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into Freddie, and that finished his hash forever. And I did run into the Baby Face twice. We exchanged shots. I still carry not only a .45 bullet that he put into my leg, but the .45 he put it in there with.”
    He leaned forward, letting his coat slide open. Earl looked and saw a stag-gripped .45, with a bigger set of sights welded into the slide. The gun hung close to D. A.’s body in a complicated leather shoulder holster and harness, well worn. It was even dangerously cocked, sure sign of a real pistolero.
    “Anyhow, Swagger,” said Becker, trying to regain control of the conversation, “what we’re going to do is raid.”
    “Raid?”
    “That’s it. I’m setting up a special unit. It’s young, unmarried or widowed officers from outside of Arkansas, because I can’t have them being tainted by the state’s corruption, or having their families hunted. This unit will report only to me, and it won’t be part of any police force, it won’t be set up within a chain of command or anything.
    We will hit casinos, whorehouses, sports books, anyplace the mob is running, high-class or low. We will be very well armed. We will squeeze them. That’s the point: to squeeze them until they feel it and have to shut down.”
    Becker spoke as if he were quoting a speech, and Earl knew right away that only a part of what the young man planned was for the citizens of Hot Springs. It would be especially for one particular citizen of Hot Springs, namely Fred Becker.
    “Sounds like you’ll need a lot of firepower,” said Earl.
    “We do,” said D. A. “I have managed to horse-trade for six 1928 Thompsons. Three BARs. Some carbines. And, since I spent the last four years working for Colt, I talked a deal up so we get a deal on eighteen brand-new National Match .45s. Plus we have over fifty thousand rounds of ammunition stored down at the Red River Army Depot, where we’ll train for a while. Twelve men, myself, and the only thing we lack is a sergeant.”
    “I see,” said Earl.
    “We need a trainer,” said Becker.
    “I’m too old, Earl,” said D. A. “I been thinking about this for a lot of years. I’ve been on raids not only in the FBI but in the Oklahoma City Police Department before then. I been in twenty-eight gunfights and been shot four times. I’ve killed eighteen men. So what I know, I learned the hard way: it’s my opinion that when it comes to gun work, the American policeman ain’t got a chance, because he ain’t well enough trained. So what I mean to do is put together a professional, well-trained raid team. Lots of teamwork, total backup, rehearsal, preparation, train, train, train. I include the FBI, especially now, when all the old gunfighters have been booted out. When the Baby Face went down, he took two fine young FBI agents with him, because they weren’t well enough trained to deal with someone as violent and crazy-goddamn-bull-goose-brave as him. Lord, I wish I’d been there that day. They put seventeen bullets into him and he kept coming and killed them both. He was a piece of work. So I want this unit trained, goddamn it, trained to the eyebrows. But I need someone who can ramrod ‘em. I get to be the Old Man. I get to be wise and calm. But I need a 100 percent kick-ass piece of gristle and guts to whip their asses into shape, to beat the lessons into them. I need someone who ain’t afraid of being hated, because being hated is part of the job. I need someone who’s faced armed men and shot ‘em dead. I need a goddamned 100 percent hero. Now, do you see what this has to do with Earl Swagger?”
    Earl nodded slightly.
    “Earl,” said D. A., “you was born for this job like no man on earth.”
    “So it seems,” said Earl, looking around at all the bright young gay things sipping champagne, dancing the jitterbug, laughing brightly, squeezing flesh, and thinking, Goddamn, I am home again.

Chapter 5
    West Virginia flowed by; or maybe it was Ohio. It was hard to tell at night, and the