Email Tom at tomtgradeczek@yahoo.com

Chapter 2: Bullets 101

When you clearly see the well-drawn faces of the people you saw commit crimes, it gives you special insights into a criminal event. Each little piece fell into place slowly. After four hours staring at two different computer monitors, the composites looked great, but we were running out of energy. Mona had supported me with soft drinks and words of encouragement. She had drawn maps, given me keys and written down the entry code for for the condo's front door. All the details were covered. After Mona had finished emailing the composites to every All-Risks office in the world, she sent a mail package with our facial drawings and various info to Lt. Rocker because, as Mona made clear with a kiss, "Bernie, All-Risk and even me 'n you gotta stay on Rocker's good side". When she came back all devilish and wiggly to Bernie's office, she gave me a much-needed neck rub. It added a special sound to our conversation.

"O-o-o-o-oh man, that gets the kinks out. Where'd you learn to do that?"

"In the army. Most girls aren't used to wearing heavy packs on long marches, so I got plenty of practice."

"Wow, this would be a major turn-on under different circumstances. A little lower....Oh-h, o-h-h, that's the spot. Man, this is just what I needed if I have to keep my clothes on. How 'bout I rub your neck, ... or feet, or something?"

"No, no!" she said cutely squirming away and pecking my ear. "Not now. Rug burns are no fun. So, what do you think is happening on this deal, ... Mr. Brains?" The massage ended and Mona hopped on the desk where I couldn't help but focus on her shapely calves.(Mu-u-ust Kis-s-s-s Calvez-z-z said Brain Two) A reflex throat clearing gave me time to un-fog my brain, while I struggled against my hormonal haze.

"Okay, here's what I think so far. Unlike Bernie, I don't think this gang is stupid. They are so unlikely to be together in the first place. I mean, look at 'em. There are two heavies, who might have been in the same gang together or might just be hired bad boys. The driver was Asian, and she looked like an executive the way she was dressed. The little guy is still not clearly identified, but he's probably Vietnamese. He was carrying a big gun, probably the Tazer pistol. There's just too much planning and expertise for these people to have ended up doing the wrong thing."

Mona had made me extra copies of the photos used to insure the diamonds, along with the import permits, the irradiated materials permits, and customs documents. These African and Australian diamonds had had their color intensively enhanced using every method known to the industry: reactor heating, cyclotronic bombardment, plasticizing, and laser treatment. The radioactive emissions would die down somewhat in a few years, but it was lucky that this was a ceremonial crown because the particle emissions would have been unhealthy if the diamonds had been used in something like a necklace. Even the crown design was going to be special. It utilized lead foil inside to reduce the health risk to the princess. Without a doubt, the diamonds were beautiful. The press releases didn't mention the hazards, but these stones were stolen by someone who knew what they wanted. Mona knew more about the diamond business than I did, so she parroted the industry line cold.

"Yeah, but Bernie is right that these diamonds are so hot that you couldn't use them for years. They are pretty big and easily recognized too. Even one of these stones would set off alarm bells if they would try to cut these down in Antwerp or Haifa. As diamonds they have some value but it's not like they were D or E color rocks you could put into jewelry and sell on the street. This is a real specialty item that people don't request very often. I mean, even the best criminals can make a mistake, ya know."

"Yeah, maybe. But, this grab was not like a gang bang thing, or even a crime syndicate job. If it has Asians at the top, then why not all Asians? There are plenty of Vietnamese shooters? They didn't just whack all seven of the couriers. They only hit the guys with the real diamonds. There had to be someone inside the Diamond Mart who could nail two of the guards with the Tazer and not really be noticed. An-n-n-n-nd, it takes a special dude to Taze two guards. The silent shooter on the outside was a specialist too. Someone on the outside, who we can't place now, put this group together for some special set of reasons. Find the special reasons and the puzzle goes together."

"Tom, you are maybe thinking too hard for your own good." She dug her fingers into my shoulders and neck from the front, turning me into wiggly Jello. She whispered real low for one sentence, "The fo-o-orce Lu-u-u-u-ke, feel the fo-o-orce. Maybe some bad guys thought they'd get lucky, and now it turns out they weren't. Look, if Bernie is willing to pay you big time to be his special assistant, don't give yourself a headache trying to solve this thing in an hour. Anyway, I gotta go have dinner with my mom and Aunt Ruth and tomorrow night starts the Sabbath. So if you relax for a day or so and don't get into trouble, maybe we can go out for dinner and dancing after sundown on Saturday."

I took her hands and gently slid her off the desk into my lap. She didn't wear make-up, and I really liked that. I was starting to feel dreamy.

"Hey, what kind of trouble could I possibly get into up in Valencia?" The sound of my voice might have been a bit muffled, because I was gently speaking while nuzzling right into Mona's neck. She made little, coo-ing noises and tried to refocus. Her voice came out breathy and soft.

"Oh man, how many kinds of trouble are there? Who knows? You could probably invent some new kinds. I think, "your pic...ture is in the dic...tion...ary, oh-yes, next to, o-o-o-h, the word... troubl-l-l-le." Her voice kept getting quieter and quieter as her eyes fluttered near-shut and her bum wiggled.

"If you leave any marks, my mom will...", but her voice trailed off as she arched her back, grabbed me tight with her strong hands, took in a deep breath, and closed her eyes. After a few minutes, I backed away an inch. Her eyes fluttered open before I kissed her. She wanted to breathe for some reason after the first three minute kiss. Then she tried to say something, while I began kissing from her neck down to the first buttons on her blouse.

"I'm going to be a mess for Mom and Auntie Ruth." She was talking and exhaling at the same time, which sounded pretty sexy to me. Then, I heard the metal, roll down shutters starting to come down on the local shops. That reminded me I needed to find something pretty important. I kissed my way gently up to Mona's ear and started to whisper to her, but she turned and got very direct on my lips with a hard kiss while she held my face in her hands. When we broke, she wiggled her nose and her butt against me, then made a face as she spoke.

"Oh gross, now I'm gonna have to rearrange this skirt and stuff."

"What stuff? You look great." then emphatically, "and you "Def-i-nite-ly" feel great." I squeezed her hard, little tush for emphasis.

"That is exactly the kind of trouble I mean, and it's per-son-al stuff. I mean, I'm gunna be with my mother, Tom. You're just a devil, you know that, a big devil. But, I think that's how I like 'em." She winked at me, gave me a quick buss on the lips, then jumped off my lap. She tried to straighten her clothes with some acrobatic hip-thrusting moves as she walked, while pulling on her skirt in a dozen ways that revealed what a very, sexy girl she was underneath.

"Hey, I'm not a troublemaker." I paused while thinking hard. "I'm just very responsive. But, then again, you know that." Another closing roll-up door got my attention, so I looked out the window. I was watching Emilio winding up his awning as I spoke to Mona, "I'm gonna go down to the street for a few minutes. Then I'll be back for my laptop case. Make sure you email Lieutenant Rocker a complete set of the digiphotos and composites we just looked at. Tell him, 'I was very, emotionally distraught because of the terrible events and how mean he was, that I'm just taking off on a short holiday, or some other blah, blah blah.' Or, you could always tell him that you were hiding me away in some secret love nest, to use me as you chose; I kinda like that idea better anyway."

Mona's big grin let me know my suggestion was considered half funny and half male hormones, but she nodded. "Okay I'm gonna send that email. Then I clean up, and start shutting up the place, so don't be too long."

I was already skipping down the first flight of stairs as Mona's voice trailed into the background. Exiting on street level, Emilio was just putting the big locks on his roll-down, protective-steel shutters. This was the normal look on every shop in the area. Plate glass windows were expensive. So even though there wasn't anything to "smash and grab" in Emilio's place, all the tradesmen felt it was better to be safe than sorry. Emilio saw me, and he waved as I walked towards his place.

"Mr. Tom, I am closed for tonight. If you need anything please, see me tomorrow."

"That's okay Emilio I don't need anything. Hey, the Indian's gone."

"Yes, Mr. Tom, the police unbolted it from the sidewalk this afternoon. Poor Ducu will be sick until he gets Geronimo back. There was a big murder down near the Mart earlier today. Well, I have to go home to Rosa now, bye bye."

"Bye Emilio; have a safe drive home." I pretended to look at the big brass pedestal the Indian had stood on as Emilio drove down the darkening streets in his Caddy. The street lights flickered. Mona yelled to me. I turned around and saw her lugging my laptop case across the street. She looked very fresh and proper.

"Well, thank you Mona; you are a real trooper."

"No problem studly, this case is nothing." She winked and handed me the case. "So, what's so interesting?"

"Here, let's throw this case in my car, and then you can help me." We went down to the alley and around behind the shops to a space reserved for Emilio's customers. While Mona sat in the car for a moment, I opened the trunk and put the in laptop case in. In case I might be illegally parked for a few moments, I decided to become a "tourist".

The local police were notoriously easy on tourists when it came to parking tickets. They didn't want tourists to go home and complain about the LA Police. The tourists usually wouldn't pay the tickets anyway. My Wisconsin license plate had helped me park illegally more than once. The plate numbers weren't valid anymore, but I always found ways to get new stickers. If the police ran the plate number through the computer, there was never a record of any crime being associated with that tag number.

"Hop in, you can help me out, and then I'll drive you to your car." We drove very slowly out of the alley and up Spring Street. The crowds had a completely different flavor now. The local Hispanics, Vietnamese, Chinese, Somalis, and other ethnic groups had returned from their day jobs, and the business people, with their suits and ties, designer dresses or yarmulkes, had gone home to the outlying suburbs. The local stores that were still open had loudspeakers on the streets in front of their open emporiums. The street sounds screamed aggressive hawking of rayon shirts and spandex skirts.

We drove in front of Emilio's. I opened Mona's door, then took a folding chair out of the trunk. I set it up next to the roll-up door. Mona stood guard, watching for any police patrols. When the coast was clear, I climbed onto the chair, and quickly donned a long rubber glove. I could reach my hand back and forth behind the top of the roll-up shutter. Eventually, it hit something small and heavy. I extracted my prize from the candy wrappers, bottle caps, and litter using some tissue paper, then showed it to Mona. It was a .45 slug that was cut almost in half lengthwise from its impact with the iron window-cover frame. Mona backed off because of the trash and dirt sticking to my wrist and hand.

"Yuck, look at yourself. Don't touch me or it'll leave a smudge. I'm all cleaned up now. What is that anyway?" I explained to Mona what had happened earlier in the day. Once we were back in the car she asked the obvious.

"So, that thing is evidence, right?"

"Yes, it is Mona, very interesting evidence too. There is no way I'll be able to avoid my date with Lieutenant Rocker forever. I'll keep this as a present to give him when we get together. Then LAPD would take Emilio's roll down door to photo the impact point Hey, help me out. I don't want to scum out the inside of my car while I'm driving up north. Maybe you could let me into the rest room to wash up."

"They only give me a ladies room key, but I suppose there won't be any other women in there at this hour. I'll stand guard for you."

We walked back into her office building and went up to her floor. The place was deserted at six pm on a Thursday. She unlocked the door and patted me on the butt as I walked into the ladies' room. A few minutes later, I was back to being my normal, cleaned-up self. Mona and I played tag childishly as we headed down the stairs again. Now that everyone in the neighborhood had had the chance to come home and clean themselves up, the streets were packed again, and there was a carnival atmosphere. Mona jumped into my car and pointed to where she was parked.

"By the way Old Timer, the cops should have seen that because they have cameras on the end of flexible arms. I'm in the Allright lot down on 9th," she said, kind of snaking her hand and wrist in the directions she wanted me to drive. Speaking of flexible arms, Mona was a very, very flexible young woman. An impulse hit me. I took her hand gently and spoke.

'Thanks for the news about LAPD's new cameras. You are a great teacher, or at least better than I am. I learn allot from you. I'm very lucky."

I began to peck softly on the tiny blond hairs on the back of her forearm. It started a little parade of goose bumps at her wrists, with my lips next in line. Then all the tiny little hairs on her arm stood up, begging for their share of attention from my warm lips and hot breath. When she woke up from the tingling, she took her arm back and pointed in the forward direction with mock pleading.

"God Tom, you are hopeless. Incredibly fun, but hopeless, and my mo-o-o-om's waiting. I think you must be half dog and half goat. Lovable, but always sniffing, if ya know what I mean. Look at me, I can't go see my mother with hard nipples. I need to be calm, and no more drooling on my blouse please. Wait a couple of days. You got the longest, fastest arms, ya know that?"

"You said you liked my arms. You just smell so great, and you taste even better. You know how it is with me. I like my eats generally pure and natural. That's just how you taste to me." She gently grabbed a handful of my hair at the back of my head, and made with the comedic-sounding commands.

"Eyes,...Front. Now, take me to my chariot, or my mom will freak." She looked at her watch and blurted. "I have to be at the deli in thirty minutes, so as much as I'd love to, I can't take time to fool around."

"Okay, I wouldn't want your mom to dislike me. Hey, maybe you should take me to meet her."

"Tom, if my mom was introduced to a guy like you, she would have a heart attack. She'd say, 'Vot is dis goy, your ski instructor?'. She'd never understand. Guys like you only get introduced to moms like MY mom after the marriage, and only to beg for help converting."

"Wow, that's pretty heavy. Although, in your case, I'd consider it. Skinny girls just knock me out." I let the car roll slowly to a stop in front of the lot and unlocked Mona's door. She had that serious, "no games" look again and a smile that added to global warming.

"Well, cowboy, ya got this weekend to prove that you haven't gotten too old for me. I know the number up there. If some local Chiquita answers the phone when I call, I'll be up there showing you some of the hand-to-hand combat stuff I learned in the army." She jumped out of the car and came around to my side as I rolled down the window. After a long, goodbye kiss, we batted our eyes at each other. She told me what I already knew.

"I can be very dangerous, ya know. You'd be amazed what they teach you in the army."

Holding her chin with my left hand, I gave her a quick peck. Then I looked her square in the eyes and gave her a gentle command. "I'd love to see all your best moves next time, and don't show any mercy. I can take it. Especially the moves they didn't teach you in the army. Whew, I remember the last time when you had your ankles behind my ears and..." She put her hand on my lips as her neck blush reached the top of her brassiere. I held the back of her head gently as we parted with another very suggestive kiss. When we broke for air, Mona gasped at first, eyes closed. When she opened her eyes and saw the look of pleasure on my face she giggled and tried to talk. "My mom will be giving me the third degree as it is." I watched her firm, slim shape skip over to her car. Her light, musical words would ring in my ears for an hour.

As I drove away, heading west towards the Harbor Freeway, I held the propeller-shaped slug in a tissue and kept turning it around checking it from all angles. It was heavy, but not nearly as heavy as it should have been for a .45 auto slug. This round had a hollow point that extended almost halfway through the length of the bullet. It was a little bit boat-tailed on the back end. Although the angle iron had cut through the slug cleanly, the rotation of the bullet made it warp out of shape as it dissipated its energy. But, inside the part of the hollow point area that wasn't smashed or torn, the lead was bright and shiny, except for small bits of blue lint or white fuzz. Just above the boat-tailed rear of the bullet was a clear line pressed into the copper. As I handled the round my bright orange tissue told me the copper wasn't a jacket but was merely plated onto the lead. When I looked really close, stopped at a light, I saw the nose of the slug wasn't round like most .45 auto ammo but was only slightly conical. The bullet had a slight shoulder around the hollowed-out portion.

A tire screech startled me as I was about to turn onto the freeway ramp. In my mirror some fat cat, in a Lincoln with dark-tinted windows was trying to beat the light I had just passed, so I yelled at him even though he couldn't hear me. "Hey man, don't have a heart attack here; the traffic isn't really going anywhere for another half hour or so." Returning to my inspection, I didn't think I had ever seen a bullet like the one I held in my hand.

The Harbor was only moving at about thirty or forty miles an hour, so I relaxed against the headrest for a few miles. I played with the radio and tried to get the Dodgers pre-game show. KFWB was doing its normal thing, "All Murders, All the Time, where the murders come first". KFWB had been an all news station for a long time. With it's expanded area coverage and the high murder rate in LA County, each murder was barely allotted more than three hours of repeat "newsworthiness" before it was replaced in the line-up with another bizarre murder.

The Spring Street murders were still getting headlines six hours after they occurred, so they must have rated four bullets. I was cruising along in the far right-hand lane, ready to make the changeover to the Hollywood Freeway North so I could go to Valencia, when I suddenly changed my mind. I swerved to the left at the last second, and I must have scared Mr. Big Black Lincoln to death behind me. He immediately pulled into the breakdown lane on the changeover off ramp. I was going to make a stop on the way, so I needed to continue on Highway 110, the old Pasadena Freeway.

--HBC edits---

Once a futuristic vision of modernity, the Pasadena Freeway now seemed smallish and claustrophobic in dimension. After I passed the Golden State, the traffic cleared up quite a bit because, even though the Pasadena Freeway continued for another eighteen miles, it really didn't go anywhere. For its last few miles, the freeway parallels Huntington Drive before it rather abruptly ends and dumps travelers onto the Arroyo Parkway and the streets of Pasadena. It was easy to get back on the 210 Highway, but I was headed up Lake Avenue to visit a friend who was a technician at a big shooting range near Altadena.

At the first "Donut Drive-Thru" I came to, I pulled in and bought a dozen French egg crullers and a double black coffee, because the work-a-holic friend I was meeting never met a donut he didn't like. I also liked these egg-heavy, twisted crullers with their big-bubbled texture, because they were good high-energy food for breakfast, lunch, dinner or late-night snacks. Each donut was a monster cholesterol bomb, but I hadn't eaten since ten am and my stomach was playing the "Feed Me Symphony" in the key of growl.

A brown van with two Asian girls in front, and at least one in the back, pulled along side for a moment as I cruised along Lake Avenue. The girl on the passenger side seemed to smile at me, then she turned to the driver and she too looked over at me. They both started laughing. These girls didn't look eighteen, so I kept my eyes on the road just to stay COMPLETELY out of trouble. I turned right at a stoplight, and headed for The Shooting Gallery. The teenagers kept going but now my adrenaline was up; Tim Armstrong would know what I needed to know, about the slug on my console, and he was just a few minutes up the canyon.

The entry gate for The Shooting Gallery had a mock western look to it, but it had been some sort of military depot situated in a small canyon years ago. When the US Army had closed a bunch of their facilities, a very smart entrepreneur had bought this depot and converted it into a gun owner's paradise, The location was perfect for people who wanted to run a shooting emporium. The Gallery was a huge complex of warehouse buildings where ammo, reloading supplies, clay pigeons, and a thousand other shooting supplies were stored. All around the complex, were lighted outdoor shooting areas against the canyon walls. The main warehouse and office had been converted into the biggest gun supermarket and indoor ranges on the planet. Blast on!

The entry road abruptly ended at the complex, opening up into the huge parking lot full of cars. The lights were buzzing and flickering. While the insects sought out mates, diving flocks of starlings ate them. It was a typical story from life, once you think you have the right relationship, something comes out of nowhere, and brings a catastrophe with it. In front of the main building were wooden wagon wheels, half buried in the ground, plus hitching rails to gave it that Old West sort of feel. There was a nice, new, lighted awning covering the sidewalk leading to the front doors and around the sides heading towards the outdoor ranges. A large roof overhang was supported by steel posts all the way around the main building. I was very lucky to find a space in the second row of parking, fairly near the front.

There must have been five hundred cars in the lot already. Crackling .22 Cal shooters mixed their sounds with shotguns firing away on the skeet, and trap ranges, and the more distant booming of the higher-powered rifle ranges. I pushed my way through the heavy, swinging front doors, passing through the front vestibule to another set of swinging door, and strolled through a gun goodies lobby the size of a mega-supermarket. There were racks of shooting supplies, magazines, and bulk cartons of ammo.

Obviously, quite a few shooters liked to blast off a few rounds between work and home. Maybe it de-stressed them before they saw their families. I figured targets resembling their bosses' faces sold pretty well. On either side of the front entry area, there were glass display cabinets going around the room to the back. Every conceivable kind of hand gun was available for sale. In wall racks behind each glass counter were thousands of rifles and shotguns. Along the two hundred-foot-wide back wall were the raised counters used by the range managers to assign indoor range space for the hand gunners. Every once in a while, a customer entered or exited one of the six different indoor ranges. Then the sound of louder gunfire of various types came out in multiple bursts as nine or ten shooters fired at targets. Some rooms had serious .22 target shooters, others had blasters shooting monster .44 mags, 10mms, and even .454 Casull revolvers. I headed back to the central, rear desk and asked for Tim Armstrong with a slip of paper to pass to him.

He came up to the rear desk, and after putting a Guest badge on my vest, he escorted me to his work area. He sounded excited.

"So, are you finally going to part with that AMT 9mm Mag? I have two customers who want me to customize one for them."

"That isn't why I'm here, but if you really want the gun for my price, I'll bring it over soon. C'mon, you know I told you that I have reached he point where I have too many guns." Tim looked stung by my 'too many guns' comment, then rubbed his hands together at the prospect of making a deal and extra money for himself.

"So what's the deal, sport? You got a real job yet, or are you just doing that website admin thing for Cleveland Auto?"

"That website admin thing pays me almost a grand a week, and I have extra time to sub at the library when I want. You know, Tim, Jackie is the second largest automotive cable TV advertiser in LA, after the Cal Worthington group. He does over seven hundred commercials a month, and the website gets thirty to forty repair inquiries per day."

"But, you don't really work out at his office do you? What do you do with your time, besides the horizontal bop between the sheets with those disco babes you go dancing with?"

"Hey, I don't do that as much anymore, or haven't you heard about the AIDS epidemic; and it is now called 'clubbing', or 'raving', AND the women I know are all very nice. I'd say it's better than sleeping with a gun as your bedmate, so don't get on me about my leisure activities. For your information, today, I was avoiding getting shot on Spring Street. Besides, I need your special technical expertise. What is this weird .45 auto slug anyway?" I tossed the slug wrapped in tissue paper onto his workbench, and Tim's eyes lit up when he saw it.

"If this was the bullet you were avoiding, then you are one lucky son-of-a-bitch."

"I wasn't really the prime target here."

"Whatever. First of all this is a very unusual, specialty item. Secondly, there are only about fifty guys who shoot these slugs, and all of them are incredibly fussy reloaders. Third, shooters in this league never miss. This is a round from a pin gun, except I've never seen this kind of hollow pointing before."

"A pin gun? What the hell? Who makes these guns?" Tim was still turning the propeller-shaped round over with a pair of tweezers.

"Let's look at it in the comparator." Tim clamped the round onto a small slide and put it under a widefield stereo microscope. He talked as he perused this rare bird. "Actually, Smith makes one of these guns now, but most of the ones in use were made by Smith and Colt in the 20s, 30s, and 40s. They are big-ass revolvers that use moon clips to hold .45 auto rounds in the cylinder. The guns are dead accurate. The bullets are pretty lightweight and the powder loads are pretty soft, so the recoil is low. The best bowling pin shooters use these guns and ammo."

"So, what about the hollow pointing?"

"I don't understand that. It was hand drilled on a small lathe. It would not only make the round less stable, and thus less accurate, but it would require a lot of time to balance the load for the lighter slug. You're not telling me that this was a round from that Spring Street shootout in today's news, are you? They are already offering a sixty Grand reward on the radio for news that allows them to capture the killers. Man, this slug should be big news. Are you giving this to Rocker? We haven't really touched it yet"

"You know I wanted to be a real star for the cops. This would have been an inside coup for my Internet News website. But Rocker blew me off so I came to you because this place is a good as LAPD's lab. Unbelievable how he treated me, and he knows I'm a witness too. But the five-ish corpses and a bunch of cars, doors, windows and a hot dog cart already loaned the police their slugs. If this thing hits a mammal, it makes a hole the size of a golf ball as it passes through." Tim let out a low whistle but looked quizzical.

"But, why bother when a shooter could just use a .44 mag or even something bigger?"

"Hey, I'm asking you the questions here. If I knew the answers then, I wouldn't be here. Maybe it had something to do with the fact that people were saying it was used with a silencer."

"A silencer? You're kidding me." Picking at something on the slug with long, pointed tweezers, he looked triumphant. "Wait a minute, I see what the deal was." Tim got up from his microscope stool and headed for the machine shop on the other side of a heavy door. "Let me show you what this silencer was." I was eagerly on his heels. He went over to a set of small lockers with the doors removed and pulled out a large gun rug. He unzipped it, and there was a revolver that looked for all the world like an elegant .44 mag with a short cylinder. He opened a drawer by a reloading press, took out a box of ammo, and explained what he had.

"This is a little experiment I've worked on. It uses dead-soft aluminum bullets in crimped .45 auto cases. The slug weighs only ninety grains hollow pointed. Even fired into water with low powder charges, it has awesome expansion at five hundred feet per second. But, this is the best part."

Tim grabbed a little couch pillow from a barrel and wrapped it around the cylinder and barrel of the gun using duct tape. He fired off a few rounds into a barrel of water.

"Foop, foop. The round was so quiet you could hear the turbulence as the bullet splashed and made a twisted bubble path through the water. There was a bit of lint and foam pillow shreds floating around in the air and on the surface of the water, but the shots were so quiet they could easily have escaped detection on Spring street with all the noise and traffic. Tim's gun hand didn't jerk much with each round either, remaining relatively centered and still.

"That slug you showed me is so hollowed-out it only weighed about one hundred and twenty grains, and if it hit anything, it would be so unstable, it would tumble. This shooter was intending to totally waste his targets bigtime. Trouble is, you couldn't count on being accurate more than twenty or thirty feet away from the target."

"Try ten feet away."

"Wow, this would be gory up close. In fact, if I was that close and cut the explosive charge down, all the powder would burn up before the bullet left the barrel, and that would have made it even quieter. That kind of slug goes into you in one hole and whether it come out or not doesn't matter since the bullet track could change directions a dozen times. This bullet is only useful to surreptitious murderers."

"See Tim, this is what I mean about the real way to control gun violence in America. But I'll tell you all about this double murder if you can tell me who sells these bullets. I'll throw in a half dozen crullers if you can tell me where to find the seller."

"These bullets are probably cast by Crazy Billy Perkins who lives somewhere up in San Gabriel Canyon where the Sheriff and OSHA can't find him. He casts these special slugs using tin and lead to make it almost exactly as hard as copper, then he hand loads the slugs into crimped .45 auto cases reamed down from .30-06 brass. The boattail and crimping help with case fit and accuracy. Billy is a little bit brain-addled from lead fumes. Even I'd be scared to go up the Canyon to see him, unless he said it was okay and we had a definite appointment. But he sells his stuff at the gun shows at the LA County Fair Grounds, and there is a show that starts tomorrow. You aren't thinking of hassling this guy, are you? He's a psycho."

"Hell no! I thought I'd offer cash in return for info. Besides, he'd fit right in with the company I been keepin' lately."

"Whoa baby, you had better not do that. This hand load would have to be special ordered, and Billy will never roll over on a customer. He is a very weird guy and very, very suspicious. If I was you, I'd kind of give it time and let him get to know ya for a while. Then, maybe he'd let it slip, or maybe someone would make an order while you were chatting with Billy. Otherwise, the next slug comin' your way might not miss. Nobody is that lucky."

"Tim we don't have forever here. Besides, the right info might be worth a hundred 'Kay' to me and a very nice price on that AMT9 for you." Tim got out a slip of paper from his desk drawer, then he made me a few offers.

"I want first shot at that gun of yours. I'll do a powder analysis now and tell you what is what on this round. And, Yes! I will participate in gaining some big reward money. But remember, I don't want to shoot anybody because I don't have a free "Get Out of Murder" pass, like you. And, Tommy as your long time friend, let me give you a clue about what the few "Nice" multi-gun owners said when I discussed your gun insurance plan, using those papers you left with me. We all agreed that All-Risks Gun Insurance on every gun in America would eliminate maybe, eighty percent of the gun murders and violence in America. But we also agree that it would be political suicide for any legislator in America to suggest such a plan, even though it doesn't really restrict owning or using a gun anymore than insurance restricts people from using their cars legally. But Tom, I've seen you arguing about this sure-fire "Gun Problem Reduction" plan of yours at the gun club and now allot of those guys think you are loony. I mean seriously, it's hard for me to even say phrases like; "Gun Problem," (wincing), "Gun Reduction", (wincing worse). Tom, it feels like the slippery slope to gun control in my gut."

So I fired back, "Tim, we know in our heads that reducing various gun problems by keeping guns out of the hands of prospective killers is better, even if our gut makes us feel bad about having fewer guns."

I used my best closing argument. "I'm just saying, I'd rather have the free market insurance companies, guided by federal insurance statutes, also-o-o helping reduce gun-related murders and collateral damage because if any group in the USA knows the real unvarnished costs of gun violence in America, it's the insurance companies.

Tim seemed willing to agree to disagree, and tried to be a good sport about it. "So, take this range pass and go out and blast off a few rounds if you want. I've got every kind of gun and ammo known to man here."

"Oops? Hey, got any reverse loaded .38 wadcutters in dead soft lead?"

"Shshshshshs, damn, we agreed never to talk about those rounds in public. You were supposed to say you hand loaded 'em by mistake, remember?"

"Of course I remember. Okay, get me some ammo for these. My gun insurance plan is only aimed at controlling murderers using guns and ammo used like I saw today." With that, I began to unload the pockets of my fishing/photo vest.

Tim decided to respond to my statement about gun restrictions. "I'm sure your plan is well thought out. I like the part about insurance because if someone brought a gun into our store to murder an Ex or something the store would have less liability and our costs would go down. I also feel that many of my women customers getting gunsmith work would feel more comfortable if every gun they had was insured for everything, just like their cars are. It's a popular question for intelligent first time gun buyers to ask' if their new gun is lost or stolen and is used in a murder, can the owner be held responsible?' Your insurance plan would cover that. But the people who are the real gun maniacs in America would probably shoot people who suggested your plan, so watch it when you talk about it."

The front main pockets disgorged a Walther PPK in a flat, leather clip-on holster and a two shot .38 'derringer. The two top pockets contained a Browning .25 auto with four full clips and a .32 ACP two shot derringer with a small box of ammo. Tim's eyes opened like he had just seen a dozen clowns come out of a Volkswagon.

"What the fuck is all this stuff? Since when did you start carrying all this crap? Shit, I remember now, you got some weird witness permit from the FBI after you testified in that thing about those NAZI and militia guys, didn't you? Damn, these are nice. How many PPK clips you got?"

"There's three under my clothes on the back of my belt. I guess I don't need this stuff now, but I got used to carrying it, and it builds your calves, ya know?"

"Shit, KFWB is gonna run a story about some mugger with thirty assorted slugs in him some day, and I'll know he ran into you at the wrong time, in the wrong place."

"Hey, Timmy ANY time a mugger meets me, it's the wrong time and place for him. By the way, I took this out of the glove box before I came in." Raising my leg so I could put my foot on a handy stool, I lifted my pant leg up to reveal a snub-nosed Manuhrin .357 five shot revolver. When I opened the over-hammer strap on the ankle holster, the snap popped off, and went tinkling along the cement floor. The little gun looked like something a lady should have for protection, but when Tim took it gently in his hand and popped the cylinder, he let out a low whistle, and then some praise.

"Two shot loads and three 95 grain turbo rounds. I'm impressed. This is the gun those 6th Division French super-cops gave you. I remember now. SWEET! I don't have any good ammo for this thing or the .38. Every round I've got would produce an eight foot-wide, Fourth-of-July, flame ball that would scare the piss out of the other shooters on the range and break your wrist to boot. So try some of these Super-Acc rounds in the Walther and that other stuff. I'll give you a sampler. They are incredible. I'll have the powder analysis done in twenty minutes. Man, remind me not to get you angry."

"Tim, I never get angry," I said choking with laughter. "But I get even when you don't even know a truck is about to hit you."

"Ya, that's what worries me. But, I wanna show you something that you'll really appreciate. Check this out." Tim frisbee'd what looked like a medium pizza box at me. When I opened it, I saw a light-weight body armor vest and crotch outfit. When I handled it, it clinked like teacups rattling on saucers.

"Hey, co-o-o-o-l, what's this thing got?"

"This outfit has Kevlar as the main fabric, and hundreds of ceramic shingles are interlinked in three layers by kind of a titanium chain mail. This baby is tough. A .357 round will sting you pretty bad and maybe knock you down, but the slugs just bounce off, and the gel backing gets super hot, but absorbs most of the impact energy."

"Man, how do I get one of these?"

"Well Tom, I'd say you have to qualify for a SWAT team first; it's law enforcement only. Get one from Rocker's SWAT boys. Trade him your slug. Ha! That one's a prototype. I've been testing this thing on 'Crash' over there."

"Crash" was a crash dummy with special sensors built in so he could be used for testing live ammo on the human form. Crash looked pretty beat up and he was minus some chipped-off paint, but he was still reasonably whole.

"You mean, this is what the vest and Crash look like AFTER testing? How many rounds did you hit him with?" I was incredulous. The vest had numerous round, gray circles and copper-color dots on the fabric and Crash had a few bullet holes in "his" head, but aside from that, there wasn't much that showed wear.

"I hit him with about twenty types of ammo, up to .44 mag, and then unloaded four MP5 magazines into him at ten feet with some Samson carbine ammo." Now it was my turn to whistle appreciatively. Two hundred plus rounds of ammo point blank and no damage, except for Crash's sore ribs. I decided to make a firm offer on the spot.

"Even trade, the AMT 9 mag for this setup. Make an invoice to the Federal Marshall's office, and I'll give you the name of the guy who'll cover you on it in the witness program. The stuff they have for us to wear will deflect cannon fire, but you look like a very chubby Batman if you wear it. This is like, I don't know, sports clothing or something."

"Yah, well, it ain't for sale, and I ain't done testing it yet. If it goes bad on you when you need it, it might only help deflect bullets about as well as the coating on a corn dog protects IT from your teeth."

"Aw, come on. You want that gun, and I want this outfit. You can pick up the gun when you meet me at the gun show tomorrow, so you can show your customers what that monster looks like, and I get to keep the vest to test if it is everyday wear, while you have the gun. then I'll show it to the Marshals so I get one for my birthday."

"Awright, but I'll only need the gun for a week or so to close the sale, so then I get the vest back when I pay you for the gun. Deal?" He stuck out his hand.

"Deal!" And we shook on it. Tim started downing crullers as he tore a range pass off a pad he had and dropped it in a small carton with ear protectors and various kinds of ammo. While he handed it to me, he picked up a package of long swabs and tweezers, plus some chemicals marked "Reagent A", "Reagent G", etc.

"Okay Tom, go have some fun on the range with this pass and that ammo; sorry I don't have any suitable .357 stuff. In thirty minutes, I'll tell you about this slug's life history. Gimme that ankle holster and I'll rivet a new snap on for you. It will only take five extra minutes."

I put the tiny .357 into one of the slash pockets on my vest and went over to use the "Small Caliber range". This range was specialized for calibers between .25 and .380. Otherwise, a shooter with a small handgun might have trouble concentrating next to someone with a cannon, like a .44 mag. On the range, concentration was the key factor. "Whatcha shootin'?" was always the range manager's first question to verify that you were 'appropriate' and not just impatient to start shooting if the big cannon range was full. The range manager made out a ticket with my name and stapled my pass to it. Since I wasn't a regular paying club member, I had to produce a drivers license that he paper clipped to the ticket. After being buzzed through the first set of locked range doors, I put on the ear protection Tim had lent me.

The range was half full of women and businesspeople in suits banging away with their popguns. I stayed behind the back railing, until I heard the klaxon horn, then the "weapons down" message, over the loudspeaker system. As the back area lights came up and the target holders returned, I took my place at firing position #8 and set out the guns I would be shooting. I had cut about five inches down from the corners of one side of the carton from Tim and folded the cardboard up so there was a long, open slot down the side of the box. I took a comfortable position, and then waited for the next announcement.

The red lights flashed three times. The target holders all whirred down their transport wires in position fifty feet away. The back lights went off as the lights down range came on. "Ready on the firing line." The piercing message came through. Then ... "Commence Firing." The command was only halfway finished when the blasting started.

I was pleased each Walther casing ejected smoothly and flew through the slot into the box. Super-Acc used nice brass, and I would enjoy reloading these cases. It was totally smo-o-o-o-o-th. No glitches, no stovepipes, no hang-ups, and no brass frozen in the chamber even though this ammo was rated for nine hundred and fifty feet per second velocity in a PPK. This was hot ammo, but not wild and crazy. At the next target-check break, there was an even sweeter song being sung.

Right out of the box this ammo was making two-inch groups. I looked at a few of the cases. There were no bulging primers, no over-expanded brass, not one little problem. In a short-barreled gun like the PPK, the performance of this ninety five grain ammo was spectacular.

Then, I went through the same drill with the little Browning and the .32 derringer. The Browning only made four-inch groups, which was okay because it was for shoot outs at very close range, but the derringer was incredible. I put six shots on the bulls-eye with it until my hand started to get a little sore. What was annoying was that the .357 kept falling out of my vest's slash pocket while I was shooting. There was no harm done because of the thick rubber pads the shooters stand on, but it was starting to upset me.

I decided to put the .357 back into my car's glove compartment, then come back to do a bit more shooting while waiting for Tim. At the next break in the action I exited and told the range manager I needed to go out to my car for something. I tapped on the one-way mirrored window where I could barely see Tim working and eating. I pointed towards the front while holding up a small piece of paper that said "I'll be back in five minutes". He nodded, and I put the carton with my box of guns and ammo into a little delivery chute used for returning repaired guns to customers. When I closed the little door on my side, Tim opened his side and took my stuff out.

Keeping the .357 in the slash pocket by holding it in my right hand, I headed out towards the parking lot.

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