Mac's looks were not matched by his skills.
One of the trainees piped up. "I heard you're a helluva shot."
Tim said, "I can blow up a guy's head with a remote control, too."
Nervous laughter.
Gutierez showed off his target, poking his fingers through. "Why don't you give it a go now?"
"Okay. Whose head?"
"Come on, Rack," Fowler said. "We've heard so much grapevine about you, but we've never seen shit." His tone was joking but his smile tight.
Mac gestured grandly at the trailer. "We brought the range to you."
Dray pulled out her shooting card and pointed it at Tim. "You haven't broken in the new gun. Why don't you go shut these boys up?"
Tim generally avoided pissing contests, but the memory of watching from the sidelines while the ART squad dirt-dived their skills still stung enough for him to want to display prowess. There were likely more advanced ways for him to affirm his manhood than by flaunting his proficiencies on a mobile range in Moorpark, but none so user-friendly.
He snapped up Dray's card and headed for the trailer, the deputies crowding behind him, whooping and clapping.
The back door banged against the range operator's minuscule desk. The burly deputy nodded at Tim and punched out thirty rounds of ammo on Dray's card.
"Thirty-eight special," Tim said.
The operator tapped the rounds down on the desk like a brick of casino chips. The three narrow lanes, standard point-and-shoots, didn't quite stretch twenty-five yards, so deputies worked off smaller targets. Foam padding eliminated the ricochet factor but added to the suffocating feel of firing in a tight space. The bullets had to be range-issue, straight from the factory; given the tight quarters, no one wanted to risk some yahoo's toting in unreliable reloads.
Ignoring the chatter behind him, Tim rolled the foam earplugs between his palms, slid them in as they started to expand, and pulled on eye protection. He winked at his wife, who stood propped against the door with crossed arms and an amused smile. The target downrange, now turned sideways so it presented like a paper sliver, featured the archetypal floating silhouette, Johnny Critical Mass. Ever since 9/11, the establishment had sought to better acquaint its shooters with lethality – targets had become increasingly animated, sprouting faces and expressions, the bull's-eye going the way of the billy club.
The overhead fan worked hard to clear the smell of cordite.
Since Tim used a revolver, he prepped four speedloaders. Eschewing the convenient countertop at the mouth of the booth, he dropped the speedloaders into the leather pouch at his belt, where he'd need to find them in a real shoot-out.
The rules required he'd have to get off at least three rounds every six seconds. Most shooters fired autos, since the magazines held fifteen rounds – they needed only one reload per test. Tim would require four.
He held the. 357 waist high and pointed to the right, both hands positioned on the stock, awaiting the swivel of the target. The interior dimmed until everything was dark but the floating silhouette, which remained semi-illuminated – low-light conditions to simulate night, when most shootings take place.
The target spun to face him. He'd sighted on the fist-size ring at the heart before it even finished its pivot, squeezing off six rounds. Thumbing forward the left-side lever, he released the well-lubed wheel, the spent casings sliding out as his fingers found a full speedloader in the pouch. Now he was in a tunnel – nothing existed except the weight of steel in his hands and the beckoning ten-ring. The gun barked six more times, and he tipped and reloaded, tipped and reloaded, casings raining at his feet, cordite spooling up from his booth in tendrils.
After firing off his thirtieth shot, he emerged as if from a daze, the overheads coming on, the target whistling uprange. A quarter-size hole penetrated the middle of the ten-ring, a few tattered chads dangling from the near-perfect O. A hushed murmur came up from the row of deputies at the wall.
Tim pulled off his glasses, thanked the range operator, and headed out with Dray into the blinding light of the afternoon.
They reached his car, Dray still squinting. "Show-off." She lowered the volume on her portable radio. "I have to get back out. What's the latest?"
She listened impassively to his account of the morning, then said, "And you lost your wedding ring?"
"Right." He retrieved it from his back pocket and slid it on.
She gave him a humorous scowl. "I'd better not find out you spent the morning cruising gay bars."
"The ones I go to, the wedding ring's a real draw."
"Cute." She held up an index finger to Mac, now awaiting her at the squad car. The trainee waved to Tim on his way back into the station. "Prowling a college campus for kids leaving therapy." Dray ran her hand through her hair, pinching a hank at the top so it arced forward in two wedges, brushing her cheeks. "They've got their system down, don't they?"
"It's a long con, really. They bilk kids out of their minds, then out of their money." Tim shook his head. "First rule of swindling -use people against themselves."
"Hitting a bit close to home?"
Tim pulled on his sunglasses and braced himself. "I'm thinking I might talk with him."
Dray released her hair, letting her arm slap to her side.
Tim waited. She added nothing to the disheartened gesture. "What?"
"I didn't say anything."
"He's got a pro's perspective on it all. Frauds, cons, scams, rackets, schemes."
"That's for sure." She stared at him through his sunglasses. "He's quicksand, Timothy. Make sure you keep one foot on solid ground."
Mac's piercing whistle snapped her head around, and she turned to start back to her patrol car.
The old beige Cadillac Seville parked in the gravel lot told Tim he'd found his mark.
The shack had every order of car stereos and speakers embedded in its carpeted walls, a-thrum with the bass vibrations of the latest emissary for window-tinted low riders and Sunset club junkies. Spray-paint depictions of stereos dotted the plywood exterior, suspended in white clouds like the loot-filled imaginings of an acoustically minded cartoon burglar. A slight scan of the binocs brought the subject himself into focus, visible near the back door, his clean-pressed slacks and calm, pacifying gestures distinguishing him instantly from the animated, grease-stained mechanic and the flustered consumer.
He placed a hand on the customer's arm and steered him down into his vehicle, all the while his lips moving slow and steady. He waved as the car pulled out, the driver looking slightly confused but appeased.
Tim crossed Lincoln Boulevard in a jog and stole up on the shack. He tracked a man in a Nike jumpsuit to the door, then waited outside, hidden from view. The oppressive sound systems had been turned down, so Tim was able to hear the voices within.
"- six-and-a-half MB Quart component speakers," said the familiar voice. "You want to install it yourself, it'll void warranty, but I could let it go cheaper."
"How much cheaper?"
"Ricardo! How much are those new MB Quart separates we just got in?"
The mechanic's shout from the back was partially drowned out by the whir of his drill. "Five hundred."
"Four hundred dollars. You heard the gentleman. I can't do any better than that."
Tim leaned his head back against the cheap plywood, smiling. The man hurriedly paid and scampered out, the steal of the century boxed in cardboard and clasped beneath an arm.
Tim stepped through the doorway, and the man looked up. "Timmy."
"Dad."
"Nice deaf routine."
His father smiled and tilted his head gracefully. "I like to see people happy. And it does move product." He folded his hands, bringing them to rest at his waistline. "How'd you find me? Let me guess – you talked to my nanny."
Tim nodded.