We’ve had quite a day and sit down for a beer-Sweetness lines three shots of kossu up at the bar and downs them one after the other-and after relaxing for a few minutes, we head out to my brother Timo’s place. Sweetness shows no sign of inebriation. It’s mostly because of his size, but I’ve never met anyone with a head for alcohol like his. It’s often considered a manly attribute, but also often leads to liver failure and early death. It concerns me.
Timo is five years older than me and the black sheep of the family. Dad always told him what a worthless piece of shit he was. Timo took it to heart and set out to prove him right. As a teenager, he was always in trouble, committed petty crimes, skipped school more than he attended it and dropped out at sixteen. At age twenty-five, Timo did a seven-month stint in prison for bootlegging. Because of this, Mom has spent years singing his praises as an angel and proclaimed him her favorite child. It’s obvious she does this because his criminal past is an embarrassment and disappointment to her, and it humiliates him when she goes on about him.
He was too much older than me for us to spend much time together or get to know each other well while we were growing up, but we’ve always gotten along. There are four of us brothers. He and I are big men. Jari and my other brother, Juha, are little guys. Juha, the oldest of us, settled in Norway years ago and I don’t even remember the last time we were in contact.
Timo is bright and foresaw the future. He drifted for a while before eventually settling in Pietarsaari, in western Finland. He got a job in a paper factory and worked there for seventeen years. It was a union job, he made a lot of money and he saved. When the plant got outsourced to India or China or somewhere, he bought this farm outright. Timo’s got the full-fledged redneck thing going on. Overalls, beer belly, full beard and baseball cap.
The place has a lot of charm. He and his common-law wife, Anni, give us a tour. They live in a rambling old farmhouse next to a lake. They’ve been together for more than twenty years, raised two kids, a boy and girl. They’ve grown up and moved out. Timo and Anni have a big barn, a sauna building with room for guests to sleep over in it, just a few steps from the lake, and a tiny house, like a dollhouse, just big enough to walk into. It’s just got a bed in it, another place for overnight guests. Jenna gets all excited. It’s like a home for Muumit and she wants to sleep in it. I read Sweetness’s face. He’s hoping he’ll spend the night in there with her.
They take us on a tour. Timo has a still in the barn. He makes pontikka-moonshine. He has a tin cup beside it and offers tastes.
“What exactly is it?” Kate asks.
“Alcohol made from malted grain,” Timo says. “I’ve infused this batch with mixed berries that we grew or picked ourselves, and I put some chocolate bars into the mash.” He turns the tap, puts a healthy measure in the cup. “Have a sip.”
“What’s the alcohol percentage?” I ask.
“A little over eighty.”
“Careful Kate,” I say. “It can burn your lungs. Put it in your mouth and sip it without inhaling.”
She tries it, her face lights up, and she declares it delicious. The girls sip too and agree it’s yummy.
Timo offers the cup to others. Milo says, “We have some shooting practice to do. I think I’ll wait until after.”
I check my watch. It’s eight. The long days are upon us. We still have plenty of time to shoot.
“Actually,” Moreau says, “a small amount of alcohol will steady your hands. If you have problems with shaking hands, I suggest you get a prescription for a beta blocker. It will steady you considerably.”
Milo sips the pontikka and also pronounces it top-notch. I skip the booze for now, as does Moreau. Sweetness takes a big mouthful, swallows, and sighs from satisfaction. He takes his flask out of his pocket. “Do you mind?”
“Help yourself,” Timo says.
Sweetness sucks the flask dry of kossu and fills it with pontikka.
“Not to seem inhospitable,” Timo says, “but my home is your home, except for the loft of this barn. It’s off-limits to law enforcement.”
So he supplements his income with stolen goods or some kind of contraband. It’s not always about money. Some people need to commit criminal acts to feel alive. I guess Timo is one of them. “No problem,” I say.
“Where do you want to shoot, and can I shoot with you?” Timo asks.
“Of course,” Milo says. “We want to shoot some pistols, a shotgun, a sniper rifle, and try out some flash-bang stun grenades.”
“For the rifle,” Moreau says, “we need at least five hundred meters.”
Timo points across the road at a hillock. “My neighbor is away. We can set the targets down here by the lake, shoot down from up there, and the bullets will just land in the water. The others we can just shoot here by the barn.”
“I’ll put the grill and sauna on,” Anni says, “so after you boys have your fun, we can eat, drink and relax.”
“Sounds perfect,” I say.
Milo and Sweetness bring the arsenal from the SUV. We start with the lockbuster shotgun, which is self-explanatory. Use eye and ear protection. Special ammo made from compressed zinc powder or dental ceramic expends all its energy and disintegrates the lock. Angle yourself away from flying shrapnel when you shoot, and that’s it. We don’t have any locks to break, so we just fire it once each so we know what it’s like.
We set up pistol targets at twenty-five feet, which Moreau says is a longer shot than you think, since most gunfights with pistols take place within seven feet of the combatants.
Milo considers himself an excellent shot and he is, but Moreau tells him that he’s doing it wrong if he wants to be a true pro. Milo uses both front and rear sights. He should ignore the rear sight, pay attention to only the front sight, and use the pistol as if he’s pointing his finger at the target, in a sense, without aiming the pistol. Milo didn’t come for a lesson, just to try out his Colt. I see that he resents the lecture.
Moreau demonstrates. His Beretta is cocked, locked and holstered, meaning he draws, flicks off the safety, a round slams into the chamber and the pistol is ready to fire. He warns that many shooters lose their toes by shooting them off while learning this most efficient manner. I throw seven empty beer cans into the air. He hits each one while it’s at the top of its arc.
Milo can’t hit anything without using the rear sight. He takes great pride in his shooting skills. His frustration level is high but he tries to hide it, just purses his lips and says nothing.
“Not to worry,” Moreau says. “Burn up a few thousand rounds on the practice range and you’ll shoot as well as me. Anyone can.”
I try. “I’m right-handed but left-eyed. Shooting is difficult for me because of it. I can keep the bullets on the target, but can’t shoot a tight pattern.”
“I retract my previous statement,” Moreau says. “You will never be an expert marksman.”
I don’t mind. “I’d better just keep my gunfights within those seven feet you talked about.”
“You’ve already killed a man, though,” he says. “After the first time, people usually stay calm and are able to perform. That counts for as much as practice.”
This is Sweetness’s first time firing a gun. Ambidextrous, he’s wearing the two Colts Milo gave him in shoulder rigs on each side. He makes a couple of tentative first attempts, just trying to aim and pull the trigger. Both were close to bull’s-eyes. “I think I got the idea,” he says. He re-holsters, cocked and locked. I cringe, certain he’s going to shoot himself. He draws smooth and proceeds to blast the center rings out of two side-by-side targets. “Like that?” he asks.