“Sure, but I could tell it had been on somebody else’s head only recently before then, and therefore when the F.B.I. told me about the peculiar way those bills were creased and curled up, it was easy to figure out what must have happened. Dillon must have accidentally switched hats with a passer and found out too much.”
“Yeah, but how could you tell it had been on somebody else’s head just by looking at it?”
“I didn’t just look at it, I smelled it. And then I smelled Dillon’s hair. Didn’t you see me? The hat recked of bay rum, and there wasn’t a trace of it on Dillon’s head. There was no bottle of the stuff anywhere in the room either, and you could tell by the feathers on Dillon’s neck he hadn’t been in a barber shop in a month.” He winced. “Ouch, Doc! Go easy on that iodine, will you?”
Target for Tonight
by Dick Ashbaugh
The author certainly has a “way” with teenagers — bright and crisp! Question facing Marybeth and Karen: is it possible to fight bullets with arrows?
The ivory phone on the pink kitchen wall buzzed abruptly and teenager Marybeth Carmichael laid aside the handful of silver she was polishing. She lifted the receiver off the hook, murmured “Gr-r-r,” and hung up. Her father coming through the door looked at her curiously. “Either that was a wrong number,” he said, “or it’s the shortest telephone conversation you’ve had in ten years.”
“It was Karen,” said Marybeth, resuming her methodical polishing of the silverware. “She knows how slow I am doing dishes, so she calls every few minutes and yells ‘Onward, onward’.”
“Well, hurry it up,” he said. “As soon as you’re through I want to fix that hot water faucet. I promised your mother it would be done before she gets back from her Friday night devastation of the supermarket.” He spread his tool kit out on the snack bar. “Otherwise there will be tears and admonitions. You and Karen have a date tonight?”
“Strictly business,” said Marybeth. “We’re going over to school and mimeograph the programs for the Festival tomorrow. You’re coming, aren’t you, Daddy? To the Festival, I mean.”
“I wanted to play golf,” he said hollowly, “but your mother has been holding a pistol at my head.”
“You’re a true-blue parent and you won’t be sorry. It’ll be terrific. As a final, our archery team is going to attack a settler’s cabin with flaming arrows. Real neat-o. We’ll be dressed as Indians and we’re going to burn it to the ground.”
“Jolly,” said her father. “Just so you don’t burn down the rest of the property.”
“Don’t worry about that. The Fire Department will have a truck parked right there. They’re going to demonstrate how to smother flames.”
“Seems to me you spend more time on archery than you do on your studies. I sent you to school to learn about the Louisiana Purchase, and what happens to a man-and-a-half who digs a ditch-and-a-half in a day-and-a—”
“Oh, we learn that stuff too,” said Marybeth airily. “We have archery so we won’t lose our minds. I’m high scorer this year. Miss Kinslow says I should try for the district amateur.”
“That’s all we need in the family,” groaned Mr. Carmichael, “a lady archer.”
“Archery is good for a girl,” said Marybeth defensively. “It develops certain pectoral muscles that tend to sag in middle age.”
Mr. Carmichael coughed abruptly and rattled his tools. “Suppose you use some of your partially developed muscles and finish those dishes.”
“Sure, Daddy, just a minute.” She watched the soapy water gurgle down the drain and scrubbed the sink until it gleamed. “Isn’t Mother taking longer than usual tonight?”
He glanced at the wall clock. “She does seem to be running a bit late. I suppose the twins wanted to ride the merry-go-round. These shopping centers are getting more like Disneyland every day.”
He paused with a wrench in his hand. There was a sudden screech of tires and a thumping noise in the side driveway. A car motor raced wildly and then snapped off.
“Hey, something funny here.” Mr. Carmichael started toward the rear door. “Your mother is a better driver than that.” He dashed out with Marybeth on his heels.
Apprehension surged through him as he saw the car standing at an odd angle on the driveway, one wheel over the low concrete curbing. The rear door burst open and one of the twins hurtled toward him. They collided and. Donny grasped him wildly around the waist. He could see the other twin, Davey, struggling out of the front seat. “Hey, what happened?”
Donny sobbed dry-eyed, his face against his father’s chest. “It was awful, Dad. This guy with a gun hit Mom. Then he shoved Davey into a whole bunch of canned beans — and Davey’s got a big bump where this can hit him on the head.”
He pulled Donny away from his grasp. “Quick, Marybeth, take the kids in the house.” In one motion he pulled open the door and slid into the driver’s seat. Mrs. Carmichael collapsed slowly into his arms, then shook her head and looked up. He held her tightly. “Pam, for Pete’s sake, what happened?”
“It’s all right, Steve. I... I mean, don’t worry. We’re okay. Just reaction, I guess.” She buried her head against his shoulder and shuddered.
“Take it easy,” he said soothingly. “When you feel like talking, tell me about it.”
She spoke against his shoulder, her words partly muffled. “It was pretty frightening. They held up the supermarket while we were there — a gang of toughs in black leather jackets. We had just gotten to the check-out counter when they came in waving guns. One of them shoved Donny and I... I took a swing at him. He slapped me. My ears are still ringing.”
He held her away, examining her face in the light of the dash. There was an ugly red welt on her left cheek. “The punks,” he said, biting off the words. “I hope they nail them. I’d like to get a crack at the one who did this.”
He helped her from the car and supported her as they walked toward the kitchen door. “We were lucky,” she said. “They shot a man standing right behind me. Davey has a bump on his head. I don’t think it’s serious. They wanted to take us to the hospital, but all I could think about was getting home.”
Marybeth had Davey perched on a high stool and was applying ice cubes to the bump on his forehead. “The poor baby,” she said. She looked around wide-eyed. “Mother, are you all right?”
“I’m all right, darling. Just a little bruise. I’d like a glass of water.” She sank down on a chair in the breakfast alcove.
“I’d better run Davey down to the doctor,” said Mr. Carmichael. “It could be a concussion. Although the guy has an awfully hard head.” He grinned at Davey, who grinned back.
“Aw, I’m all right, Dad. When this guy hit Mom I got mad and belted him on the shins. He gave me a big shove and I went right into this pile of canned stuff. Spinach, I think. I hate spinach.”
Donny chortled. “It was baked beans. You should have seen Davey — he really messed up that pile of cans.”
Mr. Carmichael heaved a great sigh. “The next time you go shopping it’ll be with an armed escort. That’s the third holdup in the neighborhood in the past two weeks. Sounds like the same gang.”
“I just wish,” said Marybeth grimly, “I’d been there with my bow and some nice steel-tipped arrows.”
“Oh, come now, honey,” said her father. “You can’t fight bullets with arrows.”
The wall phone buzzed and Marybeth reached for it. “Right in the middle of everything. That’s Karen, for you.” She picked up the receiver and said, “Yes, Karen. Well, there’s been some excitement here. My mother was held up at the supermarket. A man shot at her and hit Davey on the head with a can of beans. Oh, you’ve heard it on the radio! Of course, kid, I’ll see you at school in twenty minutes.”