“You sure know how to treat a lady. First lunch, then the gun store.”
“I’m romantic that way.”
I paid the check, left a formidable tip, and we got in the Subaru and headed towards Queen street, and made the journey in about ten minutes. The place was called The Honolulu Gun Range, and we managed to find parking on the street a half block away, which wasn’t always an easy feat in this part of the city. We left the warm eighty degree weather and were soon in yet another cool air-conditioned building. The first area we entered was basically a showroom with display cases stocked with various pistols while the walls behind were adorned with all manner of rifles. On the right side was the cash register and counter where people checked in before being allowed out onto the range. There were a lot of customers, and it took a good ten minutes before we finally made it to the counter, where we were greeted by a rather pretty and busty, though serious looking, woman who was probably around thirty and dressed in jeans and a tight T-shirt that had the words You can have my gun when you pry it from my cold dead hands printed across her chest.
“Howdy, I’m Charlotte. How can I help you?” she asked, in a cute southern drawl.
“Hello, Charlotte, my name’s Finn, and this is Special Agent Kalili of the FBI. We were wondering if we could talk to your resident gunsmith.”
“Oh yeah, of course. Let me call him.”
She picked up the phone and spoke a few words then turned back to us.
“Simon is coming out. Do you mind if I ask why you want to talk to him?”
“Oh, don’t worry. We’re just doing a little research on silencers and need some technical advice,” I said.
“Oh—sounds interesting.”
“Hopefully,” I responded.
A man around fifty appeared a moment later, and he was wearing shorts and a Hawaiian shirt and had a thick mop of grey hair framing his tan face, and all of it worked together to make him look like a hybrid between a surfer and a gun nerd.
“This is Mr. Finn and Special Agent Kalili of the FBI,” Charlotte said.
“I’m Simon Wilson. How can I help you?” he asked.
“They want to know about silencers,” Charlotte interjected.
“Specifically this one,” Violet said, pulling the pistol and silencer out of her purse and handing it to Simon.
It was still in the evidence bag as he scrutinized it, and he appeared to look more intrigued with each passing second.
“Oh nice! Do you want to come back to my workshop, so we can talk in private?”
“Sure.”
We followed Simon behind the counter and down a hallway into a large room full of gun smithing tools and weapons in various stages of assembly. He went to what I assumed was his main work area and took the Beretta out of the bag and immediately checked to see that it was unloaded. Good habits were the hallmark of responsible gun handlers, and Simon obviously didn’t take any chances. He unscrewed the silencer then viewed it more closely by holding it under a large magnifying glass with a built-in light.
“This is absolutely top notch craftsmanship,” he said.
“My sentiments exactly. Could you craft something like this?”
“Potentially, but it would take time and testing. Speaking of which, do you mind if I test-fire it to measure the decibel rating? That, and not effecting the accuracy are the only true tests of a silencer.”
“Indeed.”
Simon put on safety glasses, loaded two rounds into the clip, then walked over to a test-fire apparatus in the corner of the room. It stood about three and a half feet tall and looked like an old penny arcade viewer, though its purpose was to test-fire weapons to see that their machinery was in proper working order. What looked like a viewing port was actually the firing chamber and included rubber flaps that minimized peripheral blow back when a weapon was discharged. Beyond that, was the interior, which was filled with ballistic gel that stopped the bullets.
“Fire in the hole,” he said, before chambering a round then pointing the pistol into the test bin and firing.
He fired, and the shot was surprising quiet, which was unusual, as silencers weren’t actually silent. This one was as close as they got, and Simon was quick to look at his decibel meter.
“Wow, a little over fifteen decibels. This is one hell of a piece of hardware.”
“Yeah, and we believe that it was made in about two or three days.”
“So, the person who crafted it knew exactly what he or she was doing.”
“Any idea of someone on Oahu who might be able to do this kind of work?”
He thought a moment, then a smile formed on his face.
“There is one guy. He’s a bit of an eccentric who only comes out about once a year, and, when he does, it’s usually to meet with me to talk about guns.”
“Do you have a name, address, or phone number?”
“Not exactly. As I say, he’s a bit eccentric and is really protective of his privacy. All I know is that his name is Walter Zeibt, and he lives somewhere up on the north shore.”
“German?”
“Maybe his parents, but he sounds as American as apple pie. He’s also a Vietnam Vet—former Special Forces, but he apparently took up the family business after returning from the war.”
“Which was obviously gunsmithing.”
“Correct, and the guy really is a genius.”
Simon cleared the weapon by pulling back the slide then handed over the Beretta.
“Did you want to take it out on the range?” he asked.
“Can we?”
“Absolutely.”
“Cool, as I’d love to see how it performs.”
I looked to Violet for final approval, and she gave me a nod.
“Right this way,” Simon said.
We followed him out of his workshop and through the lobby, where Simon grabbed us a fresh target as well as ear protectors and safety glasses—or, as the regulars called them, eyes and ears. We went through a door and entered a sort of anteroom to put on all our gear, and there we came across a man and woman doing the same. He was probably close to thirty and looked like a young professional—probably an attorney or accountant judging by his preppy clothing and well kept appearance. His lady friend was a beautiful twentysomething blond wearing short tight fitting exercise pants and a bikini top that made a grand show of her rather large breasts—not that I’d noticed. On the table between them was a massive gun case, and inside were a number of pistols neatly lined up beside their clips on the black foam lining. Mr. Preppy was currently lecturing his beautiful companion about the subtleties of shooting a pistol, as he was apparently an expert, and, to that end, he took great pains to describe even the most minute of details. He eventually noticed me listening and turned his attention my way.
“First time?” he asked.
“Yeah, but I play a lot of video games,” I responded.
“This isn’t like any video game you’ve ever played. This is the real deal, friend, and, if you’re not prepared to pull the trigger, that fucker could go flying out of your hands.”
The guy seemed to enjoy his expert status and took a moment to look over the entirety of our little group, and his eyes lit up when he noticed Violet.
“If you need any tips, darling, feel free to swing by our stall,” he said, to her.
“Oh, thank you. I will,” Violet said.
We proceeded out to the range and took up residence in the last lane, which resided along the far wall, and was reserved for employees. Our fellow shooters from the anteroom arrived a moment later and took up residence at the next stall over—probably because Mr. Preppy hoped to impress Violet with his shooting skills. That theory was proved correct when he gave her a smug smiled then proceeded to take a lot of time to lay out his various weapons. It was a nice collection and included a Glock 17, a Sig Sauer 220, and three model 1911 Colt 45’s that were all decked out with a shit load of competition mods. It was the collection of either an expert or a douchey wannabe,
though my vote was obviously on the latter.
Meanwhile, back in our lane, Simon pulled out a box of 9mm ammunition and proceeded to load a clip then placed it on the little shelf in front of us. I connected the target to the clips on the overhead wire pulley system and hit the button to send it out about twenty-five feet.
“Simon, do you want to shoot first?”
“Sure, if you don’t mind.”
He picked up the Beretta, slid in the clip, and released the slide to automatically chamber the first round. He got comfortable and squeezed off a shot, and the sound was completely inaudible now that we were wearing ear protection. He hit the target about a quarter inch below the bullseye, so Simon was definitely an accomplished shooter, which wasn’t surprising, as most gunsmiths were also marksmen. He put the weapon down and smiled as he turned around.
“That things shoots as smooth as butter.”
Mr. Preppy had apparently also been watching and looked puzzled.
“What’s with the silencer? I thought they were illegal,” he said, raising his voice so that he could be heard over our ear protection.
“They are, but loud noises make me jumpy, so Simon here, as the holder of a federal firearms license, was kind enough to let us use one of his,” I said.
“Oh, typical,” he said, before retreating back to his stall.
I picked up the gun next and fired off a quick double tap, and the first bullet hit the bullseye dead center while the second was directly beside it.
“You’re right. The silencer doesn’t diminish accuracy one iota. It’s perfect. Care to give it a try, Agent Kalili?”
“Sure,” she said, picking up the Beretta.
She aimed and fired, and her shot went right through my bullseye hole, so Violet too was a hell of a shooter. I handed the pistol back to Simon, and he gratefully accepted it and finished off the rest of the clip, which also finished off the rest of the bullseye. Done on the range, we started preparing to leave, and Mr. Preppy popped his head around the corner of his stall.
“Done so soon?” he asked.
“Yeah, afraid so.”
“Well, shooting isn’t for the feint of heart. I’m sure you’ll be much more comfortable back in front of one of your video games,” he said, retreating back to his stall yet again.
Simon smiled at me, as he was obviously thinking the same thing I was—that Mr. Preppy needed to be taught a lesson in humility. We therefore all moved to the next stall over and watched as he tried to position his lady friend by adjusting her hips and shoulders and, more annoyingly, shouted erroneous advice. He finally backed away, and she pulled the trigger and jumped when the gun went off, which sent her shot high and right.
“No, no, no! You have to relax! Watch me,” Mr. Preppy said.
He nudged her aside and took hold of the gun and fired, and his shot went low and right. He fired again, and the second shot hit about five inches below the bullseye. At that point, he switched places with her, and she fired again, and, just like the first round, her shot went high and right.
“No—you’re not listening, Erika!” he complained.
“I’m trying,” Erika said, sounding annoyed.
“Perhaps I can be of some help,” I said, stepping forward.
“I’ve got this covered,” Mr. Preppy said.
“Apparently not.”
“Oh, give him a chance,” Erika said.
“Fine,” he said, stepping back and smiling smugly.
“By the way, the names Finn, Tag Finn,” I said.
“Nice to meet you. I’m Erika.”
“OK, Erika, let’s get you shooting.”
My first move was to get her to change from the isosceles triangle position to the more effective cheek weld.
“See that? Just think of your right arm as the stock of a rifle.”
“Cool!” she said.
“Yeah, now, I’d like to adjust your grip, but that’ll entail invading your personal space a bit.”
She raised an eyebrow and smiled.
“Whatever it takes,” she said.
I moved behind her and placed my hands over hers, which inadvertently nestled our bodies together, and, best of all, it made Mr. Preppy look noticeably annoyed. At that point, I adjusted her arms ever so slightly.
“Nice, now move your trigger finger out a tiny fraction. You’re holding it too deep, and it’s pulling your shots wide and right.
She did as I instructed.
“Perfect! Now, let’s take this shot together, but, most important of all, don’t anticipate it. So, to accomplish that, we’re both going to take a breath, let it out about halfway, and then squeeze the trigger.”
We both shared a breath, then gently squeezed the trigger together, and the next shot went dead in the center of the bullseye.”
“Oh my God! You’re amazing!” she said, before putting down the gun and hugging me.
“No, that was all you,” I said.
“No way! That was awesome!” she said, as she did a little jump that nearly jiggled her boobs free of her top.
“Oh, that was just a lucky shot,” Mr. Preppy interjected.
“Hardly, she’s a natural,” I countered.
“Bullshit. Have her shoot again. This time alone,” he said, sounding annoyed.
She took up the stance and repeated all I had just shown her then squeezed the trigger ever so gently, and her next shot hit so close to her first one, that the holes were literally touching. She called out excitedly and jumped up and down yet again, only this time her breasts popped out. She didn’t notice, however, so, when she hugged me, I was up against some bare boobage, and, as she stepped back, I felt compelled to warn her.
“You might want to holster those,” I said.
She looked down then smiled at me as she adjusted them back into her bikini top.
“Oh, what’s the big deal of having a couple of boobs between me and my shooting instructor?”
“Good point.”
“Seriously now! You’re amazing!” she exclaimed.
“Oh, anyone can get lucky,” Mr. Preppy countered.
“Once is lucky. Twice is skill,” I countered.
“Well if you’re such an expert, then why don’t you shoot a few and prove it?” he said.
“Fine, I’ll give it a try.”
I picked up the Glock she had been firing and slid in a fresh clip before calling out my targets.
“I’m going to do this one like I do my video games—two to the groin, two to the chest, and two to the head. If you care to time me, it should take a little less than a second.”
I double tapped and sent two shots directly into the groin, then did two more to the chest, and, last but not least, two to the head, and all six landed perfectly on target in tight groupings. Next, I placed the pistol in my left hand, called out the targets, and repeated the pattern, and all the shots landed within a quarter inch of the first round of shooting.
“Wow, I must be the luckiest guy on the planet. Violet, maybe you should fire a few—as a sort of double blind to test my theory,” I said, placing the Glock down on the shelf.
Violet stepped up, slid in a fresh clip, then proceeded to mimic my shot pattern perfectly by placing two bullets at each point on the target. The guy stood there in shock with his ego so bruised that not a single word left his lips. There was nothing wrong about lacking proficiency in something as long as you had the balls to admit it, and Mr. Preppy just learned that lesson the hard way—in front of a potential love interest that I suspect he was trying to impress. Now, there was a lot less chance of him getting his man parts anywhere near his lovely date’s lady bits. Live and learn.
“Well, I’m back to my video games.”
“Yeah, fuck you, because I know you’re not just some video game player!” Mr Preppy protested.
“You’re right, and you’re not much of a shooter, so I guess we’re both full of shit. Now, enjoy the rest of your day, my dear, and believe me when I say that you’re a natural.
”
She smiled and thanked me yet again for the brief lesson, then Simon, Violet, and I left and were soon in the anteroom and laughing as we took off our glasses and ear protection.
“We certainly put that asshole in his place,” Violet said.
“No doubt, but he definitely deserved it,” Simon said.
“Men will be men.”
We exited to the main area, thanked Simon, and left the Honolulu Gun Range, before walking the short distance to the car.
“Five O’ Clock. I guess we can head to the Outrigger Canoe Club,” I said.
“I thought the meeting was at six.”
“It is, but if we’re early, we can kill some time by having a drink out by the water and watch the planes coming in from the mainland.”
“Lunch, gun range, and now the beach?”
“It’s like I said—I’m a romantic.”
CHAPTER NINE
Damage Control
WE LEFT DOWNTOWN Honolulu on H1 and headed east towards Waikiki Beach, and, about five minutes later, we made a right onto Kapahulu Ave, then a left just before the water onto Kalakaua Ave. This would take us to the Outrigger Canoe Club, which resided just below the famous landmark Diamond Head—the iconic long dormant crater that was seen in the background of nearly every picture ever taken of Waikiki Beach. We pulled into the parking area and were directed by the attendant to the garage which sat beside the club. After finding a spot on the second story, we walked downstairs and entered the club and were greeted by a lovely hostess in a Hawaiian print dress. I gave her my name and told her we would be meeting Frank Williams at six, but we were going to kill some time with a cocktail, preferably near the water. She steered us outside to the Hau Terrace, and we managed to get a table right on the edge of the beach, where we had a bird’s eye view of the incoming flights as well as the club’s members as they headed off for late afternoon paddling runs. Our server, a young man around twenty, took our order for two Chi Chi’s then returned about five minutes later with two icy white cocktails adorned with a piece of pineapple and an obligatory miniature umbrella.
“To our partnership,” I said, as I held up my glass to toast.
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