"Joe Columbo was a big wheel in the organization in New York City in the early '60s. Some other big wheel or wheels decided to take over Joe's part of the business. He or they hired a contract killer-some black guy-to shoot Joe in the middle of a New York City parade. I don't know what they paid the guy, promised him, or threatened him with, but he did it. Shot Joe Columbo in the middle of the parade, just like he was supposed to. Didn't kill him, but left him paralyzed and confined to a wheelchair. A few thousand witnesses were there to see it, and a couple or three television cameras filmed it as well." Henry took another sip of his malt and smiled. "What happened next is the interesting part.

"As soon as the black guy shoots and paralyzes Columbo, five big Sicilian gentlemen jump on top of him. The black guy is buried underneath them. Don't forget-cameras are filming all this. Okay, so there's this big dogpile of six people, and all of a sudden, Whump! Whump! Two muffled shots. The five guys stand up, and there's one dead black guy lying on the ground with two .38 slugs in him, and a .38 revolver lying on the ground next to him. Smith & Wesson, I think it was.

"Anyway, the serial numbers on the gun have been destroyed with a punch, and every place on the gun that the shooter would have touched is wrapped with friction tape, including the trigger.

"Cops haul in the five big Sicilians, find out all of 'em test positive on the nitrate test. Also find out none of 'em have Social Security numbers. Guess which one they decided to charge with the murder of the black guy?"

"Uh...I have no idea," Cindy said.

"Neither did the cops. So they let them all go."

"What?"

"They let them all go. Had to. Not one of the Sicilians said anything. Not one single word. Soon as one of them claimed something-anything-the cops could go to work on that one thing, find out if it was true or not, get the guy on the stand, nail him for perjury if nothing else, whatever. Take hold of the one loose thread and unravel the whole cloth. But there was no loose thread."

"What about that test?"

"It tests for nitrates, which are found in both gunpowder and fertilizer. Cops knew if they looked hard enough, they'd find someone who'd seen all five of the men carrying bags of fertilizer that day. Even without the fertilizer, proving all five of them shot a gun since their last bath doesn't make them guilty of murder. State had no case. They had to let all five of them go." Henry stared at Cindy Caswell.

"You understand the significance of this event?" he asked pointedly.

"I think so."

"How did Fat Tony Farratto die?" Henry demanded.

"He had a heart a-"

"Wrong!" Henry cut in. "How did Fat Tony Farratto die?"

"I don't know a Fa-"

"Wrong!" Henry said again. "How did Fat Tony Farratto die?" There was utter silence. "How did Fat Tony Farratto die?" he repeated. Still silence. "Were you forced to have sex with Fat Tony Farratto?"

"I hear the meat loaf here is good also," Cindy said pleasantly.

"Was Fat Tony Farratto a sick bastard who liked to maim and torture the women he had sex with?" "I can't decide if I should have dessert or not tonight."

"Were you relieved when he had his heart attack? Were you glad he was no longer able to bother you?"

"I was..." She started to say something, then changed her mind, "...going to have dessert, but I think I'll pass tonight." Henry smiled.

"Good idea. I think I'll order something else, though." He opened the menu. "Oh, and one more thing. The medical examiner said that one of the reasons Farratto's heart may have stopped beating was that after he had sex, but before he had a climax, someone shoved a piece of wood-maple, to be exact-into his left eye and scrambled his brains." Henry watched as Cindy Caswell's eyes widened and her skin went slightly pale. "You know anything about that?"

"I..." She started to speak once again, then caught herself, "...think you should try their french fries. They're really good here."

"French fries it is," Henry said, and signaled for the waitress.

October 10,1992 As his GMC sport-utility silently rocketed up the interstate's entrance ramp, Henry Bowman thought once again about how his old friend David Webb would have loved the boxy hot rod. It was exactly the kind of vehicle Henry had always felt the auto manufacturers should make for the kind of wealthy people who lived in St. Louis county. Stroker would be out racing people for money every time it rained he thought with a smile. Henry pulled onto Interstate 64 East and kept his speed at sixty-five or a hair over.

The back of Henry Bowman's GMC Typhoon was riding only slightly lower than usual under the load Henry had placed in the back. He had only 4,000 rounds of ammunition in the vehicle, along with all five of the machine guns he was taking. The other 12,000 rounds, all in belts, was being hauled by Steve Brush, another St. Louis shooting enthusiast. Steve had never fired a full-automatic, and he had jumped at the chance when Henry had suggested he go to the big Kentucky machine gun shoot. Steve had left St. Louis in his 1-ton pickup a half-hour before Henry. Steve had detailed directions to the range, but Henry expected to catch him on the highway before he hit the Kentucky border. With a full tank and an empty bladder, Henry thought / ought to be there in three hours.

Henry glanced in his rearview mirror and saw a bright yellow car approaching at about a thirty-mile-perhour speed advantage. Looks like a slope-nose Porsche Henry thought as he watched the car move over into the left lane in anticipation of passing Henry's slower vehicle.

Under normal circumstances, Henry Bowman would have ignored the other car. At the moment, though, Henry was heading for a big national shoot where he would get to see a lot of friends from around the country, and he had been thinking about David Webb only a few moments before. Henry Bowman was in an exceptionally good mood. If Stroker -were here he 'd insist on making that guy hate life Henry thought with a smile as he reached down under the driver's seat and turned a lever-operated valve on the floor. As the yellow sports car swept past him, Henry pushed the CMC's throttle to the floor.

The four-speed automatic dropped down two gears as the turbo rapidly spooled up. The tach jumped to a bit over 5000 RPM and the needle on the boost gauge moved into positive territory as Henry felt himself pressed back in the leather seat. At 6300 RPM the transmission shifted into third and the boost needle blipped up another 3 PSI as the turbine wheel suddenly found itself pressurizing a slower-turning engine. At 115 MPH the Typhoon shifted into high gear and the boost needle held steady at 8 PSI. Henry saw that he was steadily gaining on the yellow German car.

The cheap stuff ought to be burnt out of the lines by now Henry thought as he reached down to turn a knob unobtrusively located at the bottom of the dashboard. When Henry had flipped the lever on the floor, he had switched to his auxiliary fuel tank. Aftermarket tanks were designed for people who wanted to extend their range of their trucks and sport-utility vehicles, but Henry had installed his for a different purpose: The twelve-gallon bladder was always kept topped off with 108-octane race gas that Henry bought in 55-gallon drums from a local Unocal distributor.

The knob on the dash controlled an adjustable wastegate. It was part of the GMC's new, larger exhaust system that had been installed at the same time that Henry had had the Typhoon's heads ported, the block decked and O-ringed, the crank balanced, the turbo scroll housing reworked, the pistons and rods replaced, a bigger intercooler and radiator installed, and the electronics reprogrammed for a different fuel curve.

As Henry twisted the knob clockwise, the boost needle started climbing and the GMC reacted as if a giant had poked the rear bumper with his finger. When Henry saw 20 PSI on the gauge, he let go of the knob and put his right hand back on the steering wheel.

Mike Garland was listening to the Porsche's compact disk player, and like all people who are exempt from speed limits, he almost never used his rearview mirror. One hundred was a comfortable speed for longdistance cruising, and his only thoughts about driving concerned the sparse traffic that lay ahead of him. Out of long habit, he stayed in the right lane when possible and only switched to the left when overtaking a slower vehicle. Like fast drivers everywhere, he hated left lane bandits that clogged the interstates, but the fact was that Mike Garland had never been passed when traveling in the ninety-plus range where the Porsche seemed happiest. He was totally unprepared for the black GMC wearing truck plates that blew by him with a solid 40 MPH edge. He stared at his own speedometer, then watched in amazement as the rapidly disappearing truck signaled with its right blinker and returned to the right lane. Henry Bowman focused his eyes far ahead of him on the highway and was relieved to see that the nearest vehicle was well over a mile away. He did not like to pass people at wildly extralegal speeds unless those people were also flagrantly disregarding the posted limit. A lot of people on the roads were fundamentally envious and resentful of highspeed travelers, and the proliferation of cellular phones had given these drivers the ability to act on their f rustrations. Got at least another minute Henry decided. More than enough time.

Mike Garland downshifted and gave the German sports car full throttle as the GMC became a shrinking spot in the distance. The European-spec 3.3 liter engine was capable of pushing the sleek vehicle to a top speed 20 MPH higher than that of the hot-rodded GMC, but Garland faced three huge obstacles to catching up with the vanishing truck: First, it would take time to accelerate up to a speed greater than the truck's, and until the Porsche got there, the GMC would relentlessly increase the already substantial gap. Second, the Porsche had not had a good front end alignment since it left Germany, and although the toe-in was not off enough to notice at normal highway speeds, by 130 the car became disturbingly twitchy. Last of all, although Mike Garland had spent a lot of time driving at speeds over 100 MPH, he had virtually no experience in the 140-and-up range. At about 145, discretion became the better part of valor and he backed off.

Mike Garland held the yellow car at an indicated 110, and watched in amazement as the distant GMC continued to grow smaller and then vanished from his sight entirely. He reached out and tapped the speedometer, then immediately felt foolish for doing so.

Henry Bowman kept an eye on the water temperature gauge and noted with satisfaction that it did not rise above 180 degrees, despite the lengthy full-throttle blast. The GMC was reassuringly stable at two and a half times the speed limit and the exhaust note was not excessive, but the wind noise was something else. Back to the real world Henry thought as a clump of cars came into view and rapidly grew larger as he closed on them at an 80 MPH speed differential. Henry Bowman slowly eased off the throttle and t he boxy vehicle slowed down instantly under the tremendous aerodynamic drag. Would've helped if the guys in styling had rounded the comers a little on the S-10 before the GM skunk works dreamed this thing up Henry thought. Then he reminded himself that the GM's project planners' hair would have stood on end if they had been told what the boys at Kenne-Bell were going to do with their creation. Henry slid in behind a flatbed truck traveling about 60 MPH in the right lane. The left lane was filled with four cars traveling the same speed. They were closely trailing a brown Lincoln whose driver was oblivious to the line of cars behind him.

Henry was looking for a decent station on the CMC's radio when he heard a horn sound and looked to his left. It was the man in the yellow slope-nose 911. He was waving and motioning to Henry with eating-anddrinking gestures. It appeared that the man wanted him to pull off at the next exit where they could grab some hamburgers and talk about cars. Henry nodded agreement and held up two fingers, to indicate the second exit coming up. He had never seen a slope-nose 911 up close.

"What on earth's in that thing?" Mike Garland asked as he climbed out of his car. The two men were in the parking lot of a Hardee's restaurant just off the interstate.

"This is the Typhoon," Henry explained. "Engine and trans out of a Grand National, hooked up to full-time four-wheel-drive." Garland stared at the vehicle, and Henry went on, speaking with the courtesy that comes naturally to a victor.

"It's the most sensible car I've ever seen. Lot of guys I know with cars like yours also have rural property, with a half-mile of rutted, rocky, dirt road leading from the state-maintained pavement. So they buy a Wagoneer, Blazer, or Bronco, and they end up driving the 'beater' on two-hour interstate trips because the last half mile would rip the undercarriage out of their good car. I always thought the solution would be if BMW would put an on-board air compressor and air shocks on their high-speed sedans. Let the driver raise the ride height four or five inches for negotiating farm roads. Might cost $300, and it would be easy to incorporate an electronic governor so that the car couldn't be driven over 35 MPH when it was jacked up." Henry laughed.

"No one in marketing at any of the car companies ever approved that idea, but CM came up with an even better solution. Took their S-10, and put in full-time four-wheel-drive, independent front suspension, lowered ride height, wide wheels with Z-rated tires, and that intercooled turbo V-6 out of the Grand National. Hit a hundred in thirteen seconds in the rain, by my watch, with no wheelspin."

Henry grinned and laughed when he saw the man shaking his head. "I surprised you," he assured him. "You'd've caught me easily with a little more room. This thing's a barn door compared to your 911." Like any good street racer, Henry wasn't about to let on about what had been done to his engine. "Henry Bowman," he said as he stuck out his hand.

"Mike Garland." Henry eyed the license plate affixed to the rear of the German car.

"You work for the government?"

"Yeah-U.S. Customs. Confiscated vehicle-guy was trying to smuggle drugs in it."

"Mmm-hmm," Henry nodded. This would be a good guy to know for ironing out problems with ammo import deals he thought. A recent import shipment of Yugoslavian surplus ammunition had been held up for three months because the declaration form had not listed the importation of 'Yugoslavian straw' in addition to the ammunition. The shippers had used straw as packing between a few of the crates, and the storage fees had tripled amount the ammunition had ultimately cost Henry.

"Can I see the engine compartment? Not that I'd know anything about one of these," Henry added. '*""Sure," Garland replied, and lifted the rear deck lid.

Guy would have to be brain damaged to use a car like this as a smuggling vehicle Henry thought to himself when he saw the mechanicals. Customs would be all over it anyway. It's not even federalized. "How much dope did he have in it, and how much time did he get?" Henry asked.

"Uh, there was a lot less coke than we expected, and, uh, he had a sharp lawyer and we couldn't prove he had put the stuff in there himself."

Henry nodded. So what really happened is some schlepp tried to bring in a Porsche that didn't pass your rules about air pumps and crash standards, and you snowflaked him so you could steal his car and keep it for yourself without actually bringing charges.

"You ready to go eat?" Garland asked.

"Yeah, just let me get my road atlas." Henry opened the back of the GMC and then swore. "Damn, it's buried under these crates. Hang on just a second." Mike Garland looked on in astonishment as Henry hoisted three obviously heavy wooden crates out of the back and poked around in the vehicle before emerging with a battered Atlas. Then Henry lifted the crates back into his truck and locked the back.

"How much weight you got in there?" the Customs agent demanded.

"Oh, hell, not all that much," Henry said with a shake of his head. "Maybe twelve, thirteen hundred pounds. Going to a big military weapons shoot and demonstration in Kentucky, and I got to have plenty of ammo for all the demos they've got me signed up for." He turned towards the restaurant. "Let's make sure we sit somewhere with a view of the cars," Henry added over his shoulder. He knew Mike Garland was still slackjawed over the GMC's weight penalty that he had just discovered.

The pair had a pleasant lunch together, and ended up exchanging business cards. Garland had promised that if he was given advance warning, Henry would not have any more problems like he'd had with the Yugoslavian shipment. Henry told him to give him a call when Customs wanted a live-fire demonstration of the latest full-auto weaponry.

Henry Bowman pulled off Route 31 and passed a liquor store painted bright pink. Steve Brush was parked in the store's lot, and started his engine when he saw his friend. In about a half-mile they came to the big, familiar sign at the entrance to the range that the range crew always erected for the shoot. Henry took the turnoff and was dutifully followed by his friend in the pickup truck.

The Knob Creek Range was about 40 miles south of Louisville, on property which adjoined Fort Knox. Decades earlier, it had been an artillery testing range, before it had outlived its usefulness to the military and the government had sold the property. The old steel tracks leading up to the firing line offered mute reminder that railway cars had been required to bring in the big guns and pallets of ammunition for testing. The hillside four hundred yards away had an awful lot of metal buried in its face.

Twice a year, in April and October, the owners of Knob Creek put on a machine gun shoot. Spectator admission was a few dollars, and spots on the firing line were eighty dollars for the entire weekend. There was a ten-year waiting list for the latter, and most shooters ended up paying a reduced fee to get on the line as a 'helper'.

What the annual EAA fly-in at Oshkosh, Wisconsin, was to people who loved to fly, or the Cologne Show in Germany was to people who liked exotic cars, the Knob Creek event was to people who loved to shoot. Two million rounds went downrange in a three-day period. The organizers put out stacks of old tires, stripped cars, and junk appliances to shoot at. What made it more interesting was the bundles of ditching dynamite the explosives crew thoughtfully taped to the front of many of the targets. It was like a giant fireworks display, but with active involvement.

Soon the two Missourians passed some big, open fields filled with parked cars, and a man in an orange hunting vest and orange cap stopped them. Henry already had his window down.

"Got a bunch of guns and over fifteen thousand rounds of ammo to unload up at the firing line," he said, jerking his thumb towards Steve to show the man that the two vehicles were together. "We know the drill." The range worker smiled and waved them through. He liked people who brought large quantities of ammunition to send downrange. They were what made the shoot so successful.

Henry and Steve slowly threaded their vehicles through the maze of cars, vans, pickups, motor homes, deuce-and-a-halfs, half-tracks, armored cars, and tanks. Thousands of people were milling around, many with small children on their shoulders. It reminded Steve Brush of the big riverfront fair in St. Louis on the July 4th weekend, except that he had never in his life seen such an array of ordnance as was packed together along the 350-foot firing line.

Henry stopped a short distance down the line and got out of his vehicle.

"We'll just be a minute unloading-then we'll be out of here," he said to a range officer who looked like he was about to tell Henry he couldn't park there. "Unload the buckets right here, Steve. This is where we're was about to tell Henry he couldn't park there. "Unload the buckets right here, Steve. This is where we're gallon plastic buckets. Each bucket held four coiled 250-round belts. It had taken Henry fifteen hours to belt up twelve thousand rounds of .30-06 and 8mm ammunition that Steve Brush was now unloading from the back of his truck. Henry had filled the forty-eight cloth belts using a John Browning-designed handcranked belt filling machine that had been made in 1918. Some people brought their ammo loose to the shoot, and loaded it into magazines and belts during the many cease-fires during the day. Henry preferred to load everything in advance, and have free time to talk to friends and see who had what for sale.

"Is this your spot?" Steve Brush asked, still a bit overwhelmed by the entire spectacle.

"No, I'm still on the waiting list, after six years. This spot belongs to John Parker, but we're going to shoot on it. He's from St. Louis, so you may have seen him around. Although he dresses like a bum when he's here."

"What's he do?"

"Senior partner in a brokerage firm. Parker, Gates, & Company. He's pretty well-connected. Knows all the bigshots in St. Louis, particularly the ones in finance and investments. I've sold him a bunch of machine guns. Like that water-cooled Browning there."

Sitting to the left of the chalk line that designated the right boundary of Parker's six-foot spot was a 1917A1 Browning on an Al tripod with custom, double-length legs. There was a pile of fired brass under it that Henry estimated numbered about six thousand. Looks like he's shooting mid-'50s Egyptian 8mm Mauser ammo Henry thought as he looked at the shape and color of the fired cases under the gun. 8mm Egyptian was corrosive, and could be had for about ten cents a round, if you bought in half-million round lots. This was less than half the cost of surplus .30-06 ammo. Henry looked at the feed tray of Parker's gun. The homemade spacer there confirmed his suspicions.