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rookie," snapped Bell. "Over here." Bell held the comatose Chug's head up by his hair. He ducked down behind him. He flapped out one of Chug's ears. "Did you hear about the talking hat box?"
    "Uh, no," answered Wes.
    "All it could say was…" The chorus of cops drew a breath. Bell pushed Chug's slack jaw up and down. "'Good evening, ladies and gentlemen!'"
    The cops bent over and bumped into one another, laughing so hard that, for a moment, Wes actually did fear for their health. Bell's face lit up like a circus clown. Even Cosmo snuffled in amusement. Wes Lyedecker had no earthly clue.
    ------
    The pale orange glow of the Budweiser clock showed 2:29 but that was bar time. Lyedecker's wristwatch read 2:14. Either way Cosmo was serving past the state mandated closing time. Not that he had much to worry about from the Alcoholic Beverage Control or anyone else. A mountaintop defended by cops and bikers appeared a very secure spot for Cosmo to live out his golden years.
    Wes took a sip of ice water. Bell was drinking red beer at Cosmo's suggestion. Everyone else had gone. Wes held Bell's car keys in his fist, having bought Bell a round and said, 'Drink up, I'm driving.'
    Wes Lyedecker felt he should have felt more. He had just witnessed a man's death for the first time in his life and all he could think about was Cyril Reese giving Bell his service weapon.
    Bell shifted on his stool. Over the course of the evening the scarlet on his neck had risen like the mercury in a thermometer till the tip of his nose glowed purple. "They won’t let me carry my Russian-made assault rifle so I'm going back to a wheel gun," he said.
    "Oh yeah?" said Wes.
    "A man needs some stopping power out there. You put two
.357 magnum
slugs in the X-ring at ten paces and that sucker is
on the ground
!" Bell slapped the bar, making a sound like a gunshot. "Ain't that right, Cosmo?"
    Cosmo looked at his watch. "Yeah, sure. Why the fuck not?"
    "It's like they say…" Bell turned to Lyedecker and waited.
    "What do they say?"
    "If the nine millimeter worked the Pope'd be dead!" Cosmo sounded like a sputtering outboard as he snorted through his congested nose. Bell leaned back and beamed. Wes wanted to slap him.
    Wes was grateful to Bell. Bell hadn't put his shit in the street with regard to losing his weapon to a much olderman. Bell hadn't discussed the shoot with the other cops at all as far as Wes could tell. But a man had died an upclose bloody death at their hands. It was possible that they would be sued for wrongful death, suspended from the force, even charged with homicide. Humor seemed inappropriate.
    Bell tossed off his red beer and plunked down his pilsner glass. Cosmo immediately made him another, though Wes noticed it was mostly tomato juice.
    "They say in a firefight your brain clicks off and your training takes over," said Bell. "It's true. I trained with a six shooter, gawd, over twenty years ago in Yermo. That's what they taught you. Two shots and stop. You cain't be wastin' no ammo with a wheel gun. You might need it for other customers."
    Then you don't need to revert to a revolver, thought Wes, you just need to update your training. In a genuine life threatening situation Tactical Jack, Wes’Academy instructor, recommended getting it over with as quickly as possible. One continuous burst, not two shots and stop. Wes sipped his ice water.
    "Ol' PsychoSarge was a happy camper, wan't he?" said Bell.
    "Who?"
    "Sgt. Harrick. Catching us bad boys with a naked dead man, blood everywhere. I don't know who was more excited when they burst in, him or Ramsey the dog."
    Wes blew out a breath. He thirsted for a beer to bolster his courage but settled for a sip of ice water. "Why did you have to shoot him?" he asked. Wes continued before Bell could object. "Why didn't we just dogpile him? You could have jumped him when he was grabbing for my gun. Any number of times. I don't see that it was really all that necessary to, you