from behind. When his dad looked up, Tom could see he had been crying too.
“What happened?” Tom shouted.
His dad wiped his eyes and his mom sobbed.
“It’s Rory, Tom. He’s been wounded,” his dad said.
Tom dropped his books and stared at them, trying to choke out some words.
“What...how...is he going to be ok?”
“He’s in a hospital now over there. He’s alive. That’s about all we know right now, son.” His dad nodded towards the telegram on the table.
Tom picked it up and read it. “Don’t call? What’s this bullshit, don’t call? We gotta find out, dad!” Rory never should’ve listened to dad’s bullshit about duty. He’d be ok now.
7.
Bill Correlli sat in his office at W.D. Correlli Development looking at all the piles of paper on his desk. There were maps of Buffalo and its suburbs showing proposed highways and sites circled in red. There were articles and drawings of the Astrodome in Houston, plans to expand the University of Buffalo campus, there were biographies of prominent businessmen in the Buffalo area, financial reports on local banks, and, on top, the latest financial report on his own businesses.
He couldn’t sit still thinking about the possibilities.
Correlli looked at the maps, turning them this way and that with calloused bricklayer hands. The city of Buffalo, so long an industrial powerhouse, was shrinking. Industries were going out of town and overseas. The once-crowded port had died, killed by the St. Lawrence Seaway ten years ago, the facilities crumbling along the lake and Buffalo River. Business people downtown were afraid to look over their shoulder at the ruins nearby that were creeping towards them. They were afraid when the promise of urban renewal bulldozed the old but found nothing to replace it except subsidized housing, leaving them with instant ghetto projects and empty lots. They were moving to the suburbs, where Correlli had prospered, first laying brick, then building houses and shopping centers. Not bad for a guy who graduated with a vo-tech diploma from Kensington, he thought. He had kept away from the Mafiosi and their easy money, ducked the political schemers when he could and stayed when others were running for the Sun Belt.
Now Correlli saw opportunity in the city. The people downtown were grasping at anything, and he had a plan.
When his secretary buzzed, Correlli answered, “Not now, Cindy.” He focused on three items on his desk – the article that announced the Astrodome as the “Eighth Wonder of the World” showing a picture of developer Rex Yarborough, President Johnson and several Apollo astronauts smiling at its dedication; the profile of Titus Webb, that outlined his family’s bringing of art, music and architecture to Buffalo, of how he was the city’s greatest citizen and a man of vision; and the headlines from the Buffalo News – “Eigen Considers Moving Bills.”
Now’s the time, he thought. Now’s the time for me to make the leap, to bring it all together and make a mark that will last forever. Picking up the phone, he made the call to the Webb Family Foundation.
8.
Pat put the long barreled and the snub-nosed Colt revolvers into an old bowling ball bag and put four boxes of .38 special ammunition on top of them. That should be more than enough. He considered putting the bag in the trunk of the Chevy but thought, You never know, and put the bag on the seat next to him. He intuitively scanned the cars and people as he headed down to police headquarters on Franklin Street, parked in a “Police Only” spot, and went into the yellow brick building. Walking down to the shooting range in the basement, he noticed a young patrolman’s quizzical look at the bowling bag. “Newest incentive, kid, bowling balls for shooting excellent on the pistol qualifications. Part of the latest union contract,” he said, smiling as he left the stairwell.
Listening to the pow-pow-pow coming from the range, Pat opened the metal fire door and matched smiles with Marty “Fatboy” Meegan as he entered.
“Well, Marshal Patrick Brogan. I heard you turned in your badge,” the gray haired Meegan said, reaching over the desk to shake hands.
“Yup pardner, I figger it’s time to leave the streets of Dodge to the young lawmen,” Pat said, nodding towards the gun range where the shots continued to bang away. “But I still gotta qualify for the County Investigator’s job.”
“I wouldda been gone myself, Pat, if they hadn’t got me this cush job,” Meegan said as he put the target sheets in front of Pat.
“It’s like they say, Meegs. Some men are qualified for the job, others are born in South Buffalo.”
“Hah! Jealous!” Meegan answered, “By the way, what’ll you be carrying in the DA’s office?”
“The Detective Special.”
“Not as accurate as the 4 inch, but hell, you won’t need it there.”
Pat nodded, picking up the paper targets. The two veterans shook hands again.
“Keep ‘em straight, Lt. Meegan.”
“Show ‘em how it’s done, Patrick. Deputy Zelinski’ll be running the shoot,” he said, introducing him to a young Erie County Sheriff’s Deputy in a black turtleneck and a badge attached to his belt.
They walked to the shooting alley, and once the deputy had inspected his weapons, he loaded the .38 special and placed it in the holster.
Pat asked, “I guess we’ll have to do the S.R.T. Test first?”
The deputy shook his head. “Nope, no Slow, Rapid and Timed Test.”
“Just the Practical Pistol Course? Barricade? Left and right hand?”
“Nope, not that either for your job. Here’s the qualifying test for your position: put six shots on the silhouette at 7 ½ feet, reload, repeat. Do the same with the detective special and you qualify.
“Seven and a half feet? No distance shooting?” Pat asked. “The last time I qualified with the police special we started at 7 yards and worked out way up to 50 yards.”
“I heard you would score 280 or better out of 300 on the P.P.C. test,” the deputy commented.
“Yeah, I did. Now it’s all at close range, huh?”
“They did some studies. FBI, New York, LA. Says most shoot-outs happen up close and in low light conditions – gotta be ready, shoot, reload, shoot.”
“Sounds right.” Pat said.
“We’ll do the police special first, but we can leave the lights all the way up,” Zelinski said, as the target whizzed up in front of the booth. Pat took a deep breath, settled his feet in the combat position, slowly let his breath out and squeezed off the six rounds. While he reloaded, he noticed they all hit the ten ring. He fired another six rounds, again all in the ten ring. I wish they were the commie bastards who set that mine, he thought.
He repeated the procedure with the snub-nosed revolver, but this time two rounds missed the ten ring, one hitting the Bar X ring and the other landing in the 9 ring.
“Good shooting. You qualify,” the young deputy said
