When Robert Cederberg was fourteen, on the last morning of his summer vacation, a sports car travelling at high speed failed to make the turn at the end of a coastal cliff road. The car flew fifty feet in the air before landing thirty feet below in the sand at the edge of Lake Erie. Being the first on the scene. Robert found the slightly drunk driver, with a broken leg, pinned in the car. Wedged between the red leather seats of the still running MGA, he also found, the most beautiful handgun in the world, a Walther PPK. James Bond’s gun, a gun for a killer. For Robert, shooting the man on the beach that morning was both exciting and easy. What was hard was leaving the silver gun with the black hand grips.