“Delta, Delta, I am eleven miles south of Waldron, Arkansas, just off Route 71 in a cornfield, one hundred yards off the highway. I have been hit twice and I am losing blood.”
“You hang on, son, I am going to shift frequencies and put the squawk onto the Little Rock emergency frequency and the boys on the ground will ASAP it to your local authorities and you will get assistance and if they can’t make it, I will set this buggy down on the goddamn highway and pick you up myself, Trooper.”
“Thank you, Delta One Niner Zero, ain’t you a Good Samaritan?”
“And ain’t you a tub o’ guts, Trooper? Good luck, son.” He signed off.
Earl set the radio mike down and sat in the dark. The world seemed suddenly full of possibility.
Then he heard the sound of death; it chilled him. It was the dry, raspy, spastic crackle that signified the presence of a rattlesnake.
Great, he thought; that’s all I need.
15
udge Myers was going to beat him. This was very frustrating for Red because Judge Myers never beat him. Nobody ever beat him, goddammit.
Red was the best sporting clays shooter in West Arkansas, and maybe the whole state; he’d placed high in several national tournaments, including the Big Pig in Maryland, the NSCAs in San Antonio, the Seminole Cup Challenge in Orlando. He had a gift for the game, a natural grace with the shotgun and a kind of geometry-instinctive mind—his arithmetic gift again, perhaps—that let him solve complex problems of deflection with an almost eerie confidence.
But even the good shooters have the odd off day, when the birds come from the trap not as they should but by freakish chance too close, too far, or caught and toyed with in a burst of random wind, lifted oddly or squashed oddly, faster, slower; when, for whatever reason, the eye isn’t seeing with quite the clarity it normally does, or the brain isn’t reading and solving with quite the same power, the hands are slow, the gun never gets mounted right: so many little things that begin to erode at whatever it is that makes you hit. So it was today with Red.
The judge, who had never broken 45, was standing at 45 now on the last station. Red was standing at 43. If he ran five, the best he could do would be to top out at 48, so the judge could beat him with a five or even a pussy four and the man was so confident and feeling so full of himself, the five looked possible, the four positive. “This isn’t my day,” said Red.
No, it wasn’t. He hated the last station, not the two oblique outgoers that came low off the trap, easy for a shooter at his level, but his worst damned shot, a far teal, straight up and way out, first a single then a goddamned simo. He should have it changed; after all, he owned the course.
The judge stepped into the cage. Before them the beauty of the state’s wildness displayed itself, for the course was a good one, with shots hard enough to keep it interesting. The trap was to the left; the first two outgoers sailed low and dropped as they fell into a valley amid dogwoods, crossed a pond and disappeared in the vegetation. The teal were the bitches. They looked like dots, popped straight up from a remote on the other side of the pond, bare against the sky only momentarily, so dark and far you couldn’t even see their orangeness. You wanted to catch them as they paused in equipoise at the cusp of their rise; if instead you tried to take them going down, you’d run out of shot before you could pull the trigger.
“I’m feeling strong today, Red,” said Judge Myers, of the Fort Smith Myerses, who was also chairman of the Sebastian County Party and a close personal friend and campaign fund-raiser of and for Senator Hollis Etheridge, and if Hollis’s campaign ever got into gear, the judge would be headed for a Big Job in Washington, all of which pleased Red no end.
“Well, Judge, if you want, I’ll just write you the check now. We don’t even have to shoot it out. The better man won today.”
“Oh, Red, you sly damned dog you, you really are Ray Bama’s son! But that kind of psych job won’t work on me.” The judge laughed; Red’s gamesmanship was a legend in Fort Smith’s raciest poker, golfing, and wing-shooting circles, which, essentially, were the same circles, and only one circle, the Rich Boys Club.
Red and the judge went way back; when, in 1991, a Justice Department attorney working for the Organized Crime Strike Force, had petitioned for a wiretap, someone Red knew had tipped him with the information and it was Judge Myers who’d granted Red a temporary enjoining order. That case would come up to decision sometime soon too, possibly by the second or the third decade of the next century.
So the judge owed Red, who contributed money by the gallon to the party, and Red owed the judge. That’s why Red loved to shoot against the judge: it was even.
The judge slipped two ACTIV 8s into the chambers of his Perazzi, snapped the lovely gun’s sleek barrels into the receiver with the solid thunk of a bank vault closing and took up a nice loose ready position, the gun tucked under the right shoulder, the weight forward on the balls of the feet.
“Trapper ready,” came a call from the bush.
“Pull!” the judge called, and obediently the unseen trapper launched the disks, two orange saucers which in a blur flashed into the valley, sinking, skimming, diminishing all at once. The judge’s gun spoke twice, fast, and two orange puffs marked the hits as he swung through.
He opened the barrels, let the empties pop out and slid two more ACTIVs into the over-and-under chambers.
“Pull,” he shouted, and quickly enough, from beyond the pond, a bird the size of an aspirin screamed into the sky, paused ever so slightly, and the judge stayed with it, followed through and killed it.
Except he didn’t.
“Goddamn,” he said. “Now I’m spooked.”
“You’re not spooked,” said Red. “Not you.”
“Damn!” said the judge.
He reloaded for the really hard simo: two birds launched at once, inscribing arcs away from each other. You couldn’t get them both with one shell; you had to take one early as it rose, then swing to the second one, before it fell too far and you lost it in the vegetation, tricky as hell because you had to trust your instincts as far as finding the line, and if you came down through it and were off center, there was nothing to be done.
He steeled himself, took a swallow, tried a hundred ready positions, then found one to his liking.
“Pull!” he shouted.
And missed both.
“Goddamn!” the man screamed. “Son of a bitch,” he muttered, as he stepped away.
“Well, well,” said Red. “Lookie here.”
“Red, you ain’t never run this station and I don’t believe you’re going to now.”
“Jack Myers, you are probably right, but we shall see what we shall see.”
He stepped into the cage.
The test was concentration. Thinking too hard about the teal that lay ahead could cost him the easier outgoers that he had to deal with first. Visualize, he ordered himself, and in his mind he watched a movie of himself, mounting the gun smoothly, coming up on line with the two birds with no excess motion, not even much gun movement, killing them fast and getting out of there.
He slid two shells into the gleaming chambers of his Krieghoff K-80, $12,000 worth of poetry and grace assembled lovingly by the best gun makers in Germany. He locked the gun shut and just felt himself leaning ever so slowly forward, letting the shot assemble in his mind, letting his emotions calm, his heart still and his concentration begin to gather.
“Pull!”
You don’t want to look as the birds come off the trap, because they move too fast; you’ll be late. As Red smoothly pulled the gun up and into his shoulder with an economical, practiced placement until it naturally found itself pointing exactly where, also by long practice, he was already looking, he watched the birds come into the window of his sharpest vision. There was no time for thought or consideration, for things happened faster than words could be arranged to record them: the birds were there, falling, diminishing, but etched in his focus, the barrel was a blur beneath them, the gun seemed automatically to fire twice as he swept along, and the orange smears where the birds’ ceramic was dissolved by the force of eight hundred pellets of bird shot driving through their center marked his hits.