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poor mother doesn't have much money. I would appreciate whatever you could let me have.'

‘You can earn yourself some money, Pete,’ I said. ‘We'll pay you well if you can get something for us.’

‘Hmmm, I see. You want a little grass? Great stuff.’

‘No, we want something else. Information. Where can we buy a good hunting gun?’

Pete gave us a solemn look. ‘If you guys are planning another revolution, don't leave me out this time.’

We laughed and told him the real reason we wanted the gun. Pete left us and came back a few minutes later with an address written on a scrap of paper.

‘I don't know nothing about this. You remember that good,’ he warned us.

Kevin and I got out our wallets and paid Pete generously.

‘Thanks, guys,’ the Canadian said. ‘I'll use this for a ticket to the movies and a little grass tonight.’

We all went together to the Lebanese arms dealer whose address Pete had given us. He owned a noodle factory and sold arms on the side. He showed us a brand-new, shiny 12-gauge Winchester. Karl checked it over, spent a long time haggling over the price, and finally agreed to pay six thousand bolivianos. We bought two kinds of buckshot, the kind that makes a concentrated pattern for