Sweet Dreams (18 page)

Kirk looked over his shoulder at the past due rent, the power bills and other pink and red envelopes all warning him that unless he paid them he would be out on the streets. "They can wait, if they haven't kicked me out yet, then they can hold off another week or so."

Geoff nodded and began washing the skillet he cooked the morning's meal in.

"Hurry up; we've got to get down to the station and see if we can make boss man have a heart attack." Kirk got up, and shoved the last mouthful of food into his face before heading out the door. Geoff grabbed his notebook and followed Kirk to the parking garage. Kirk pointed to a Harley Davidson motorcycle with a sidecar attached to it and grinned. He loved the beat up old hog and now he was back home and back in the saddle with Sandra. Sandra was what he named the bike, don't ask why, it just seemed to fit.

"That's where you ride!" Kirk nodded in the direction of the small sidecar and laughed devilishly. Geoff folded his long legs into a tight ball to get in; he was too tall for this sort of thing, and the cold wind wasn't going to make it a pleasant ride. Kirk started it up, a cloud of thick black smoke billowed from the tailpipe, and Geoff gagged and coughed.

"This is going to be a long day!"

________________________________________

MARK LOOKED DOWN AT the directions that Bert had written down on a piece of paper. Taking the next exit, he made a right and headed out of the City toward the shooting range that sat about ten miles to the west of off-ramp 109. He could not think of the last time he had shot a gun, but it had

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been a long time. He went hunting a few times in the Colorado mountains with his Dad, but they never got much, it was not really hunting, more like hiking with a gun. The range was lit up like the White House; it had lights along the outdoor shooting lanes where you stood under a heated canopy. The lanes looked like mini runways just waiting for a plane to land. No one stood under the canopy this night and with the weather, Mark was not surprised. Pulling into a nearby parking space, he got out and locked the door behind him. He shivered as the cutting wind hit him in the face taking his breath away in an instant. He began to think this wasn't such a good idea in this cold. Mark was not aware that the range also had a basement range as well so at first glance he thought that they would be outside in the wind. Bert yelled at Mark from the doorway, waving his arms above his head. He smiled at Mark and watched him walk toward the warm building through the blasting cold. "Hi ya, I see you found it okay. I know what you're thinking...but they have an indoor range in the basement. You're only allowed to shoot pistols there, but it's still a hoot!" Mark was relieved and smiled as he unzipped his thick winter jacket.

"Good. I was thinking that you'd be crazy to try to shoot in this cold!" Bert laughed and patted Mark on the back as he showed him around.

The building was built of big logs with cracked white grout in-between the logs keeping out most of the outdoors. A huge chandelier made of deer antlers hung from the ceiling with flickering lights dancing like candles. The front desk had a gun case built into it with handguns under the glass and a stocky man standing behind it, polishing a pistol with his big, well-muscled arms. He looked like he could crush the gun like a empty pop can, but his fingers touched and cleaned the weapon with gentle precision. Behind the counter was a wall full of rifles and shotguns of every make and model. Most of them were for rent if you did not want to shoot your own gun or if you didn't have one.

Bert walked over to a leather couch that sat in front of a roaring fireplace in what appeared to be a sitting area. He plopped down a black case on the coffee table and opened it, revealing two handguns lying in the foam lining. One was a silver revolver and one was black metal and looked different then the revolver.

"Now, this one is a .45 cal. It packs a punch, and this here is a .357 magnum. This guy will take someone's head off if you ever need it to!" Bert then explained how they worked and how to use the safety, which he said was "The most important thing to know."

"So which one do I get to shoot?" Mark asked as he looked at the silver and black metal gleaming in the firelight.

"I think you will like the .45 cal. And if you want, you can take your chances with the .357 later." Bert grinned as he handed Mark the .45 and a box of bullets.

After they signed in at the front desk, they went down a flight of stairs that opened up to a big room with individual counters separated by a half wall. Each lane was about thirty feet long with targets on a pulley at the end. Bert showed Mark how to draw the target back to look at it and how to put up a fresh one. Mark put up a fresh target that looked like an angry man holding a gun and pointing it at you with a look of rage on his face. Mark pushed a red button, and the pulley

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activated and ran the target out as far as it would go. Bert looked the part with his hair slicked back and his black fingerless gloves. He was a gangster wannabe, and with the .357 in his hand, Mark would not want to meet him in a dark alley.

Bert was Italian, down to his short legs and thick waistline. He looked just like a character from The Godfather. Mark hired him five years ago after Bert moved from Chicago to New York. He was a single guy with a few girlfriends here and there, but for the most part he was too busy
living the life
as he would say, too be to serious with any of them. Bert motioned for Mark to shoot first so he could make sure he did not have any problems. The place had a few other people shooting down a few lanes over, but for the most part, the place was empty. Mark put on his earmuffs and began to put one bullet at a time into the magazine until he could not fit any more. He slid the clip into place until he felt it click, and then slid the action back and let it drop forward again. Mark tried to remember if he had ever actually shot a pistol before. He could not think of a time that he had, but somehow it felt natural as he held the loaded gun in his hand. He felt a sense of power come over him as he looked at the dark metal glisten in his hand. The feeling of remembrance from a far away part of his mind took over so strong, Mark for a minute thought he was in another world. He looked at his hands and noticed that they were shaking slightly, was he scared? Bert looked at him from the other lane, waiting for Mark to do something besides just stand there and look confused. Mark sprang into action in what seemed like slow motion, but in reality Mark moved with the speed of a gunslinger. He lifted the gun with his right hand holding the handle, and with his index finger on the trigger and his left hand cupping his right just as he had seen in any good cop movie. He saw the target and closed his eyes to focus, and slow down his heartbeat. He did not know why but something told him he needed to be calm and stop his shaking hands.

And just like that, it was over; a whiff of smoke came from the barrel and floated up to the ceiling. Mark looked down the sights at the target, not knowing if he had shot it or not. He lowered the handgun and looked over at Bert who was just staring at him with his mouth hanging open. Mark was not sure how many times he had fired, so he dropped the clip, it was empty. Bert finally got a word out in his stunned condition. "What was that? I've never seen anyone shoot that fast, not even in all the years I've been coming to this range. Holy crap, man!"

"Was that good?" Mark looked more confused than Bert did. Walking around to Mark's booth, Bert took the gun from his hand and looked at it trying to see if it was made of pure magic or if it was a real gun and he was just seeing things. He examined the clip and shook his head. "Well, I don't know what to say, that was...was amazing! Its one thing to shoot fast, anyone can pop off a clip, but did you hit anything?" Mark looked down the lane but was not sure what it should look like. The target looked the same as it did a minute ago, no huge gaping holes like he imagined it would, maybe he missed.

Bert hit the button to return the target. As it got closer, Mark noticed that there was light coming through the center that looked like a golf ball had gone through it. Maybe he did hit it!

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"No way," Bert was shocked and shook his head in half amazement and half disgust. "There is no way...man; you said you've never shot a pistol before. You're a dirty rotten liar!"

"No...really, I haven't! I shot a few times when I was younger, but it was just a rifle," Mark held up two fingers and said, "Scout's honor," to show he was telling the truth.

"Well, it must be beginner's luck, try that again. I bet you can't hit a thing this time."

Mark held out his hand to shake on it. "Fine, load me up and let's see." Mark grinned, not knowing if he could do it again or not, but it was fun either way. Bert filled the clip and slid it into place, looking sideways at Mark as if he suspected him of cheating somehow.

Mark took the gun from Bert and stepped into the booth. A man from another booth had been listening in on the conversation had made his way over to see what all the commotion was about.

Slipping his ear protection down low, Mark looked at the new target down at the end of the aisle. Closing his eyes, he thought about the target, seeing it in his mind. A wave of raw energy filled his body, and like a bolt of lightning, he opened his eyes to see the magazine slide back and then forward, sending a flash out the end of the barrel. He watched the single trail of smoke rise up in the air like a lick of used up fire going home never to return.

'Click'

Lowering the gun, he looked at it, thinking that the gun must have jammed. Dropping the clip, he stared at it in shock...it was empty. Now it was Marks turn to stare at the gun like a deer in the headlights.

The two men behind him just looked at him in utter envy and before now, Mark had not noticed the two men who were transfixed on him as if he was a celebrity or something.

"Do it again!" Bert yelled from behind him.

Repeatedly, Mark filled targets with golf ball size holes and not only that; he could empty the clip in less then four seconds. Just about, everyone in the building formed a crowd, and cheered as he brought in the last one and held it up for all to see. He could not explain it. He felt this surge of ...of something come over him, and he just knew what to do. Bert took full advantage of the situation, making fifty bucks off the newcomer who had shown up at the end.

After the guys went back to their own aisles, Bert showed Mark how to clean the hand guns and then they put them back in the black case where they sat on dimpled foam.

"That was something, Mark, you've got a natural gift, you know,"

"Thanks, it just felt easy, as if I just instinctively knew what to do, I can't explain it."

"Cool, I wish I could shoot like that,"

Bert put away the .357 and closed the black carrying case. Looking around, Mark noticed a big hairy man sitting on the couch in front of the fireplace.

"Who is that?" Mark pointed out the big man to Bert.

"He has been hanging around all night and looking over at us."

"Oh, that's Fred; you want to stay away from him. Word is that he sells black market guns on the street and is moving a butt load of drugs along with it."

"Wow. So he just hangs out, trying to pick up new cli-

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ents?"

"Yup, a lot of guys that come here want to buy a gun after they try it, it's addicting."

Mark nodded in agreement, seeing how you could get addicted to shooting. After they buttoned up their coats to brave the cold winter wind, Mark thanked Bert and promised to come with him again. Bert shook his hand and grinned like a mobster with only half of his face.

As Mark watched Bert pull away, he sat in his car with the heater running. He wondered if this Fred guy would have anything on him. Not a fix he was never into the whole drug thing, what he wanted was a gun. He shook his head and put the car into drive. As he started to pull out, he saw the directions to Pat Rotter's house sitting on the passenger seat like
an
omen
prodding him to act. He changed his mind, pulled back into the parking space, and got out of the car. What was he doing? He wasn't a hero, or a detective, he was just...well ordinary!

Walking back inside, he quickly made his way over to where Fred was sitting. When Fred saw Mark, he grinned with a toothless grin, showing his blackened teeth...or what was left of them.

"Hey." Mark paused, "I'm Mark. I was wondering if you've got a minute?" Mark shook Fred's hand and sat down on an overstuffed chair across from the large man.

"So what can I get you this fine evening?" The smoke from his fat cigar drifted from his lips as he talked.

"Well..." Mark lowered his voice. "I need a gun,"

"Ah, I see, now what kind of gun are we looking for, I wonder." His voice grumbled from deep within his heavy chest. After a bout with a nasty cough, he shoved the cigar back into his mouth and took a long drag.

Mark looked at the man and leaned toward him as he spoke. "I need something for home protection, something that can take out more then one person at a time, you know, close up. Do you have anything like that?"

His thick beard bounced like worms on a hook as he laughed. His voice sounded like gravel and he coughed after each laugh, which sent him doubling over for a few seconds, until he caught his breath.

"Yeah, I think I got what you might be looking for, follow me." Getting up, he headed to a side door that led to the parking lot without going by the front desk. He led Mark to an old paint chipped car with a long nose and huge trunk. Pulling out a set of keys, he opened the trunk, where he pulled out a black carrying case. The case looked a lot like the one Bert had, but it was much larger and heavier judging from the way Fred grunted and groaned trying to lift it out of the deep trunk. The wind made Mark zip up his coat as he stood in the dim light of the moon. The side of the range was out of view of the road and Mark looked into the strange man's car wondering what he might see, wondering if he was losing his mind standing here in the dark drunken night considering buying a gun from a drug dealer.