Dick by Law (4 page)

Chapter
8

China, 130 Million Years Ago

Cretac
eous Period, Mesozoic Era

Repenomamus gigantus:
the largest known early ma
mmal, over one meter long
. The first fossil evidence of this
canine
species was found in the Liaoning Province fossil beds of China. Thought to have been a carnivore whose diet included small dinosaurs.

 

*****

If the doglike creature had had a name, it might have been Grip. Of all the
fur-covered, warm-blooded,
dog
like
things roaming that prehistoric
forest
, his jaws had the most powerful grip by far. Once he got hold of something, he never let go.

It didn't matter if he sunk his teeth into one of the four-winged feathered flyers
or one of the furry, ratlike mammals...
a long-legged frog in a steaming marsh or
the egg of a monstrous dinosaur whose head towered a
mong the tops of the pine
and fir trees.
He
never
let go.

On
one
blistering hot afternoon, for example, Grip's mouth was latched onto the leg of a dinosaur...a small dinosaur, but still twice Grip's size. The gray-and-white striped dino was a runner, upright and skinny, but it wasn't going anywhere fast with Grip clamped onto one leg.

Blood oozed from the punctures Grip's teeth made in the leg. The
salty, metallic
taste of it stirred his appetite, making his mouth water and his stomach growl. He couldn't wait to eat.

And he'd be eating soon, he knew it. Grip had been holding on a while, and the dino was getting tired.
Squawking and squealing, i
t tried to shake Grip free, but with nowhere near the force it had used moments earlier.

Grip knew it was time to make a move.
Red-tipped ears flattened against
the mottled brown and white fur of
his
neck
, he twisted his body hard to one side, wrenching the dino's leg out from under it. The dino screeched and flailed, trying to stay erect, but Grip sealed its fate with another twist.

The dino fell thrashing into the
thick
ferns. It knew one last instant of freedom, when Grip let go of its leg, and it scrambled to try to escape...but the instant passed, and Grip lunged for its throat
with a snarl
.

Grip's teeth sank into the dino's long, slender neck and tore out a
tender
strip of flesh. Blood gushed from a shredded artery, and Grip kept ripping.

Ripping and chewing.

By the time Grip was done, the dino's head was almost completely severed from its body. Grip gulped down hunks of meat and lapped up blood, and soon even the last twitches of the dino's pieces had stopped.

With relish, Grip ate his fill. He felt an extra flare of pride for bringing down a dino twice his size, and he felt a ripple of relief for knowing he'd be able to feed his family that night.

Such was life in the Mesozoic Era of the Cretaceous Period in the place that would someday be
known as
China
's Liaoning Province
. Kill or be killed, every morning, noon, and night. Survival of the fittest.

Dog eat dinosaur.

When Grip had eaten all he could hold, he latched onto the dino's leg again and began to drag it. What mattered most now was getting the meat back to the burrow before
something else stole it or
it spoiled...getting good meat into the bellies of his mate and pups.

They were the reason he hunted so hard and never let go. They made him happier than anything in the world.

And nothing could ever make him let go of them.

 

*****

Chapter
9

130 Million Years Later

Saturday

Near Melville, Pennsylvania

One day after his first victory in court,
Simon pulled the trigger, and a fresh round leaped from the barrel of the rifle. One of the bad guys
who was
sneering at him from across the
mudd
y street flipped backward, crashing to the floorboards.

With a
clang
.

"Woo
-hoo
!" Quinn was shouting from the spectator gallery behind Simon. "Great shooting, bro!"

Simon smirked and slid the rifle barrel across the rim of the water trough he was using to steady his shots.
A stiff April breeze swept over him as h
e lined up the next target in his sights--an
image of an
Old West bad guy in black hat and
mustache
, stamped on a
metal plate the size of a man.

Simon squeezed the trigger, and another round of live ammunition burst
across the
mudd
y street
. The shot struck the bad guy target dead on, right between the glaring eyes, and it fell with
a
clang.

As the crowd
of twenty or so fellow cowboys and cowgirls
in the gallery applauded, Simon put down the rifle and slid a pistol from the holster at his left hip.
He cocked the hammer, took aim at a third target, and fired.

He hit that one, too. The third bad guy
--a mountain man type with a coonskin cap, bushy beard, and blood-drenched axe--
dropped out of sight.

Simon grinned
and
reached for the shotgun
leaning against the trough
. On the heels of his great day in court, he was having a kick-ass day of Cowboy Action Shooting. He thought he might even beat Quinn
for the first time in ages
.

Simon loaded the shotgun, then tipped back his
light
brown cowboy
hat and braced the gunstock against his leather vest. Old West costumes were part of the sport of Cowboy Action Shooting, as were the single-action guns, live ammo, and sets straight out of Dodge City
, erected on the property of a sportsmen's club twenty minutes outside Melville.

The nickname "aliases"
were part of it, too. "The
Lone Appraiser
picks up a
time of
25:20 on Stage 2!" That was what the announcer said after Simon--otherwise known as the
Lone Appraiser
--
kn
ocked down a fourth target
(a wicked-looking dance hall girl dressed in blue,
both hands gripping Derringer pistols)
.

It was corny as hell,
and Simon loved it. So did Quinn--Mr. Knight
Ranger
himself.

"Great job, Sy!" Quinn marched out of the gallery and slapped Simon on the back.
"You're giving me a run for my money today!"

Simon grinned as he holstered his revolver and gathered up his rifle and shotgun. "I guess I'm on a roll, man."

"In more ways than one." Quinn took hold of Simon's shoulder and steered him toward the gallery. "There's someone I want you to meet."

A man stepped out of the crowd and waved.
He was dressed like Hoss Cartwright from
Bonanza
--white hat and shirt, brown vest and pants--and buil
t like him, too--tall
and
b
road-shouldered,
with
a general
beefiness and a belly that was
ample
but not
flabby
.

"This is Jim Lassiter," said Quinn. "Sarsaparilla Slim in the Cowboy Action Shooting Society."

Cowboy hats bobbing in the sun, t
he rest of the crowd ambled off to the next event
, or
stage
.
But
Jim stayed behind.
"
Good
to meet
you."
He
stuck out his hand.

"Jim's visiting from the Kentucky Wildmen," said Quinn.

"Welcome to the Melville Avengers."
As
Simon shook Jim's hand
, he caught a whiff of B.O. and too much cologne.
"I'm Simon Bellerophon."

"Great outfit you got here." Jim looked around at the shooting range with its mockups of Old West settings
: a saloon,
a sheriff's office, a general store, a Boot Hill graveyard.
Sunlight gleamed on the m
etal cutout targets painted with Wild West bad guys
that were propped up
at every location.
"Takes my mind off my problems."

"Jim's in town to settle his aunt's estate," said Quinn. "I'm handling the legal side."

"I could use an
appraiser
right now, too," said Jim. "Lots of antiques and jewelry in the estate."

"How does your schedule look, Simon?" Quinn raised an eyebrow.

Simon nodded.
"I have some time available."
He was always happy when Quinn lobbed a business referral his way.

"Fantastic." Jim clapped him on the arm. "I'll call
in a week or three
."

"Just one problem." Simon patted his pockets and shook his head. "I don't have a business card with me."

In a blink, Quinn
whipped a gold-plated business card holder from his coat pocket, flipped it open, and flicked out a card. "Fortunately, I came prepared." Smiling, he handed over the card to Jim.

Jim chuckled and took the card. "Where'd you two learn this kind of teamwork?"

"We're foster brothers," said Quinn. "We grew up together."

"Which one of you was the foster child?" said Jim.

"
Both
," said Simon. "Neither one of us was raised by our birth parents."

"And now you
work
together," said Jim.

"And
shoot
together," said Simon
.

"Not that we're always on the same wavelength, of course." Quinn shot Simon a look.

"Still, I wish I got along that well with
my
brother." Jim sighed and turned to go. "Well, I'll
be in touch
."

As Jim ambled away, Simon elbowed Quinn in the ribs. "Don't tell me you're still stuck on the
dick
situation."

Quinn shrugged. "I'm just saying. Who has the deeper pockets--national delivery company 5G5 or two-bit flunky claims adjustor
Horne Shaw
?"

"Read my lips," said Simon. "I...don't...care."

"Because you're not in it for the
money
." Quinn took off his gray suede ten-gallon hat and batted dust from the crown. "What's the matter with you, Simon? Don't you
like
money? Because
I
sure do."

Simon
swung his rifle up on one shoulder and his shotgun on the other. "Money won't stop
Horne
from hurting other people."

"And calling him a
dick
will?"

"You bet."
Simo
n headed for the next stage of the match--a mockup of an Old West saloon. "If everyone knows what he is up front, they'
ll be
more likely to steer clear of him."

"Here's what I'm saying." Quinn drew one of his revolvers and swung out the cylinder
. The spurs on his black boots jingled
as he walked. "
Horne
acts like a total
dick
, doesn't he? You mean to tell me people don't realize he's
bad news
the first time they
deal
with
him?"

Just then,
Simon heard the announcer call the start of the next stage and quickened his step. "
Horne
's a menace to society.
I want him
marked for life
."

"I never steer you wrong, bro." Quinn holstered
his
revolver and reached for the rifle slung on his back. "Promise me you'll think about the deep pockets, okay? We can still amend the complaint."

"
Never
," said Simon.

Quinn blew out his breath in frustration. "Just
sleep
on it, will you?"

"
Never in a million years." Simon
's hands clenched around the rifle and sh
otgun resting on his shoulders. "No fucking way. Not after what that dick
did
to me."

 

*****