up.
The couch felt so good I figured I’d doze off for a while. I woke up at 9:15 p.m., hungry but still blurry after my two nights sitting upright. I heated some canned chili and put half of a frozen French baguette on top of the pot lid to defrost. I washed things down with a couple of Killian’s Irish Red ales, tried Nancy again without success, and went to sleep in a real bed for a change.
* * *
To get to the Boston Police Revolver Range , you drive south on the Expressway to Neponset Circle , then over the bridge to Quincy Shore Drive . At a traffic light, you turn onto East Squantum Street , bearing left all the way and enjoying an unusual aspect of Dorchester Bay and the city behind it. You feel as though you’re driving on a deserted causeway, winding toward some abandoned lighthouse. Then, just after several large water locks, you see the range compound, technically on a harbor chunk called Moon Island . I parked next to the one-story bungalow with the police department’s blue-on-white sign.
Inside, the range officer took my name and told me to have a seat. He was about fifty-five, with curly gray hair and a soft-spoken manner. Handing me a duplicate of the instruction sheet you get at the licensing unit back at headquarters, he suggested I review it while he got some ammunition.
In Massachusetts , the right to carry a concealed firearm is governed by the police of the municipality in which you reside. You have to have reasonable grounds for needing a permit, and Boston ’s live-fire test involves shooting thirty rounds at various distances. All in the bull’s eye would be a perfect 300. To pass, you need 210 points, a 70 percent score. Basically, that means hitting a roughly chest-size target with most of your thirty bullets. The problem is, if you shoot less than 210, you have to wait six months before you can try again.
The officer came back to me with an old tomato can in his hand. He took me out through a rear door, passing under the large-print sign that spelled out Boston Police Rule 303 (”The Use of Deadly Force is Permitted:...”). We walked toward the numbered asphalt firing stations at the close edge of the range. No one else was in sight. The blue target holders were posted about twenty-five yards away against a high reddish brown barrier and an even higher earth berm behind it.
The officer placed the can on the ground and unholstered his revolver. After checking to be sure the cylinder was empty, he stuck his fingers into and through the gun’s frame to keep the cylinder swung out and safe. I slowly drew the four-inch Combat Masterpiece I had carried.
He said, ”No, sir. You’ll use my weapon. I’ll be handing you the cartridges as appropriate. Please keep the barrel pointed downrange at all times and deposit the spent casings in the can.”
I returned my piece to its holster and took his, keeping my fingers through the frame as he had.
”We’ll move downrange now to the seven-yard line. You’ll be firing twelve rounds from there.”
We came to a stop at the target distance from which over half of the actual police gun battles are fought. ”All six shots have to be fired one-handed, double-action. Do you understand what that means?”
”Yes.”
”You can practice a few dry-fires with the weapon if you want.”
”No, thanks.” He doled out six bullets to me, and I loaded them.
”You may fire when ready.”
I put my left hand in my pants pocket, assumed a bent-L arrangement with my feet, and took a deep breath, letting it out slowly. I inhaled again, aimed, and began to exhale, pulling the trigger without cocking the hammer. I repeated the procedure, including the deliberate breathing, five more times.
”Make it safe.”
I swung the cylinder out, and we walked to the target.
He said, ”Four tens, a nine, and an eight.”
Back at the seven-yard line, I fired another string of six. Five tens and a nine.
As we moved to the fifteen-yard line, he said, ”You have
The couch felt so good I figured I’d doze off for a while. I woke up at 9:15 p.m., hungry but still blurry after my two nights sitting upright. I heated some canned chili and put half of a frozen French baguette on top of the pot lid to defrost. I washed things down with a couple of Killian’s Irish Red ales, tried Nancy again without success, and went to sleep in a real bed for a change.
* * *
To get to the Boston Police Revolver Range , you drive south on the Expressway to Neponset Circle , then over the bridge to Quincy Shore Drive . At a traffic light, you turn onto East Squantum Street , bearing left all the way and enjoying an unusual aspect of Dorchester Bay and the city behind it. You feel as though you’re driving on a deserted causeway, winding toward some abandoned lighthouse. Then, just after several large water locks, you see the range compound, technically on a harbor chunk called Moon Island . I parked next to the one-story bungalow with the police department’s blue-on-white sign.
Inside, the range officer took my name and told me to have a seat. He was about fifty-five, with curly gray hair and a soft-spoken manner. Handing me a duplicate of the instruction sheet you get at the licensing unit back at headquarters, he suggested I review it while he got some ammunition.
In Massachusetts , the right to carry a concealed firearm is governed by the police of the municipality in which you reside. You have to have reasonable grounds for needing a permit, and Boston ’s live-fire test involves shooting thirty rounds at various distances. All in the bull’s eye would be a perfect 300. To pass, you need 210 points, a 70 percent score. Basically, that means hitting a roughly chest-size target with most of your thirty bullets. The problem is, if you shoot less than 210, you have to wait six months before you can try again.
The officer came back to me with an old tomato can in his hand. He took me out through a rear door, passing under the large-print sign that spelled out Boston Police Rule 303 (”The Use of Deadly Force is Permitted:...”). We walked toward the numbered asphalt firing stations at the close edge of the range. No one else was in sight. The blue target holders were posted about twenty-five yards away against a high reddish brown barrier and an even higher earth berm behind it.
The officer placed the can on the ground and unholstered his revolver. After checking to be sure the cylinder was empty, he stuck his fingers into and through the gun’s frame to keep the cylinder swung out and safe. I slowly drew the four-inch Combat Masterpiece I had carried.
He said, ”No, sir. You’ll use my weapon. I’ll be handing you the cartridges as appropriate. Please keep the barrel pointed downrange at all times and deposit the spent casings in the can.”
I returned my piece to its holster and took his, keeping my fingers through the frame as he had.
”We’ll move downrange now to the seven-yard line. You’ll be firing twelve rounds from there.”
We came to a stop at the target distance from which over half of the actual police gun battles are fought. ”All six shots have to be fired one-handed, double-action. Do you understand what that means?”
”Yes.”
”You can practice a few dry-fires with the weapon if you want.”
”No, thanks.” He doled out six bullets to me, and I loaded them.
”You may fire when ready.”
I put my left hand in my pants pocket, assumed a bent-L arrangement with my feet, and took a deep breath, letting it out slowly. I inhaled again, aimed, and began to exhale, pulling the trigger without cocking the hammer. I repeated the procedure, including the deliberate breathing, five more times.
”Make it safe.”
I swung the cylinder out, and we walked to the target.
He said, ”Four tens, a nine, and an eight.”
Back at the seven-yard line, I fired another string of six. Five tens and a nine.
As we moved to the fifteen-yard line, he said, ”You have
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