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right words. On the one hand, he was grateful to be given an opportunity he might never have managed on his own. On the other hand, he resented Turner for preempting him, for seeing right through him, and ultimately for obligating him.
    But as he was penniless and without identity, he was in no position to decline the offer. He wasn’t sure how this scheme of Turner’s could succeed either. “This guy Silk would have seen pictures of me. Sooner or later, he’ll figure out who I am.”
    Looking again at the photograph in his hands, he had the sense a man with a house like this would enjoy an immense amount of power.
    “You let me worry about that. We’re going to fix you up so that that won’t be any problem. And don’t forget, you’re supposed to be dead.”
    “Yes, that’s right.” He’d momentarily forgotten this crucial fact himself.
    “And once we get you fixed up we’re going to give you a bit of schooling.”
    “Schooling?”
    “You know anything about art? Can you distinguish a Leger from a Braque from a Miro? You know what Wedgewood looks like? Can you distinguish a pre-Columbian tapestry from a fake? I didn’t think so. Well, you’re going to learn. By the time we’re through, they could appoint you curator of the Getty Museum.”
    Gallant frowned. “Is this thing going to take long?”
    “What’s the matter with you, you afraid of a little education?” He laughed. “No, Jimmy, it won’t take long. Nothing I set out to do ever takes long.”
    It wasn’t until after midnight that Gallant was able to free himself from Turner. Turner had insisted on taking him to what he called his retreat—somewhere deep in a wooded area just north of Santa Rosa—where a group of wild-eyed fanatics were in training with M-16’s and a variety of .45’s and .38’s Turner said were U.S. Army issue. There was no telling where they’d gotten them. Gallant guessed they’d pillaged a stockade one day.
    There, among this deceptively rustic setting, Turner had found new clothes for him and a car, a ’76 Plymouth that could have done with some shock absorbers, and a gun. The gun was an interesting one that Gallant had never used before. It was a Dan Wesson—Dan being a relation to the Wesson of Smith & Wesson—and came accompanied by six barrels ranging from a two-inch stub to a twelve-inch attachment that was better for bringing down a buck deer than a human being. It took both .357 and .38 ammunition.
    Turner also provided his former associate with two hundred dollars—“enough to get you started” was how he put it. Aside from the wad of cash, Turner bestowed upon him a Social Security card, advising him the other I.D.’s would have to wait until later. He did not say how much later, but Gallant was satisfied that he’d obtained this much. He really didn’t expect Turner to be so cooperative, and began more and more to wonder how much Turner expected of him in return. It would be a higher price than a simple appraisal of Jay Silk’s collectibles he suspected.
    Promising he’d return to Turner’s retreat the following afternoon, Gallant drove away in his newly acquired car. He regretted the fact that he lacked a driver’s license, but it couldn’t be helped. He’d just have to wait for Turner to get him one.
    It was comforting to have a gun in his possession again, but this was not the gun he intended to employ. This was a gun meant only as insurance. The gun he had his heart set on, the only gun that would suit his purpose, belonged to Harry Callahan.

C H A P T E R

F o u r
    G allant didn’t know exactly why he decided on going back to Sheila Richmond’s apartment. He hadn’t been able to decide what his fascination was with her. But there was something that drew him to her. He still had to get himself a place to stay that night—he supposed some cheap hotel or boarding house would do, might as well stretch his two hundred dollars as far as he could—but he wasn’t really sleepy,