Julio was about to learn that a baby changed all kinds of priorities.
Gunny said,
Howard chuckled at that. The Ragin’ Cajun was Jerry Miculek, a pro shooter who’d set the modem revolver record a dozen or so years ago, down in Mississippi. Using an eight-shot.38 Special revolver, he put all eight rounds on a target in one second flat. He also fired at four different targets, two rounds each, and hit them all just 0.06 of a second slower. And with a six-shooter, he was was able to put six hits on one target,
Howard had had his revolver fitted with a set of grips designed by Miculek, but it hadn’t helped that much.
Of course, more than sixty-five years before Miculek, the legendary Ed McGivern fired five shots from a 1905 Smith & Wesson Hand Ejector Military and Police.38 into a playing card in a mere 0.4 of a second.
No way Howard could ever get close to any of that, not if he practiced every day of the week and twice on Sunday. Still, for his purposes, he was good enough for government work. Tests had shown that a fair-to-middling shooter took between a second and a second and a half to draw a handgun from concealment and get a shot off. If a man with a tire tool or a knife was inside twenty or so feet and was in a hurry, he’d get to you before you could shoot him. If he was closer than that, and your gun was in the holster, best you make some space or be ready for hand-to-hand to hold him off long enough to draw your piece.
Of course, if Howard went somewhere expecting trouble, he was sure going to be carrying a rifle. Maybe a submachine gun, and it would be pointed in the general direction of any trouble, too.
Then again, he had gotten shot when he hadn’t been expecting it, so this was a skill he needed to hone.
“Don’t forget to stop and have your ring reprogrammed on the way out, sir.”
Howard nodded. All Net Force guns were smart technology now. You wore a ring with a code that changed every month or so. If somebody not wearing a properly coded ring picked up a Net Force weapon and tried to use it, it wouldn’t fire. Howard still didn’t trust it, but so far there hadn’t been any failures of the system, at least not with his people. It was a good idea in theory, but if one of his team ever pointed a gun that didn’t go bang! when it was supposed to, there would be hell to pay, and he’d be leading the devil’s collection team himself, assuming it wasn’t his gun that malfunctioned and got him killed.
“Reset,” he said. “Seven meters, one.”
Make it a little more challenging, this time…
“Go!”
He reached for his gun.
12
The gag came to Bobby as he was driving back from the desert.
It happened because a year or so ago, he had concocted about a quarter kilo of something he called GD, short for Giggle Dust. At the time, he’d had a customer somewhere interested in it, but something must have happened, and he’d stuck it into a drawer in the RV and completely forgotten about it. When he’d been there today talking to Ma and Pa Yeehaw, who actually were married and from Missouri originally, he happened to open that drawer, and son of a bitch lookit, there it was. Eight ounces of the gray green powder, worth an easy four grand if he wanted to bother with it. Free money.
GD was a blend of MMDA — an analog of MDA, or Ecstasy — some psilocybin from a batch of dried baeocystis mushrooms he’d bought from a guy in British Columbia, and a little dexadrine. Everybody didn’t react to it the same way, of course, but in most people, it tended to make for a really happy trip, laughing, giggling, speeding their asses off, beaming at everybody, and having a fun time in general. Problem was, the mix was iffy, and it was hard to get the recipe exact. This batch worked pretty good — he’d let Tad try a hit way back when — but the next mix might not. The mushrooms were the key, and they varied all over the place. Only real side effect was it tended to make you thirsty but not able to pee, so when it wore off, you’d be spending a lot of time in the john.
The gag would take all the GD he had, but what the hell, if you couldn’t have fun, why bother? He had precursor for another batch of the Hammer, he already had orders for fifteen grand or so lined up, and probably another five or eight thousand would be in by the time he got ready to mix. Money wasn’t a problem. He had money to burn.
The more he thought about it, the better he liked it. So he might be late for his dinner with the Zee-ster, no big deal. Zee was gonna be out of it anyhow, if he’d swung the Hammer last night. He wasn’t in as bad shape as Tad, Zee was a jock, but even with chemical assistance, he was gonna be dragging ass today. And he was usually late, even when he was straight.
Drayne grinned. Yeah. He was gonna do it. He could cut over to the 405, get off at Westwood, and it would be right there, just up Wilshire, no problem. It was still early enough he could beat most of the traffic. Thirty, forty minutes, he’d be pulling up next to the Federal Building. He been there enough times when his old man had still been protecting the republic.
The building was the home of the Los Angeles office of the Federal Bureau of Investigation.
Oh, yeah, this was gonna be a hoot, all right.
Still hardly able to move, Tad managed to sit up on the couch to stare at Bobby. There weren’t many days when he thought Bobby was crazier than he was. This was one of them. He said, “You’re shittin’ me.”
“Nope.”
“You blew four thousand dollars’ worth of Giggle Dust to stone fuckin’ FBI HQ in L.A.?”
“Yep.”
“You’re friggin’ nuts, Bobby.”
“I’d have spent that much more to have been a fly on the wall. Maybe we can get one of the security recordings of it someday. See all those uptight fuckheads laughing and holding hands and being in tune with the universe and all.”
“Jeez, Bobby, you have to let that go. They are just doing their jobs, you know? That’s why they hire ’em.”
“You don’t know what you’re talking about, Tad.”
“Yeah, yeah. Okay. How’d you pull it off?”
“Easy. They got great security, but I went to fill out an application for a job on the floor above them. Got out to the roof, up to the air conditioners, found the right vents, moved a couple of filters, voila! the air is full of magic.”
“Four grand. For a practical joke.”
“Tad, Tad, Tad. Let me tell you a story.”
“Aw, geez, not another of your shaggy dog stories!”
“Shut up, Tad. Listen and learn:
“So there’s this couple in Vegas, see, and after a long day, they go upstairs and go to bed. Wife drops off to sleep, but the husband can’t, so he gets up, gets dressed, and goes down to the casino with ten bucks. He goes to the craps table, puts it down, throws a natural, and he’s a winner!
“So he lets it ride, and wins again. And again. And yet again!
“This is incredible stuff. He’s throwing naturals, he’s making points the hard way, he can’t lose.
“Next thing you know, the guy has parlayed his bets up to almost a million bucks. And he’s feeling unbeatable, so he lets it ride one more time. If he wins, he’s gonna leave rich.
“He throws snake eyes and loses it all.
“He goes back to his room. As he’s getting into bed, he wife wakes up. ‘Where you been?’ she asks.
