And De Fun Don't Done by Robert G. Barrett Page B

fifty dollar bill in his hand and Les was wheeling the bike towards Hank’s pick-up. It was just a blue, flat, frame thing with straight handlebars and ten-speed gears; but it was solid and the brakes worked good. Norton had spotted it out the corner of his eye. He tossed it in theback then climbed in the front as Hank took off, almost completely spun out. You would have thought Les had just committed some atrocity.
    â€˜What do you think you’re doing?’ he demanded. ‘And what did you get that pile of junk for?’
    Norton gave an indifferent shrug. ‘To ride on. What do you think I got it for? All these flat roads, that thing’ll be a piece of piss to get round on. I can see the real America.’ Plus get a bit of exercise, and it’s a good excuse to get away from you — shithead. ‘Haven’t you got a ten-speed? Me and Warren have back home. So’s Tony.’
    â€˜What would I want a goddamn bike for?’
    â€˜Ride along road. Go to village. See other natives.’
    They turned into a wider street then onto some highway big enough to land a 747 on. Hank stared ahead, sucking on his cigarette, then turned to Les for a second. ‘I can get a bike if I want to.’
    â€˜You should,’ replied Les.
    â€˜I just might.’
    â€˜Good. Make sure it’s got a bell.’
    After that it was more freeway and off-roads through swamps for about thirty minutes, then Les heard the target range about half a kilometre before they pulled up. Blam! Kapow! Boom! Blam, blam, blam! Kapow! They got out of the pick-up, Hank took two metal boxes from the back and handed Les a pair of ear-protectors. You needed them — it sounded like the battle of Dien Bien Phu. Les put them on as Hank nodded for him to follow.
    It was a shooting range about two hundred yards long, full of paper targets hung between wooden poles. There was a hill of dirt behind to stop the bullets and a row of benches in front. Alongside the benches was a path with a white line painted down the middle that led to an office. Standing, or seated around the benches, were about twenty gun-crazy seppos in Elmer Fudd caps blazing away with anything that fired bullets, made lots of noise and could be held in your hand. Blam! Blam! Kapow! Blam! Blam! Blam! Les decided to act dumb.
    Hank directed Les to stand behind the white line whilehe went to the office and bought two paper targets and a couple of bright orange stickers, which he put on one side of the targets. Through his ear-protectors Les heard a siren hoot then a voice over a PA system saying something about how it was now a non-fire zone or some bloody thing. Everybody put their weapons on the benches with the clips out then went and checked or changed their targets. Hank told Les to come and help pin theirs up. Les did as he was told. Back at their bench, Hank opened up the two metal boxes; one was full of bullets, the other held the guns. Laurel put the Walther and the .45 in front of Les then set himself up with the Peacemaker. He briskly showed Les how to load the two guns and aim, probably hoping and expecting Les to make a complete dill of himself. But you don’t have to be Daniel Boone to stuff ten or so bullets in a clip, slide back a cocking lever and pull the trigger. Not after Eddie Salita’s shown you a number of times.
    They stood behind the white line, another siren hooted and the voice crackled over the PA that it was now a free- fire zone, then everybody stepped back to their benches and started blasting away again.
    Les missed the weight of the silencers they used in Eddie’s underground shooting room; still, the Walther went off okay. It fired a little to the right, but after sighting in on the orange markers Les had no trouble ringing eight shots round the bullseye at twenty metres or so sitting down. The .45 kicked back and up, as Norton expected, so he laid the barrel across the block of wood on his bench, gripped the