"Some. Got mags, spare barrels, op rods and springs if you shot your gun with corrosive ammo and didn't clean it. I think Allen's got an RPK rate reducer here somewhere, cut down the cyclic about 200 RPM-" "Is that a full auto part?" the young man broke in.

"Yeah. No use on a semi. We don't sell semis, as a matter of fact," Henry explained. "Only full autos and other high-dollar rare stuff, like that Catling replica over there."

"That thing you mentioned is a full auto part?"

"It's only used on the full auto," Henry said, mentally adding you half-wit. "It's from the heavy RPK version of the AK. They use the same receiver. It slows down the cyclic rate on full auto. It obviously wouldn't do you any good on a semi. You could install it, and it would then increase the time it took for your bolt to cycle from seven-hundredths of a second to nine hundredths, but so what. You'd still have to pull the trigger again. Understand? What kind of AK do you have?" he asked, changing the subject. "Is something on it broken?" Or more likely did you take it apart and lose something after you couldn't figure out how to put it back together? Henry had had almost a whole day of politely answering questions from people for whom the four-dollar admission charge was a stretch.

"Uh, it's a regular AK. A semi. So, uh, you sell full auto parts, huh?" the young man said quickly.

Alarm bells went off in Henry's mind. Goddamned informant, trying to set me up he thought. Henry took a deep breath and spoke calmly and deliberately. "We don't have any parts here that can be used to alter a semiauto and make it fire full automatic. The government has decreed that as of May 19, 1986, such conversions are illegal for anyone except government agencies."

"It's real easy, though, isn't it?"

"I wouldn't know. I'm not a gun designer."

"Some of your guns are converted from semiautos, aren't they?"

"I only know what the transfer form from ATF says on it: 'Machine Gun'," Henry replied levelly. "It says machine gun, then that's what it is."

"But lots of people sell the parts to convert, don't they?"

"I've never seen any for sale, and wouldn't know what they looked like if I did." He stared at the young man. "Haven't even seen any shoelaces, super glue, or paper clips for sale here."

Got him Henry thought as he watched the young man's expression. In a recent case where ATF had charged a man with selling 'illegal conversion parts', an expert witness for the defense had used his shoelace to make a 40-year-old military rifle fire full auto. Then he had taken super glue and a paper clip and done the same thing with several .22 pistols and rifles. ATF had tried to suppress the videotape of these feats, but it had ended up in wide distribution. Henry Bowman made as if to scratch a spot over his right kidney, and started to pull out his shirttail so that he could reach the itch.

"Uh, well, uh, who here do you know that has some AK stuff of any kind for sale. Like, uh, another dealer like y-"

"Not one more word," Henry commanded as he brought the 5"-barreled Smith & Wesson .44 to bear on the young man's chest. "Put your hands on top of your head and nod if you can see the white things inside the cylinder." The man obeyed. "Good. Those bullets are turned out of nylon bar stock. They make a huge wound cavity at this range but they won't exit. No one behind you is in any danger at all." Henry saw in his peripheral vision that other show patrons were backing away, pointing at the spectacle in front of them. He also saw that the crotch of the young man's pants was soaked. His bladder had let go.

"Jesus, Henry, what'd this guy do?" Allen Kane said as he ran up to where his friend stood. Allen had spotted Henry holding the man at gunpoint from two rows away.

"He's soliciting to violate federal firearms laws," Henry told Allen without taking his eyes off the man. "Go over to Andy's table, get me a Garand clip with no ammo in it."

"You got it," Allen said without asking questions.

"Turn around slowly, then put your palms together with your arms stretched out behind your back," Henry commanded his captive as he climbed over the table, trying not to step on guns as he did so. He held the man's wrists with his left hand and holstered the big revolver. "Hands together like you were praying. That's it." He took the Garand clip Allen held out for him and slid it over the tips of the four middle fingers of the young man's hands. Then he balled his fist and drove the sheetmetal holder down to the base of the man's fingers. The young man grunted in pain as the steel scraped off a fair amount of skin.

"Field handcuffs," Henry said to Allen. "I haven't searched him yet. Take any guns or knives he's got on him, then grab your camera and get a few pictures of this asshole. I'm going to get on the PA and see if any feds are here." Henry left at a brisk walk while Allen patted the man down, using a STEN mag on the urine-soaked areas.

"Your attention please," Henry's voice boomed out over the Convention Center's loudspeakers, "Would any agent of the Bureau of Alcohol, Tobacco, and Firearms present in the h all please go to Table G-nineteen, repeat, G-nineteen. We have a criminal in custody who has been caught attempting to violate the National Firearms Act. Any ATF agents in the hall please go to table G-nineteen. Thank you."

"Special Agent Wilson Blair," the ATF man said as he stepped in front of Allen Kane and flashed his credentials. "I'll take over here," he added as his eyes bored into those of the prisoner. A crowd of perhaps forty people was gathered around the three men. "I'll take whatever weapons you took off him also." A crowd was standing around, snickering.

"Didn't find anything," Allen Kane said, deadpan. "No ID, even, and none of these people here have ever seen this man before. I guess he's just another scumbag criminal, trying to make machine guns without paying the tax." His brows knitted together.

"I didn't search too carefully down at that wet spot," he admitted, "so you better check there." The crowd erupted into laughter. Blair gave Allen Kane a look of pure hatred, then turned it towards the dozens of faces which surrounded him. No one made a move to say anything. Blair stood there for a few moments, his jaw muscles working.

"Better watch where his hands are bleeding, too, when you take that clip off him," Allen said helpfully. "He might have AIDS." The crowd laughed even louder at this comment.

"Give me his gun and his creds right now, you son of a bitch," the ATF supervisor said in a whisper of barely-controlled fury. Allen Kane stared at him for a moment, then pulled the Model 19 Smith and Wesson from his pocket, opened the cylinder, dumped the six rounds into his left hand, and handed Blair the empty gun. He pulled the agent's badge and wallet from his other pocket and relinquished them, also.

"Happy now?" Kane asked, amid jeers from the crowd.

"You just fucked with the wrong guy, asshole," Blair told him under his breath, then turned and ushered the younger agent away. Tears ran down the young man's cheeks as he shuffled off ahead of his supervisor, his hands still secured together behind his back by the Garand clip. Catcalls followed the two men as they headed toward the exit.

"I can't fucking believe you let those sons-of-bitches take your gun and your badge!" Blair yelled as they walked along the concrete ramp outside the convention hall. Administrators in Federal agencies viewed relinquishing a badge as the greatest sin an agent could commit. J. Edgar Hoover had once tried to have two slain FBI agents ejected from the Bureau posthumously because their credentials had been taken. Such action would have cancelled all death benefits for the two surviving families, and Hoover had reluctantly been forced to officially assume that the badges were taken after the agents had been killed, and not before. "I...I couldn't do anything about it," the young man cried as he turned his head and wiped mucous on his shoulder. "Everyone there saw him take my gun and my badge, and no one said a thing." His tears were ones of shame, but the physical pain from where Wilson Blair had tried to take the Garand clip off his fingers didn't help. His screams had convinced the older man to wait until they could use a hacksaw.

"Right," Blair said tightly. "I'm sure you did every fucking thing you could." He turned his head right and left as they reached the loading area. "Where did I park that goddamn car?"

"You fellas have that white Chevy four-door?" a grizzled black man in a maintenance uniform asked. He was staring, obviously not knowing quite what to make of their appearance. "This here's the loading dock, for folks who has tables inside. Manager checked his list, saw you wasn't no exhibitor, called a tow truck. Here," he said, proffering a business card. "That's where you can get your car back. Forty dollars. No checks."

Blair snatched the card and shoved the other agent towards the concrete steps without a word. "So no official reprimand in his file. That's very kind of you, sir," Wilson Blair said. "I know he'll be grateful."

"He's new to that detail," Dwight Greenwell told his subordinate over the phone. Greenwell was the Deputy Director of the ATF in Washington. "Can't throw him to the wolves when he's just starting out. I'll flag all of Kane's transfers, see if we turn up anything irregular. Was he the only one involved?"

"No, sir, it was another dealer who pulled the gun on him, although he had left by the time I got there and I did not ever see him. Name of Bowman, sir."

"Bowman. Got it. We'll flag his transfers, too, and you keep a file on both of them on your end." There was a pause before Greenwell spoke again. "We'll get them," he assured Blair. "No one embarrasses us and gets away with it."

"Yessir," Blair said. The smile in his voice was evident a thousand miles away in Washington. "And once again, I'm sorry to have bothered you at home, sir," he repeated. "But I wanted to know what to do."

"You did the right thing," the Deputy Director assured him. "Goodnight."

"Goodnight, sir," Blair said, and hung up.

"Good evening, Mister D'Onofrio," Cindy said with a dazzling smile as she extended her hand. "I'm Cynthia."

"Hey, what's with this 'mister' stuff, huh, doll? It's 'Marty,' okay?" He smiled but did not get up. "Marty it is." Cindy Caswell turned the wattage up a notch on her smile as she slid in next to the man, but made no move to rub up against him or put her hand on his thigh the way most of the girls would have.

"Jimmy, bring us a bottle of Dom. And another when we get low, all right?"

"Right away, Mister Marino," the waiter said and hurried to the back of the restaurant.

Sal Marino had not grown tired of Cindy Caswell, at least, not in the way he had expected to. The newness and novelty had diminished of course, but that had happened more slowly with her than it had with any of the others before or since. Rather, Sal Marino had become aware that it was much easier to negotiate with his associates and competitors when Cindy was part of the process. They expected a girl as part of the deal; that was a given, especially in Vegas. With Cindy, though, their minds weren't always so focused on the agreement's bottom line. As a result, Cindy Caswell had taken on a new role in Sal Marino's organization. She was still Marino's slave, to be sure, but it beat the alternative, which was to star in one of the organization's snuff films. At least It has so far Cindy thought grimly as she beamed at her boyfriend for the evening.

Sal Marino saw that Marty D'Onofrio was paying a lot of attention to his new friend, and he smiled expansively. Cindy noticed Sal's expression as he casually fingered the redhead he had brought along for dinner.

No mystery what Sal's thinking right now she thought humorlessly. Pussy's pussy, but an extra point-and-ahalf is something you can put in the bank.

June 12,1990 "Randy Weaver?" called the man in the U.S. Forest Service truck.

"You're talking to him." The two men in the federal vehicle looked at one another, then got out of the truck and walked to the house.

"You weren't home," the man who had been driving said. Weaver shrugged at the accusation. He had driven over to a friend's house not far from his own cabin in the Idaho wilderness. He hadn't been expecting anyone, least of all Forest Service employees, to come calling.

"We're with the Bureau of Alcohol, Tobacco, and Firearms," the second man volunteered. Weaver's eyes narrowed at this bit of information.

"Yeah?"

"Last summer, you sold a shotgun that was under the minimum length. The man you sold it to was one of ours. We have it on tape." Weaver said nothing. He had indeed sold a shotgun the year before, a Harrington and Richardson single-barrel. Randy Weaver knew that the barrel had been over the 18" federal minimum, but that didn't mean anything. The buyer could have easily cut the barrel off a little more after Randy left.

The two federal agents looked at each other nervously. Finally one of them spoke.

"Look, you're in serious trouble, mister. Ten years in prison and a ten thousand dollar fine. How's your family going to like that?" Weaver still said nothing.

"We've come here to offer you a deal," the other man said. Weaver stared at him. "We want you to work for us. Get in the Aryan Nations camp-we know you've been there-and tell us what they got, what their layout's like. We'll give you all the stuff you'll need, and tell you where to put it. Do that for us, and we mi"

"Forget it."

"Listen, Weaver, you can't act li-"

"I said forget it."

"You're the one who's forgetting something, tough guy," the other agent broke in. "You're forgetting who we are and what we can do. You had that shotgun in your house before you sold it, and we'll just say that's where you cut it down. Then you transported it in your truck to sell it. Under the seizure guidelines, both your house and your vehicle were used to facilitate the commission of a felony. That means they're ours, whether we prove you sold our man that gun or not. What you got to say to that, tough guy? Well?"

"Fuck off and die," Weaver said, then walked past the agents, climbed into his truck, and drove away. "I'm going to write them a letter," Vicki Weaver told her husband. "Tell them to watch out for anyone new." Randy Weaver shook his head in disgust.

"I thought we headed off this kind of crap in '85," he said angrily. He turned and walked into the other room.

Randy Weaver was not now and had never been a member of Aryan Nations. He had made that fact clear in his sworn affidavit five years before. That did not mean, however, that Randy was ready to become a spy for the BATF and plant contraband to help the feds facilitate a raid. Vicki agreed, and she insisted on warning the white supremacy group of the attempt to coerce her husband into infiltrating their organization.

The lever that the feds were vainly attempting to use on Randy Weaver to make him do their bidding was the National Firearms Act of 1934. The BATF claimed that Weaver had sold their informant a shotgun upon which Weaver had failed to pay a $5 tax to the Treasury, as per the 1934 Act. The shotgun, a Harrington & Richardson single-barrel worth about $50, had a barrel eighteen and one-half inches long, which was eminently legal. However, the overall length of the weapon in question was twentyfive and five-eighths inches, due to the fact that the buttstock had been shortened. This was 3/8" below the federally approved 26" minimum overall length for Title I firearms, making it a Title II 'Any Other Weapon' and subject to NFA regulation.

It would never be officially determined just who was responsible for shortening the piece of wood this final three-eighths of an inch. Some would claim that Randy Weaver, like most proficient shooters, had been well aware of the 18" barrel rule but was ignorant of the 26" overall length regulation, which was much less well-known, even among the most ardent of shooting enthusiasts. Others (including Randy himself) would maintain that the gun was legal when Weaver sold it to the BATF informant, and that either the informant or someone else in the agency had whittled the wood down the final 3/8" after the gun was no longer in Weaver's possession.

There were several things that were not in dispute, however; things that virtually everyone on both sides of the issue agreed with.

Everyone agreed that belonging to a religious sect which believed its members were God's chosen people was not a crime. Everyone also agreed that moving to a sparsely populated rural area whose few inhabitants were of the same racial and ethnic background was not a crime. Not one person had ever accused Randy Weaver of assault, robbery, theft, verbal abuse, littering, or any crime which harmed any other person physically, monetarily, or emotionally.

Every person involved with the case agreed that at most, Randy Weaver had committed one crime, and one crime only.

All subsequent actions of federal agents involving Randy Weaver and his family were based on the presumption that Weaver was guilty of failing to pay the Treasury a $5 tax on a $50 shotgun, and that tax was due the government because a piece of wood was 3/8" too short.

January 17,1991 "That's a hell of a place to break down," Vicki Weaver said when she saw the truck stalled in the middle of the bridge, blocking both lanes. She and Randy were heading into Naples, Idaho, five miles from their home. The stalled truck's hood was open, and a man and a woman were peering into the engine compartment.

"Let's go give them a hand. If I can't get it running, four of us ought to be able to push it over into one lane, at least," Randy said as he slowed his vehicle and pulled over to the side of the road. He and Vicki got out and walked up to the other motorists.

"What's the problem?" Randy asked as he walked up to the stalled vehicle. "Can we give you a ha-"

"Federal Agents! You're under arrest!" the man yelled, cutting Weaver off in mid-sentence as he whirled around and held a gun to Randy's head. The woman, on cue, grabbed Vicki Weaver at the same time. "You have the right to remain silent. Anything you say can and will..." The agent droned on reciting the Weavers' Miranda rights as he and the woman agent handcuffed Randy and Vicki's wrists behind their backs.