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surprising. This store sat smack–dab in the middle of the city’s most populated precinct. Roughly fifty officers, probably fewer counting sick days and vacation, were supposed to protect more than two hundred thousand people. Good luck, the Teacher thought. He pulled open the store’s shining brass door and stepped inside.
    He gazed around, taking in the Persian rugs, chandeliers, and oil paintings on the fifteen–foot mahogany–paneled walls. Not exactly your local Kmart. Among the antiques and flower arrangements, piles of cashmere cable knits and oxford–cloth button–downs were distributed with artful casualness. The overall impression was that you’d walked in and caught the Vanderbilts unpacking from a summer in Europe.
    In other words, it was disgusting. He jogged up the wide mahogany stairs to the men’s shop.
    A slick–haired man in an impeccably tailored three–piece suit stood behind an antique glass display case filled with neckties. One of his eyebrows rose just enough to signify his contempt for the slovenly buffoon he saw approaching.
    “May I help you?” he said with a condescension that bordered on vicious. The Teacher knew that if he answered “yes,” the salesman would laugh out loud.
    So he just smiled.
    “Are we a trifle language–challenged, sir?” the malicious bastard crooned. Then he dropped the polished pretense and spoke in much coarser, and much more natural–sounding, Brooklynese. “We’re all outta fanny packs today. Maybe you better go to Mo’s instead.”
    The Teacher still didn’t speak. Instead, he unzipped the little pack and took out a pair of objects that looked like Cheez Doodles. They were actually firing–range earplugs. Without hurrying, he pressed one of them into his left ear.
    The haberdasher started to look flustered, and took on his piss–elegant tone again.
    “I beg your pardon, sir, I didn’t realize you needed hearing aids. Still, if you’re not here to purchase something, I’m afraid I’ll have to ask you to leave.”
    The Teacher paused, with the second earplug still between his fingers, and finally spoke.
    “I’m really here to give you a lesson,” he said.
    “Give me a lesson?”
    “In salesmanship,” the Teacher said, mimicking the prick’s supercilious tone. “You’ll be sew much more successful if you learn to treat all your customers with respect. Watch how it should be done.”
    He pushed in the second earplug, then reached into the fanny pack again and drew out an oiled pistol.
    “And here,” he said, with his words muffled in his own ears, “we have the Colt M1911 semiautomatic in .45 caliber. Would you care to try it, sir? I dew believe you’ll be impressed by its performance.” He flicked off the safety and put the hammer on full cock.
    The clerk’s mouth opened in an O. His lips moved as he stammered words that the Teacher could barely hear. “Oh, my God … terribly s–sorry …” One soft, manicured hand flew to the cash register and punched open the drawer. “Please, take everything …”
    But his other hand moved, too, dropping under the counter, no doubt to reach for a hidden alarm button.
    The Teacher was expecting that. His finger twitched, and the first big .45–caliber round boomed like a stick of dynamite, blowing the display case into a cymbal crash of shattering glass. The clerk screamed, staggering backward, clutching at his mangled, bloody hand.
    “I’m not here to take,” the Teacher said quietly. “I’m here to give you something you’ve wanted your whole life, but were afraid to ask for.”
    “Redemption.” He emptied the rest of the clip point–blank into the salesman’s chest.
    Watching him careen backward, limbs flopping spastically like he’d been hit by a giant sledgehammer, was the most electrically satisfying moment of the Teacher’s life.
    There were going to be more of those soon.
    He reloaded the Colt with smooth, practiced motions as he hurried back down the steps. As he