Period. I'm sorry."

"But just looking at-"

"I'd listen to this man if I were you, son," Dr. Recht broke in. "I think he knows what he's talking about." The young man turned and walked away. The crowd that had been watching the exchange lost interest and moved on.

"Thanks for backing me up," Henry told the doctor. "I hate to be a jerk, but talking about conversions is a real bad habit. That's one of the easiest ways to spot an ATF informant. They get nailed for doing something careless like making replacement suppressor baffles," he explained, "and all of a sudden they're looking at never owning another gun, or being able to go shooting, or anything. So the feds dangle this deal, agree to let the guy walk if he helps them land some bigger fish, and big Class 3 dealers are the biggest fish of all. Allen tells me he's seen several people who used to set up at shows now walking around machine gun dealers' tables, asking leading questions and moving like a tape recorder was glued to the small of their backs."

"You think that kid was an informant?" the doctor asked, startled.

"Not a chance. That was a kid who wanted to know about machine guns. There'll be twenty people who'll ask me or Allen that same question before the day's over. I don't care who they are, I'm not going to give anyone eavesdropping even the slightest idea that I'm helping someone learn how to break the law." Henry shook his head. "I'm sorry about the damn state ban, Sam, but that cesspool called Chicago sets the rules for the rest of the state. If you get some property in any of the forty machine gun states, give Allen a call.

"Even where it's legal, some people find the ridiculous transfer process so offensive, they won't have anything to do with machine guns, and I can't blame them. I decided it was worth it a long time ago, but as I said, I really like to shoot."

"In Illinois, I could own this stuff myself if I was a cop?"

"Yeah. Crazy, isn't it? There's probably not a bent neurosurgeon in the whole state, but you could throw a rock in Chicago and hit a crooked cop. Friend of mine ran a department near there, and he had to quit. Said it was the most depressing job he'd ever had.

"I know it probably sticks in your craw, but talk to the sheriff about having him make you a deputy. Even if you decide not to buy any machine guns, it'll help you out.

Illinois is like Missouri in that it's a felony to carry a gun for protection as a private citizen. A lot of people who wear Rolexes and carry fifty thousand bucks in briefcases think that only applies to black guys," Henry said, glancing down in the vicinity of Doctor Recht's waist. "I'll tell you, in this political climate, a revolver in your pocket can cost someone like that everything he owns."

"That what you do? Carry a deputy badge?" Sam Recht asked, reflexively putting his hand over the bulge made by the .38 Chief's Special in his right pocket. Henry shook his head.

"I've gone a step further than that. I'm on the force at three small departments in rural Missouri as the weapons instructor and armorer. Got on the first one when I was eighteen, after I got mugged." "I'm learning more than I expected to at this gun show," Dr. Recht said. "Do you have a card?" Henry handed him one. "A geologist?" Recht said, surprised.

"Like we were talking about before, damn few people in this country can make a living just by selling guns. And I'm not one of them," Henry added with a laugh. "Here, take one of Allen's cards, too. He'll do a good job for you if you get police creds and decide you want to buy some Class 3 stuff."

"I've enjoyed talking to you, Henry," the doctor said, and continued resumed walking down the aisle towards the tables he hadn't seen yet.

"See anything you couldn't live without?" Allen Kane asked as Henry returned from wandering around the show. It was early afternoon.

"Saw a nice custom .460 on a Remington 30-S action, but the guy wanted about double what the thing was worth. Did you see the dealer that had the ZB37 barrels for sale?"

"No...barrels for a ZB? Which caliber, and how much does he want for them?"

"They're 8mm, they look new, and he has 'Make Offer' on the tag. My guess is either he wants some crazy high price and he's ashamed to show everybody, or he doesn't know what the things are, and hasn't a clue what to ask for them. I didn't talk to him 'cause I knew you'd have a better feel for what to pay. Go on, I'll stay here. They're at a table about two rows past that big Clock banner over there," Henry said, pointing to a spot halfway across the exhibition hall, "and a little bit to the right. Next to a table where a guy has about a hundred wooden rubber band guns for sale that he's letting people shoot at tin cans on strings in front of an old bedsheet."

"Want me to grab you a Coke on my way back?"

"Yeah. Maybe see if Andy needs one, too," Henry suggested, nodding toward the man set up next to them who was selling nothing but parts. "He's been here a while with no break." Allen stepped from behind an early Colt Maxim gun and headed off in the direction Henry had indicated. Henry stepped behind Allen's row of tables and looked around for anyone who might want a question answered.

"Excuse me, do you sell AK parts?" Henry turned around. The man who had spoken to him was in his late twenties, slender and clean-shaven, wearing a blue nylon wind-breaker.