Three picnic tables were clustered in the shade down on the south side of the park. A shooting bench had been placed apart a ways, out in the sun; a large locked toolbox sat on top.

The hunters ate like they hadn’t seen food in two or three days.

Frank gave up looking for any kind of soap and simply plunged his hands into the icewater surrounding a bowl of honey mustard to clean them. The water calmed him right down, as if he just slid on his back out across a frozen lake at night. It felt so good that he splashed it back into his face, and more across his scalp. This was met with great enthusiasm and everybody tried it.

Frank got a plate and eyed the meat. Before he got any food, he got a freezing cold can of Milwaukee’s Best Ice beer. Icewater and sweat ran down the cracks in sheep’s blood on his face. The beer tasted so good that he finished it and went for three more. These went into hip pockets. Then he got some French bread slices, took another beer, and drifted through the tables in the shade and made his way around to the north side of the park, and sat in the shade on the running board of the old fire truck, away from the festivities.

“Okay, like your attention please,” Sturm’s voice came floating out across the park. Except for the men, the park was unnaturally still, as if nothing lived in the limp tan grass and brittle leaves. “It’s time to hand out some guns.”

The men cheered. Frank opened another beer, slumped against the wheel well, and listened to Sturm unlock the toolbox. “Have to introduce our referee first. This here’s Wally Glouck and he did a damn fine job keeping score.”

Later, Chuck told Frank that Sturm had gotten all the men to pay for the chance to shoot and win guns, something like five grand apiece. The pistols were handed out according to cost, most of the guns, all of ’em handguns, came in around two to three grand at the most. Girdler took third place and won a German Luger. Asshole #2 beat Girdler, but just barely. He got a nine-millimeter Beretta.

Sturm took first, winning a pair of beautiful Old West Colt .45 bright silver revolvers, like a TV cowboy’s gun. Scrollwork was etched into the barrel and the intricately carved handle. Chuck said that Sturm knew he was going to win; he wanted the twin six-guns from that dealer, and went and bought the guy’s entire collection out, for a low, low price. With that amount of cash and no paperwork, the collector couldn’t refuse. He kept the cash and hired a few guys to burn his house down. The other guns weren’t worth near as much; basically, the clients had paid for Sturm’s guns.

* * * * *

“This very afternoon,” Sturm said, “you all are going to have a chance to hunt that goddamn monkey you all saw on those wanted signs. So don’t go wandering off just yet. Remember, there’s a goddamn twenty grand bounty on its head. I have it on very good authority that he’s gonna make his escape in this very park—and just to make things interesting, he’s gonna be bustin’ loose with all his monkey buddies. That’s right. I promised you some shooting, and it’s shooting you’re gonna be doing, by God.”

Frank cracked open another beer.

“But—but here’s the only rule. You can only hunt with the pistol you won here today. That’s the only rule.”

The guy who won the .22 groaned; so did Asshole #3. He’d won a snub-nosed .38, which was accurate all the way up to about three or four feet. Everybody else laughed.

* * * * *

Frank found himself in Sturm’s cab as they drove to the vet hospital. “First off,” Sturm said, “you have to realize a couple of facts. One. We don’t have enough cash to pay the winner of this particular operation. Two. We don’t pay these boys off, then this whole operation is bust. You add that up, son, and you’ll come to understand that if we don’t win here, you don’t get paid. You understand that?”

“Yeah.” Frank understood all right, but he wondered where the hell all of Sturm’s cash had gone. Sturm had gone down to Chico a few days earlier and cleaned out his bank account, bringing back at least five Army duffel bags full of bills. Frank got the feeling that it was bullshit, that all that was really going on was that Sturm simply didn’t like to lose.

“So here’s the deal.” Sturm laid out the facts.

When they got to the hospital Frank cracked open another beer and led everyone into the barn. Sturm pointed out the monkey. “There’s the little fucker. See his earrings? Okay then. You’re gonna watch us load all these monkeys, every last one ’em, into that truck. Then you’re gonna follow us to the park. There, you’ll have a chance to get your guns ready, and we’re gonna let these monkeys loose.”

Getting the monkeys into the horse trailer wasn’t tough. They backed the trailer up the side of the barn, pried off a plank, and Frank coaxed all them, including the wanted monkey with the earrings, into the trailer with a pile of dried apricots. Sturm made a big deal of locking the gate with a chain and a padlock, presumably to prove that there would be no cheating. He gave the key to Girdler to hold.

Chuck and Frank jumped into the cab. Then, with Sturm following directly behind Chuck’s truck, the Assholes next, and Girdler at the rear, the convoy pulled slowly out of the gravel parking lot. As they turned left onto the highway, Chuck said, “Go,” dropping the pickup’s speed to just a crawl. Sturm made the turn slightly tighter, angling his truck so he was partly blocking the view from Escalade and the Winnebago. Frank stepped out of the pickup and crouched, waiting until the running board of the horse trailer had reached him, hopped on, and crawled inside through the front window.

He had a pair of pliers and ten minutes.

He had kept some of the dried apricots in his pocket and pulled them out now. The movement of the trailer spooked the monkeys, but they quickly surrounded Frank, making grabs at his fistful of dried fruit. He located the big monkey with the earrings and held an apricot. Just before the monkey could snatch it away, Frank dropped the fruit, and in the split second the monkey’s attention was diverted, he grabbed the back of the monkey’s neck and went to work. The hard part was avoiding the nails at the ends of the fingers and long toes. Sturm had warned him about getting any cuts on his face; he didn’t want Frank showing up at the park with any fresh wounds to spark suspicion. The left earring was the easiest, because Frank could handle the pliers with his right hand. The right ear took a while, but Frank had just finished when he heard Chuck start honking the pickup’s horn, pounding out a rhythm.

This was Chuck’s signal that they were nearly to the park. Sturm started hitting his out horn as well, and pretty soon, both the Escalade and the Winnebago horns joined in, the mechanical bellowing echoing down the empty streets. The horns had a sort of formal effect, heralding the arrival of the hunters.

Chuck made another left, slowing down as much as possible, and Frank slithered out of the front window. He scurried up to the cab and hopped inside. Chuck pulled out of the turn and circled the park, turning into the alley in the center of the block on the park’s south side.

Sturm had all the hunters line up along the north sidewalk, facing the bank, while Chuck backed the horse trailer back across Sutter Street. This way, the hunters would be turning and shooting into the late afternoon son, just to make things more interesting.

Girdler returned the key and while Frank and Chuck drew back the bolts and got ready to drop the gate, the hunters loaded their handguns. Sturm said, “As winner of the last competition, I’m sitting this one out. It’s all yours, boys. Get your guns out.”

Everybody already had their pistols and revolvers ready.

Sturm raised one of his new pistols. “But before there’s any shooting, understand this. There’s rules here. We can’t have our own men under fire. You get five seconds. Understand me? You’ll watch as the monkeys get loose. There will be no shooting, none at all for a full five seconds. I’ll be going by my watch here. Anybody fires, anybody—and I’ll shoot them myself.”