“It’s going to be, practically speaking, impossible to prove actual malice on the part of two professional people, one of whom you just met and the other, you don’t know at all. Are the allegations they made about you true?”

“Get on the Internet, go to the paper’s website, and read the article,” Tirov said. “Call me when you’ve filed the suit.”

“I’m not licensed to practice in New Mexico. I’ll have to find a local attorney to bring the suit.”

“Then do it.” Tirov hung up.

—

Kim Kopchinsky found the newspaper article and read it. He found it plausible that two attempts had been made on Tirov’s life—he had often been tempted himself, but the man did pay his legal bills on time. The part about putting a rattlesnake in his ex-wife’s bedroom did not seem too far-fetched, given his previous experience with his client during the divorce proceedings, and the part about having another rattlesnake put in his client’s bed seemed just, if not legal. He called Tirov back.

“Yeah?”

“Boris, I’ve read the newspaper article, and I’ve noticed that both the Santa Fe sheriff and hotel employees have been cited as sources. There is one anonymous source, for the part about the rattlesnake in your wife’s bedroom, but having witnessed your behavior during the divorce, I find it completely plausible that you would do such a thing. Now, it’s one thing to represent you in career and divorce negotiations, but it’s quite another to file a frivolous lawsuit against a reputable newspaper, and I am unwilling to sully the good name of this law firm by being a party to such an idiotic proceeding.”

“Are you willing to be fired right now?”

“I’d be proud to be fired by you, Boris. I might even take out an ad, bragging about it. Go fuck yourself.” Kopchinsky hung up the phone, feeling unaccountably clean.

Boris could feel his blood pressure going up. He got out of his chair and walked into the street, headed for the armorer’s trailer at one end. He walked up to the open window through which the man issued and accepted firearms.

“Morning, Mr. Tirov,” the man drawled. “What can I do you for?”

“Good morning, Frog. Give me a shotgun,” Tirov said.

“What kind did you have in mind?”

“What do you mean, what kind?”

“I’ve got twelve- and ten-gauges, both antiques, with open hammers. That do you?”

“How about something sawed off?”

The man disappeared into his trailer and came back with a weapon sporting about eight inches of barrel. “How ’bout this ’un?”

“Fine. Give me a box of ammo.”

“All we got is blanks.”

“I want a box of live ammo for that shotgun.”