"Sure, if he'd been shot with a .32 or a .38. Not with a forty-five. I wasn't about to paint a cover that didn't jibe with the story inside, and the author had the crook using a 1917 Smith from the First World War. Anyway, even without the bulged abdomen, they weren't going to run a cover of a cop getting blasted like that. I said screw it and painted a new one of a gangster's babe with big tits, looking like she wanted to fuck. That's always a sure thing."

Irwin gave a wan smile, and chose his English words carefully. "I believe your second effort would please many readers, but this painting here," he said, indicating the one on the wall, "has much meaning for me." He took a deep breath. "You see, I was in the Warsaw ghetto in the Spring of 1943."

"You were part of the uprising?" Max Collins' eyebrows went up as he stared at his guest, who nodded in reply. "I think you need a drink," the host said. He handed Irwin his glass and motioned to the leather armchair.

Irwin Mann took a long swallow of the bourbon as he sat down. He had never spoken of his experiences during the war with anyone who had not been imprisoned with him. He now began to tell the American, whom he had known less than an hour, exactly what had happened in Warsaw during the months of April and May of 1943.

Zofia Collins returned from the washroom and found the men in the study. She started to speak, but Max held up his hand. "No arguing, Soph. Irwin is staying here with us. He's leaving when he gets sick of us both. Not before."

Zofia Collins threw her arms around her husband's neck. She had not been as happy since the day of her wedding.

January 10, 1953 "So, do you want to see your son, or are you going to sit out here all night?" Walter Bowman leaped out of the chair in the waiting room and stood facing the doctor.

"Son? I have a son? Is he healthy? Is my wife all right? How is she? Is she conscious?" The doctor chuckled at the string of questions the anxious man fired at him like a burst of machine gun fire.

"Your wife is in fine shape and awake, if tired. Your son is healthy and strong, and weighs eight pounds, two ounces. I think both of them would like to see you. Come on in." The obstetrician turned and went back through the doorway, followed by a very excited Walter Bowman.

Catherine Bowman held the baby on her chest. His little legs were bent and his hands made grasping motions. He had a surprising amount of hair. "Henry, here's your Dad," Catherine said with a tired smile. Walter gently picked up his son and held him up at eye level. Henry opened his eyes and seemed to look at his father.

"He's just wonderful," Walter Bowman said without thinking. "We did good, didn't we, sweetheart?" Catherine hummed her agreement. "Look at how he's looking at us, honey."

"I bet he inherited your vision." The last time he had been to an eye doctor, Walter Bowman's eyes had checked out at 20-13. Little Henry closed his eyes and brought his hands together. He opened his eyes and reached out towards his father.

"That's unusual," said the doctor, narrowing his eyes. "We seldom see motor skills so soon after birth." He shrugged. "Probably just a coincidence." After staring at the baby for a moment, he turned to the parents and nodded. "I'll leave you two alone now." He left the room.

Walter Bowman beamed and looked over at his wife, shaking his head at the doctor's comment. "Coincidence, my foot! Great coordination from the word go." He looked back at the newborn. "Are you going to be ready for a checkout in the Stearman soon? Are you going to show up your old man and make his maneuvers look sloppy? Are you going to complain that you need more power?" He stroked the baby's wispy hair and laid him back down on top of his wife.

"The baby's less than an hour old, and already you've decided he's got exceptional coordination," Catherine laughed. "The thing is, I bet you're right." She cradled little Henry in her arms and smiled. Walter sat down in a chair and looked at his wife and son. He didn't say anything for quite a while. It felt good just to watch over the two of them.

Whether it was a coincidence or not, in the coming decades Henry Bowman would prove that he did indeed have exceptional coordination, and as he grew up it would be obvious that his vision was even better than his father's. Henry would also become an accomplished pilot whose acrobatic flying abilities would be a source of great pride for Walter Bowman.

The younger Bowman would never be quite as skilled in the air as his father, though this would upset neither of them. For although Henry had inherited his father's great passion for excellence, he would come to channel it into another area. It was an area which, like acrobatic flying, demanded superior coordination and eyesight.

Walter Bowman's passion for flying had helped save the lives of many good Navy men and had contributed to the death of a number of enemy pilots during the war.

His son's passion would ultimately bring about similar results. Henry's effect, however, would be on the entire United States.

July 19, 1955 "Eleven for the gentleman," said the croupier as he stacked a large number of chips and slid them across the table. Max handed him one of them and collected the rest.

"I'm out. When you triple your stake, it's time to go and leave some of the luck for the next fellow." The croupier smiled. Max Collins had surprised him a week ago by offering to pay a hundred dollars an hour for advice at the tables. Max had told him at the end of the afternoon that it was the best money he had ever spent. 'Leave after you've tripled your money' was one of the rules the pro had impressed upon his eccentric client. Max gave a brief salute to the man and headed towards the cashier.

The man behind the barred window looked mildly bored as he counted out seventy-one $100 bills. Max put the money in his pocket and smiled. His bag was packed, his trap guns were stowed in the trunk of his car, and he had already checked out. It was time to head home.

Max walked out into the parking lot and breathed the cool night air blowing in off the desert. He slid in behind the wheel of his new Chrysler 300 coupe and twisted the key in the starter. The big highcompression V-8 with its hemispherical combustion chambers, long duration cam, and high-flowing ports rumbled to life. He dropped the lever into Drive and accelerated smoothly out onto the strip.

Second place at the trap shoot wasn't bad he reflected, and more than doubling the purse at the tables made it even better. He rolled down his window to let the wind blast blow through the car. I love this state. Big-money trap shoots, high-stakes craps, more puss than you have time to even look at, and no open-road speed limits day or night. Best goddamned use for a desert I've ever seen.

He flicked on his high beams and the pair of aircraft landing lights he had had installed the day after he'd bought the car. The needle on the speedometer was passing through 110 miles per hour and the engine was getting into the RPM range where it was happiest as he cruised east on Highway 50. Max liked driving at night. It's too late to give Tafia a call. I'll get a room when I hit Wendover at the other side of the state, and call her in the morning he decided. Make sure everything's all right at home.

The lights of the town of Wendover came into view less than three hours later.

"Cath, honey," seventy-eight-year-old Charles Collins pleaded to his daughter Catherine Bowman, "he's going to hurt himself." Henry glanced up at his grandfather. / am not the little boy thought willfully, then went back to concentrating on what he was doing.

The two adults were sitting in the back yard of Charles Collins' summer residence in Jefferson County, Missouri. Walter, Catherine, and Henry lived there with Catherine's father during the summer months.

"Father, we just have to take that chance." They both watched carefully as three-year-old Henry Bowman industriously tapped the hammer on the broad head of the sixpenny nail he pinched between the small thumb and forefinger of his left hand.

Henry had watched his father do woodworking projects for more than a year, and the day before, Walter had shown him how to use a hammer. A thick section of tree trunk stood on end at the edge of the driveway near the back porch, and for several years people had used it for a seat. Under Walter's supervision, Henry had hammered a handful of nails into the end grain of the log.

Henry had hammered for over an hour before dinner, and had bent over only two nails. The next morning, before Henry woke up, Walter had thoughtfully pulled the bent nails from the stump. Now the youngest Bowman was back at it, diligently hammering away. He had not yet hit his fingers.

The old man shook his head. "I still don't think he should be doing that. He's too little." Henry didn't hear his grandfather say this, for his concentration on his last swing was total. The nail head lay flush with the wood, and the little boy stopped to rest.

"Father, I don't think we're going to be able to keep him from hammering nails now that he knows he can do it." Henry heard this comment clearly, and he smiled gaily at his mother.

"Hm," her father said, trying to be irritated but failing in the face of his happy grandson. He looked up as he heard the sound of his son-in-law's Oldsmobile pull into the drive.

Henry put down his hammer and ran to meet his father. "Daddy! Look at how many I did!" Walter Bowman opened the driver's door and stepped out. He was carrying a paper sack in his right hand. With his free arm, Walter picked up Henry and carried him over by the log.

"Well!" he said with feigned surprise. "Every single one is hammered in perfectly!" Henry beamed at the compliment. "But there's something wrong. You're using a damaged tool that has been misused and neglected." Henry had been using a rusty hammer he had found while he was playing in the pole barn. "A good craftsman should always use good tools and take good care of them." He handed his son the paper sack. Henry looked inside.

"Is it mine?" he squealed. This is the best present I ever got he thought gaily.

"It's your very own. It's an Estwing, just like your old man's." Walter grinned as his son held up the hammer. Unlike most hammers, which were wooden-handled, the Estwing was forged from a single piece of steel, with a grip made of leather rings shrunk around the steel shaft and polished. Walter had found one that was used for cabinet work and was several ounces lighter than the standard model. "Here. I picked up some different sizes of nails, too." He handed Henry several small packets. "Make sure to throw the papers in the trash can."

Henry quickly went back over to the log with his new prize. Catherine was shaking her head and grinning. "His own cabinet maker's hammer at three years old."

"Good tools last more than a lifetime and instill pride. And pride makes you do better work and get more satisfaction out of it."

"He seems to be getting plenty of satisfaction out of hammering nails into that old log," said Charles Collins dryly.

In four summers, the section of the oak tree would have its entire top surface covered with overlapping nail heads, so that none of the end grain was visible. There would be over four thousand nails embedded, every one except the first few driven home by Henry's Estwing cabinet maker's hammer. 'Henry's nail log,' as it came to be known, would elicit an interested comment from every person who saw it for the first time.

He never did hit his finger, despite his grandfather's fears.

Standing on the bank of the Roaring Fork river with his fly rod made of split bamboo, Ray Johnson reflected on his Junior year in high school, which had ended the day before. Once again, he had maintained his 4.0 average, even though he had been taking Senior-level math and science courses as a Junior. The rest of his classmates were going to be together in Pitkin County for another year, but he would not be with them.

Eastern schools were always on the lookout for talented applicants from parts of the country that were not normally drawn to New England. Ivy League universities felt that diversity of the student body was very important, provided that each member of the incoming class had the ability to do the work. The admissions officer at Brown, after reviewing Ray's academic and athletic record, had been extremely impressed. He had not seen this kind of applicant from a rural area in a state like Colorado before. He had offered to take Raymond a year early, if he would make a firm commitment to Brown.

/ wish Mom didn't seem so sad about it he thought. Dad was as excited as I was. Maybe I can get a moose permit in Maine during the winter. I'd like to get a chance to hunt in a different part of the country. What Raymond had learned of the Brown campus and its academics had excited him, but school was out now, he was standing on a river-bank in Colorado, and outdoor pursuits occupied his mind much more than calculus and chemistry.

Raymond felt the faintest of twitches, and then the hand-laminated fly rod bent into the shape of an inverted 'J' as he flicked it, setting the hook in the trout's mouth. He played out the 4-weight line, giving the fish room to run, so as not to snap the lightweight tackle. Musings about college receded from his mind.

Not as good as hunting he thought with a grin as he played the fish. But it'll do.

Six-year-old Henry Bowman was terribly excited, and just a little scared. The feeling, he decided, was a good one. He turned as far around as he could in the front cockpit so he could look at his father. A homemade seat raised Henry up high enough to look through the short windscreen in front of him. The little boy wore a pair of goggles that dwarfed his head and gave him a bug-like appearance. He had a huge smile on his face.

"After the engine's running, you won't be able to hear me. Remember, don't touch the stick at all until I give you this sign." Walter made an exaggerated 'thumbs up' gesture. "Hold onto the sides of the cockpit like I showed you, so I can see where your hands are. If you start to feel bad or you want me to come back to the airport here and land, just turn around and point at the ground like this." He made a pumping motion of his right arm towards the ground with his index finger extended. "It will be a little hard to see out the front when we're still on the ground, but once we're in the air it should be easy. All set?" Henry nodded enthusiastically.

Walter Bowman clicked his harness into place and lit up the big Pratt & Whitney radial. As the noise and the prop blast enveloped him, Henry realized he had never been so excited in his life. His father taxied the plane out to the runway, but he did not lift the tailwheel off the ground. The throttle response on the overpowered plane had always been instantaneous, and the prop was longer than a standard one. He had never been willing to risk putting a tip into the asphalt and damaging the crankshaft with a technique that worked well on a standard engine.

After the runup and all pre-takeoff checks, Walter Bowman pulled out onto the runway, straddled the center line, shoved the stick forward, and gave the big radial two-thirds throttle. The Stearman leaped forward and the right wingtip raised slightly from the torque of the engine. Walter countered with right rudder and aileron, and in a few seconds fed in full throttle, holding the biplane straight and level a few feet off the runway, building speed. At the mid-field mark they were indicating 140 knots. At the far end of the runway, Walter pulled the stick back in his lap and released backpressure when the airplane was flying straight up.

Oh boy Henry thought. This is like what those rocket plane pilots do. He gripped the sides of the fuselage as hard as he could. When the airspeed indicator had wound down to 70 knots indicated, Walter kicked in full left rudder and rolled the wings level, flying at a right angle to the runway at an altitude of 1000 feet above the ground. Wow! Henry thought, as he saw where the ground was. His head swiveled left and right like a spectator at a tennis match. Walter laughed into the wind blast. Henry was having even more fun than he was.

They headed out across the Mississippi river and over Illinois, climbing at 3000 feet per minute. At 5500 feet, Walter leveled the wings and held a steady 140 knots airspeed. At that altitude, the temperature was eighteen degrees cooler than on the ground, which made it a very pleasant sixty-eight. When they were over the open soybean fields in Illinois where he could easily land if there was an engine failure, Walter began the standard maneuvers he had previously explained to his son.

He rolled the plane left into a thirty-degree bank and made a complete circle, ending up on the same heading. It hardly feels like we're moving, now Henry marveled. It's just real loud and windy. The stick between his legs tipped to the right as Walter reversed the controls and began a circle in the opposite direction. It's just like Dad said Henry thought as the stick returned to the vertical position and the plane stopped rolling but stayed in the bank.

Henry was thinking about this when Walter lowered the nose, put the biplane into a modest dive, and increased the throttle setting. At 160 knots, he pulled back on the stick and held it there. Ooooh Henry thought as his insides were dragged downwards from the G-forces. They were well past vertical before the pressure subsided. I'm floating Henry thought as Walter eased off on the backpressure. Floating upside down. The Stearman flew itself over the top of the loop and into an inverted descent. When they were aimed straight at the ground, Walter once again pulled back on the stick, jamming Henry into his seat once more and finishing the maneuver with the plane straight and level. Henry twisted around in his seat and gave his father a huge grin.

Walter gave his son the 'thumbs up' sign, and Henry took his hands off the sides of the cockpit. He pushed the stick to the left and the airplane rolled into a bank, somewhat shallower than the one his father had used. The nose dropped slightly as the plane continued on its circular path. Henry saw the river appear again after the plane had traveled 180 degrees. A dark green field appeared in the distance that Henry remembered had been in front of him before he started the turn. When he saw it, he rolled the wings back to level. His father looked at the compass. Henry was off of his original heading by only ten degrees. The boy hesitated for a few moments, then rolled the airplane into a right turn just as his father had done. This time he pulled back on the stick a little bit to keep the nose up in the turn. Once again, he rolled the wings level when the green field appeared in front of him. Henry twisted in his seat and saw his father smiling and nodding at him. He needed no further urging.

The young boy pushed the stick forward and put the biplane in a slight dive as his father had done. Then he hauled back on the stick with all his strength. Walter Bowman saw that Henry was not strong enough to exert the required amount of pressure, so he hooked his index finger around his own control and gave a little assistance. He also judiciously used the rudder pedals to keep the aircraft stable on its yaw axis.

Henry Bowman was so excited and amazed he felt as if he would burst. I'm making this airplane fly straight up! It's doing whatever I make it do! As the Stearman passed through vertical he remembered to relax backpressure as his father had instructed him, and he let the plane continue climbing inverted until gravity and the airfoil of the wings pulled it over into an inverted dive. When he saw they were aimed at the ground, with the wind noise increasing in his ears, for the first time that day six-year-old Henry Bowman was genuinely scared. Dad can save us if I don't do it right he reminded himself, and with that as his mantra, the little boy concentrated on completing the maneuver. He pulled back on the stick as hard as he could to finish off the loop, and he felt a knot in his stomach as the noise continued to increase. Walter was helping with the effort required to hold the stick back, and in ten seconds the biplane was once again flying straight and level. The boy let go of the stick and gripped the sides of the cockpit where his father could see his hands. His heart was pounding and blood roared in his ears. He had never had a feeling like this one before.

Three feet behind him, his father was laughing into the wind blast. The sight of his son's little head peering over the windscreen in front of him with his hands gripping the edge of the cockpit pleased the father no end. He flew the plane straight and level for a while before continuing with any other maneuvers. He didn't want to do too much too soon on his son's first time up.

After a while Walter saw that their fuel was getting low, so he turned back towards the airport. He put the airplane in a steep dive over the river and leveled it at 300 feet of altitude and 200 knots airspeed. At that height, the speed that they were traveling was very apparent. Boy, Henry thought, we're really moving now. This is lots faster than a car.

Walter raised the nose as they approached Missouri and traded the airspeed for more altitude as they got over land again. He headed back to the airport at an altitude of 1000 feet above the ground, entered the pattern, and made a flawless landing.

Walter taxied to the hangar and stopped the engine, then climbed out of the rear seat and went to help his son out of the front. Henry's face was streaked with oil and dirt, and he kept licking his teeth and swallowing.

"You'll have to learn to keep your mouth closed in open cockpits, kiddo. The wind blast will dry you out in a hurry. You might end up swallowing a bug or two, also."

"That was the most fun I've ever had! Can I go with you again next time, Dad?"

"Of course. But right now we've got to get the plane tied down in the hangar, and then get back home in time for lunch. Here, let me help you out of there." He grabbed his son under the arms and lifted the laughing boy out of the cockpit and onto the lower wing.

When the two arrived back at the house, Henry couldn't remember anything about the drive home. He was still reliving his first flight.

"Can't you do anything right?" Harold Gaines demanded as he looked at his son's report card. The highest grade on it was a 'C', in Social Studies. Richard Gaines hung his head but did not reply. He had not seen his father this angry over grades before, and he decided to stay quiet until the situation was clearer. Harold Gaines was not specifically upset about his son's low grades. They were, in fact, very similar to what the father's own grades had been when he had been that age, and this report card was no worse than the others that his son had brought home that year. What made the elder Gaines so angry was the note that Richard's teacher had printed at the bottom of the official document: I am recommending that Richard repeat the Second Grade. It is obvious that he is not ready to progress with the rest of his class. Please contact the school at your earliest convenience to discuss this matter.

Harold Gaines put the report card back in the envelope and shook his head in disgust. "The boss won't get off my back at work, and now you surprise me with this crap! We'll talk about it later. Tell your mother I'm going out for a while. Don't expect me for lunch." He put on his hat and walked out the door of the cramped south side apartment. He fingered the two crumpled dollar bills in his pocket. His friend Jerry tended bar in the mornings. Harold thought he might be good for a free one, or at least a little credit.

Richard Gaines snuffled miserably as his father headed out the door.

"Raymond Emmett Johnson, Summa Cum Laude, Phi Beta Kappa Society," called out the administrator. The young man in black robe and mortarboard stood up and walked to the stage, accepted the proffered diploma, and shook the hand of the Brown University President. He smiled and nodded at the older man amid cheers and applause from the audience. He felt a slight fatigue that was somehow very pleasant. Not bad he thought with mild pleasure. Not bad at all. Ray made his way back to his seat as the administrator's sonorous voice announced Arthur Johnstone, the next Brown University graduate on the list.

After the Commencement exercises were over, the students broke up and mingled with the friends and family members who had come to see them graduate. Bud and Louise stood under an oak tree, with Bud's brother Carl a few feet to the side. All three were beaming.

"Wasn't sure you really did it, not until he'd handed you that sheepskin and then gone on to call the next boy's name." Louise Johnson rolled her eyes at her husband's attempt at humor and gave her son an enormous hug.

"You probably want to go be with your friends. Don't mind us." Louise Johnson was not at all used to New England, and she was unaccountably nervous being at a large university. Raymond was the first person in her family that had gone to college, and it showed.

"I've been with them for four years, Mom. I'd rather spend this time with you." His Uncle Carl laid a gnarled hand on Raymond's shoulder and drew him aside.

"Four years in college and you still haven't figured a damned thing out about women. Your mother is trying to tell you that she's about to bust out in tears because nothing like this has ever happened in her life before, and you need to understand that and make yourself scarce for a few minutes, so she don't embarrass herself in front of her only son. Now, Raymond, things have been better'n we had any right to expect out at the ranch, an' I don't know what Bud and your Ma have in mind for you, but this here is a present from me. Don't you give me no lip, now, 'cause I'm older than you and you ought to respect that. I also got no family of my own, and I'm just as proud of you as Bud an' Louise. Don't let on I give it to you, and please spend it on something you really want, like a party with a bunch of them coeds or whatnot. That's all I'm going t'say, now. Congratulations." He thrust a tightly folded envelope into his nephew's hand and turned away. Raymond put it in his pocket and stepped over to his parents.

"Give me a few minutes. There's a few people I'd like to talk to before they leave with their parents." He walked purposefully towards a group of graduates he knew vaguely, but all Raymond hoped to accomplish was to give his mother the time his Uncle Carl had said she needed. He engaged a young man he barely knew in congratulations and small talk for a few minutes, then moved on to another cluster of classmates and their families. When he was well away from his own family, he pulled the envelope from his pocket and opened it. It contained one thousand dollars in cash.

For a brief instant, Raymond tried to imagine what kind of party with coeds could possibly cost a thousand dollars, and he grinned at his uncle's admonition. He knew exactly what he was going to spend the money on, and it was not women.

"I think your father has something else for you." Catherine Bowman had been listening to her six-year-old son talk endlessly of the morning's experience flying the Stearman.

"Honey, after this morning, I don't think it will be very interesting," Walter told her.

"What is it, Dad? Can I see it? What's Mom talking about?" Like virtually all six-year-olds, Henry Bowman loved presents and surprises.

"You've become such a good reader, so I got you a book that every young man should have. To know what to aim for," he added. "Here." Walter handed his son a hardcover book about an inch and a quarter thick. Henry took the book from his father and looked at the cover. There were several pictures printed on it. One was of ten men all pedaling a very long bicycle. Another was of an enormous flag hanging on the side of a building. A third photo showed a huge diamond set into an ornate staff.

Henry looked at the title. The large first word was unfamiliar to him, but the others were easy to read. GUINNESS BOOK OF WORLD RECORDS the title said. Underneath was the explanation which is HIGHEST LOWEST BIGGEST