“Father Jason, ya got somethin’ in the mail,” Sister Mildred informed him. “It’s heavy ‘nough ta break a camel’s back. Maybe it’s a part fer the car?”

Jason looked at his watch as though he were checking to see what time it was.

Sure enough, the prize icon was flashing. He had deposited a dollar from each of his sessions at Dr. Steinman’s office, and five dollars from his boxing winnings, into his no-load (i.e. no cost) index fund on the New York Stock Exchange. Jason was happy to see $31 on the game wealth display. His debt in the real wealth display reflected the car payment he’d just made, and he thought that the red debt numbers made the watch face looked ugly—he’d be happy when the screen was all gold, green, and black. The health indicators were still strong, which made him feel good.

Jason picked up the package, and felt it, noting its heft. “Oh yeah, feels like a car part. Thanks, Sister.”

Jason went to the rectory, and opened the package on the table. Just as he suspected, it was a supply of ammo, consisting of .45, .38, and 12 gauge cartridges and shells. As he began packing up his guns for a shooting session at the abandoned warehouse, it seemed like Jason had a hundred things to do. This morning’s boxing workout had been brief, but intense, because of his fight tomorrow night at a Christmas Eve celebration at the Eureka. He had worked on the secret exit from the floor of the cabinets in his room, leading down to the garage, where he was putting up a false wall, creating a secret space only three feet deep at the back of the garage. He’d gone to the Eureka and signed on with Willie as his manager, and then went to Big Country Milk, who agreed to serve as a sponsor for the shelter, and provide several gallons of milk every morning.

Jason pulled out his duffel bag, then placed both .38 snubbies into his jacket pockets after making certain they were loaded. He also put a bottle of Jameson’s into his duffel—he’d inherited two whole cases from the late Father Milligan.

There was a soft knock, and Jason opened the door to see Maureen standing in front of him, dressed in a casual skirt and red sweater. “You got another package, Father Jason.”

Jason quickly checked his watch and noticed that the gold ribbon prize icon was still flashing. When he took the package from her, he noticed this one was much lighter. “Thank you, Maureen.” He moved to close the door.

“Oh, could you help me with my French homework?” she stood on her tiptoes to peer into his room, looking at the duffel on the bed. Her pretty face was pale, dotted with copper freckles, and her wavy red hair cascaded over her slim shoulders.

“Isn’t it Christmas vacation?” Jason moved to block her view of the duffel bag.

“You know how it is with nuns and parochial schools,” Maureen replied. “They’re slave drivers.”

“Sorry, I don’t know French.” Jason shook his head. “Why would anyone take French? They got their butts kicked in World War I, they’re going to do even worse in World War II, get humiliated in Vietn…”

“World War II?” Maureen looked at him curiously. “You’re not doing any of those reefers, are you?”

“Oops!” Jason realized that he’d gotten ahead of himself, because WWII and the Vietnam War were still a long ways off from the 1920s. “Uh, no, of course not. Let’s just say, hypothetically, that the French are total assholes—okay, that’s not hypothetical, because they are total assholes—but they’re so determined to pay back Germany for WWI, that they set the stage for a second world war, where an obscure German is able to exploit common resentment and unite the country for war. The French would get their butts kicked and decline as a world power, but, of course, that’s all just conjecture.”

“I doubt the Germans could get through the Maginot Line.” Maureen shook her head dismissively. “Maybe you and Jules Verne should write books together. Are you going to open your package now?”

“No. Thank you.” Jason smiled and closed the door, then locked it behind him. He was impressed with the young lady’s intelligence, because she knew about the Maginot Line and the science fiction writer Jules Verne, even if he was French. Curiosity was killing him as he ripped open the package and discovered two holsters fastened together in a twisted loop, plus two other holsters with armbands on them. He realized he knew nothing about holsters, but one person did, and that someone was on his Christmas list.

Jason carried the duffel down to the car and hopped in. After waving goody-bye to Sister Mildred and Maureen as he drove past the rectory, he drove down to the Punch Drunk bar, and parked beside it. He knocked at the window, which was entirely covered by a sign “PRIVATE CLUB. MEMBERS ONLY!” The door opened a fraction, and an elderly man with a bald pate encircled by a ring of gray hair sized him up.

“I’m a friend of Frank’s,” Jason told the doorman.

“Ah, yeah, you.” The bald man opened the door, which was covered with red diamond tuck upholstery. “Come on in. Can’t be too careful with all the RAPE apes out and about.”

Jason followed the man to Frank Mulroney’s customary seat at the table, where the retired cop sat with his back to the wall and close to the bar, blowing out a cloud of smoke. “Hey, kid, pull up a seat. It’s good to see you.”

“It’s good to be back.” Jason set his heavy duffel onto the floor, which landed with a heavy clank.

“Hey, Mack, can we get the kid here a gin Rickey?” Frank asked the bartender, then turned to Jason. “What ya got in the bag?”

Jason looked around suspiciously at the other customers, who drank, smoked, and played cards at the other tables, accompanied by very friendly, if visibly aged women well past their prime, but done up with lots of makeup and big wigs.

“It’s okay, we’re all cops here,” Frank said confidentially, leaning forward in his seat. “Nobody’s going to rat on you.”

“Well, for one, I’ve got your Christmas present.” Jason reached into the bag and pulled out a bottle of Jameson’s, which he set in front of the grizzled cop. “I want to thank you for everything you’ve given me, from the free drink, to the sap, and everything you’ve taught me—it’s saved my ass a couple of times, and I’m sure it will again.”

The cop set his cigarette butt into the ashtray, then picked up the bottle and held it in both hands to examine it. “Well, kid, you shouldn’t have, but I’m glad you did. When you’re in the business of helping people, they want your help real bad, but once their problem is solved, they forget you in a heartbeat. I don’t get a whole lot of thanks.”

The bartender brought over Jason’s gin Rickey. “Thank you,” Jason said with a nod. He had a fight tomorrow, but he figured he could handle one drink.

“I saw your fight the other night.” Frank set down the whiskey bottle and took a drag of his cigarette, which he left smoldering between his fingers. “Honestly, I thought you were going to ride out on a stretcher. The first round sure looked that way.”

“Felt like it, too,” Jason added.

“But I’ll be damned if that wasn’t the most exciting fight I’ve seen in my life, and against Maxie Rosenbloom! That shot to the liver was a thing of sheer beauty.” Frank clucked his tongue and took a sip of his old fashioned. “There are boxing skills you can learn, but others that can’t be taught. You’ve got a fighter’s instinct, and guts. That made all the difference.”

“Thanks. Nobody was more surprised than I was by that miracle upset. I’m fighting tomorrow night.” Jason reached down into his bag and removed the second box he’d received.

“I’ll be there, and I think all the guys here will want to see it, too.” The cop looked at the box. “What have you got there?”

“I got these as an early Christmas gift,” Jason said, while lifting the lid and sliding it toward the detective, “but I have no clue what to do.”

“Hmm. You’ve got a very nice shoulder holster rig, good quality leather. You could try to carry a .45 at the waist, but you’d need a really heavy belt, which can be a tell, not to mention that a gun or guns at the waist are going to tend to dig into you, poke you a bit, and any squirming or adjusting is another tell.” The cop got up and stubbed out his cigarette butt. “Let’s go to the back room, and bring your bag with you.”

Jason drained his drink and followed the man, who carried his holsters. When they got to the back room, Frank instructed him, “Take off your jacket for a moment.”

Once Jason set his coat over a nearby chair, Frank slipped the shoulder harness, shaped like a figure ‘8’, over Jason’s shoulders. He made some adjustments, cinching it in. “Let’s gets your gats in the holsters so we can see how that fits and feels.”

Jason stooped down to get his .45s out of his duffel.

“Whew,” the cop whistled, and carefully shoved the automatics into their holsters at Jason’s sides. “Those are nice. Unlike a belt rig, you can slip on a shoulder harness in a moment, plus it’s easy to draw if you’re sitting. You’ve even got spare mag carriers. These other two are ankle holsters.”

Frank knelt at Jason’s feet and after rolling down Jason’s sock, fastened one of the holsters on the inside of Jason’s right ankle. He took the .38 that Jason fished out of his coat pocket to hand him, and slid it into the holster. “You pull your sock up over the holster to give yourself a little bit of extra concealment. If you wear the ankle holster, it’s easy to draw when you’re seated, so it’s good when you’re driving or riding in a car. Although some put it on the inside left ankle, I think you want an ankle holster on your right inside ankle, so you can draw it with your left hand—that way if your gun hand is injured, or you’re tussling for your gun, you can draw with the left hand and shoot. My general rule is that a backup weapon should be accessible to your weak hand.”

Jason stood and shook out his pant leg.

“Were you going to do a shooting session?” Frank asked.

“Yeah, I just got a bunch of ammo as a Christmas gift.” Jason took a couple of steps with the snubbie in the ankle holster, and realized it would take a while to get used to the bunch of metal and leather on his ankle.

“Come on down to the basement.” Frank waved, and opened a heavy door.

Jason followed him down the steps to a shooting range, where targets were propped up against a wall of sandbags at the end of the basement. After unloading the guns, Frank walked Jason through the shoulder holster draw. “You lift up your left elbow, placing your hand over your ear. Recognize this?”

Jason looked at Frank, standing with his hand over his ear and the tip of his elbow pointing forward. “Yeah, that’s the guard in boxing.”

“Bingo. So if someone punches you, or is about to, you bring up your left arm to protect your head as you draw.” Frank suddenly raised his elbow as his right hand reached for an imaginary gun at his armpit. “You can also throw an upward elbow.”

Frank gradually walked Jason through the draw with both hands, then drew and fired, but were careful to start slowly. “Just be aware that with a shoulder holster, any perp standing in front of you can easily grab your gun, so keep your elbows in.”

“Just like in boxing,” Jason observed, and Frank flashed him a thumbs up.

They worked on the draw from the ankle holster, which involved kneeling, pulling up the pant leg, and drawing the little revolver. Frank taught him a sacrifice draw, where he fell to his back and drew the snubbie from the ankle holster, and could kick out with his feet to create space. Jason fired several boxes of ammo, both .45 and .38, then he and Frank got a turn with the fully automatic Atchisson shotgun.

After dumping a full auto volley of buckshot into a paper bullseye target, shredding it, Frank turned to Jason with a smile. “That’s a right chopper you’ve got there.”

Jason’s ears still rang when they went upstairs. This was an era when men smoked unfiltered cigarettes, so nobody bothered with niceties like hearing or eye protection at a shooting range.

“Why don’t you have a seat,” Frank suggested, gesturing to Jason’s chair. “Mack, let’s get the kid here another drink.”

Jason set the duffel onto the chair next to him, and figured he could handle two drinks.

Frank shook out a cigarette from a pack in his jacket pocket and lit up, blowing out a cloud of smoke before setting the cigarette onto the ashtray. “Four of the mayor’s Brunos got bumped off at St. Michael’s the other night. None of them knew what hit him. There were no signs of resistance or struggle, no defensive wounds. A fifth got taken out by a grenade planted at the cars.”

The bartender brought out their drinks and set them down on the table in front of them, then retreated to the bar.

“Most of the time cops are going to run into citizens who are scared they’re going to get a traffic ticket, or drunks who can hardly stand, let alone throw a punch,” Frank explained, and his tone was serious. “Even the mobsters are counting on numbers, intimidation, and a hail of lead. But rarely, very rarely, you’re going to run into a guy who is a stone cold killer, who’s fearless, skilled, a guy who’s a Jack Dempsey with a weapon. Don’t underestimate him—you’ve got somebody who is deadly in the extreme. I don’t know what he’s doing at St. Michael’s, but you haven’t seen the last of him.”

Frank’s warning chilled Jason, and he felt that he needed the drink. He had one more stop today.

* * *

“If I get pregnant, it will be a Christmas gift for me and my husband.” The woman was a thick blonde, with wide, shapely hips and fat breasts. She lay nude beside Jason.

“That would be nice,” Jason said. He felt relaxed, as though he could just sink right through the bed after their torrid session in the bedroom at Dr. Steinman’s office, which resembled a movie set.

“What’s with the mask?” She turned and looked at him with her blue eyes.

“Anonymity is very important, for me, for you, for your husband.” Jason wore the mask that he’d fashioned for himself, which covered his upper face, but left his nostrils and mouth free. He ran his hand over her plump thigh, then across her lower stomach. So far, Jason was batting a thousand in these sessions, with the first woman he was supposed to impregnate shrieking she couldn’t get pregnant, just as he was about to finish. The last session was interrupted by the woman’s husband showing up unexpectedly. Jason was holding his breath, figuring that something was about to go drastically wrong, especially because his romp with the voluptuous woman next to him was sheer rapture.

The woman talked a bit about herself, and her relationship with her husband, whom she was worried about, especially his mental health. As she talked, Jason came to a shocking realization. “I know this woman’s husband, and he’s going to kill me!”