Rusty Nail

“This is shit detail. Stakeout, teams of two, eight-hour shifts. Can’t interfere with your regular assignments, but I’ll sign off on overtime.”

I explained the target and what to do in case the target was sighted, and let them figure out the details.

Bains would hang me for the overtime, but maybe this would all be over before the paperwork went past his desk. We’d catch the guy, or I’d be killed, and in either case my concerns weren’t monetary.

After dismissing the troops, I called the Gary PD and asked for anything they had on Bud Kork, Charles Kork, Caleb Ellison, Lorna Hunt Ellison, and the daughter Bud claimed was dead. The fax machine whirred, and the info came chugging in. Lots of it.

My phone rang, and the desk sergeant told me there was someone in the lobby asking for me. Holly Frakes, Harry’s fiancée. I’d forgotten we were going shooting, and wondered how I could blow her off.

Then I decided, why the hell not? Maybe firing off a few rounds would help to release tension.

I met Holly downstairs. She wore a fitted tee that had VERSACE embroidered on it, and tight, faded jeans with tears in the knees that were usually bought by women half her age. Red pumps, probably by some obscure designer whom I couldn’t afford, rounded out the ensemble.

“Hi, Jack!” She smiled, apparently happy to see me. I endured a quick hug and a kiss on the cheek. “I love your top. Who is it?”

I glanced down at the poodle fabric sweater I wore. “Her name is Kathleen B. Local designer.”

“You have to take me there.”

I could think of few things I’d prefer less.

Holly must have mistook my silence for confusion. “You’re still up for some shooting, right?” She lifted a pink leather satchel. “I brought ordnance.”

“Sure. Range is in the basement. Come on back.”

The desk sergeant nodded at me behind two inches of bulletproof glass, and buzzed us through the security door. I led Holly past a maze of desks, to the rear staircase, and we descended two flights of metal stairs, her heels echoing like hail on a tin roof.

The shooting range occupied the entire basement. It resembled a four-lane bowling alley, though the lanes went back as far as seventy-five feet, while a bowling alley ended at sixty. The rangemaster, a lanky guy in his sixties whom everyone called Wyatt, flashed tobacco-stained teeth at us as we approached. Wyatt had been here almost as long as Bill in Evidence. He was one of the only cops in the city who shot as well as I did, though I didn’t have a cool cowboy nickname.

“Hello, ladies. Qualifying or having fun?”

“Fun.” Holly placed her satchel on Wyatt’s counter and unzipped the top. I doubted anyone else in the world used Louis Vuitton as a gun bag.

“Whatcha got in here?” Wyatt stuck his beak into the bag, then eyed Holly. “May I?”

“Please.”

He removed a pair of impressive automatics; black barrels, slides, and grips, silver butts and trigger guards. Wyatt let out a low whistle.

“McMallin Wolverines. Designed around the classic 1911 Colt. Serious hardware. You compete?”

“Sometimes.”

“Quick draw?”

“Sometimes. You spotted the mods.”

Wyatt turned the guns around in his hands. “Recessed front and rear sights, burr-style hammer, wider trigger, and it looks like a dehorning job. Nice one too.”

“Thanks. The hammer is stock, but I did the sights, trigger, and dehorning myself.”

Dehorning involved rounding every sharp angle on a gun, so it didn’t catch on holsters or clothing. It could improve a draw by several milliseconds.

Wyatt sighted the gun, worked the slide, and ejected the magazine.

“Chambered for nine mil?”

Holly offered a full-wattage smile. “Forty-fives are too big, and I’m just a girl.”

“I noticed. But I’m guessing that doesn’t hold you back much.”

“Not much.”

I unpursed my lips long enough to speak.

“Can we get some headgear, Wyatt, or are you going to fondle her weapons all night?”

My glare cut off any potential wisecracks. Every time I came down here to shoot, Wyatt flirted with me. Every single time, for the last fifteen years. Now he didn’t seem to notice I was even there.

Wyatt grabbed some field glasses and ear protectors off the wall, and Holly handed me a weapon. It was slightly large for my hand. The grip was high but the Pachmary rubber made it comfortable. It was wonderfully balanced, though it had to go two pounds – twice the weight of my.38.

“It’s the officer’s model,” Holly told me. “Five-inch barrel instead of six.” She winked at Wyatt. “Bigger isn’t always better.”

“Amen to that,” he said, handing out the gear.

Holly took out a plastic bag full of shiny brass rounds. Since they weren’t straight from the box, I assumed them to be reloads. Wyatt noticed too.

“You load your own?”

“Lots of gun nuts think the nine-millimeter round lacks the stopping power of a.40 or a.45, but I’ve found that it’s the bullet that makes the difference, not the caliber. I pour my own lead and load my shells to 150 grains. The expansion and penetration can compete with anything out there. Design can make up for weight and velocity.”

I respected weapons. I even got a certain degree of satisfaction from them, as I would from any high-performance tool. But this woman was the Martha Stewart of firearms.

Holly popped her clip and loaded it. When she reached ten bullets, she slapped it in, worked the slide to chamber a round, and dropped it back out to add one more shot to the clip. I pressed the oversized release catch and did the same. We each filled a spare clip as well.

“Silhouettes or bull’s-eyes?”

Holly asked for silhouettes. Wyatt handed us two 25" ¥ 35" targets, each featuring the life-sized torso and head of a man done in black ink. On the chest was a white area the size of a pineapple, with the number five in it. On the head, an orange-sized circle contained a number ten.

Holly and I do

I watched Holly, and she stopped at fifteen yards. I did the same.

The lane floors were covered in a thick layer of sand, and at the end of the range was a pockmarked metal wall, tilted on a forty-five-degree angle. Rounds went through the targets, hit the wall, and ricocheted into the ground, where they buried themselves.

I started with a two-handed grip to get used to the recoil. The first shot surprised me. Not only was the trigger pull less than I expected – it moved like butter – but the recoil was extremely light and the muzzle rise minimal. Must have had a compensator built in.

I squeezed off two more rounds, both eyes open, knees slightly bent, letting the gun teach me how to hold it. The high grip helped steady the weapon, and I put both shots through the sweet spot in the head.

I tried a one-handed grip, angling my body sideways, sighting along my right arm. Three more shots, through the heart.

To be playful, I put the last five in the groin, then looked over at Holly.

As far as I could tell, all eleven of her shots went through the chest. We brought in our targets and traded papers. Not only were all of hers in the chest area, but they were grouped in a space the size of a silver dollar.

Wyatt brought more targets. He appraised Holly’s, then mine, giving us both nods of approval. We gave him our empty clips and he went off to fill them.

This time I sent the silhouette back the full twenty-five yards. I loaded another clip, sighted the target, and fired all ten shots at the head as fast as I could pull the trigger.

When I brought the target back, I saw I’d put all but two rounds through the ten-point circle. The other two went through the neck. It was a damn fine weapon.