d**k by Law

Chapter 9

9130 Million Years Later, Saturday - Near Melville, PennsylvaniaOne 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 muddy 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 he 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 muddy 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 c****d 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--knocked 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 built like him, too--tall and broad-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, the 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 metal 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 d**k 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 d**k will?"

"You bet." Simon 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 d**k, 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 shotgun resting on his shoulders. "No f*****g way. Not after what that d**k did to me."