Couldn’t he have come to us?” Gino Patelli said.
It was not the first time he had said it. Gino and Sylvester were making their way up the narrow dirt road of the Royal Academy Long-Distance Rifle Range. The name of the place was misleading. The range had nothing to do with anything royal, and was not affiliated with any academy. It was merely a place up in the hills where gun enthusiasts could discharge high-powered rifles without the danger of shooting up a pool party a quarter of a mile away.
“Why can’t we drive in?”
“It disturbs the shooters. The tiniest vibration gets magnified a thousand times at that distance.”
“I don’t see why he can’t come to us.”
“He wants to make sure you’ll hire him.”
“Why wouldn’t I hire him?”
“He doesn’t interview well. He lets his gun do the talking.”
There came the sound of shots up ahead.
“These people do know which way they’re aiming?” Gino said.
They started passing shooting stations. They were separated from each other and camouflaged like duck blinds, though presumably they were shooting at nothing but targets. There were tripods mounted in the stations should someone wish to use one, stanchions to lean against, and mats on the ground should a shooter wish to fire from the prone position.
All of the shooting stations were in use. Most shooters were using tripods.
At one station a man lay facedown on the mat, his head cradled in his arms. To all appearances, he was sound asleep. “You lookin’ for me?” he said. He had not raised his head.
“Depends who you are,” Sylvester said.
“We spoke on the phone.”
“How do you know that?”
“Please.” The man rolled over and sat up. He was a wiry man in battle fatigues with unkempt black hair and an unshaven face. “Okay. I’m who you think I am. You’re who I think you are. Do you want my services?”
Gino wasn’t sure he did. The man’s manner was hostile, his eyes cold and threatening. A man accustomed to a degree of deference, Gino was tempted to tell the guy to go fuck himself. What stopped him was the fact that perhaps the situation called for such a man.
“Can you hit a moving target?”
“Are you stupid?”
Gino blinked. “Fuck you,” he said, and turned to go.
“Hold on,” Sylvester said. “The man meant no offense. He’s just explaining how it is, aren’t you?”
“No one’s ever hired me to shoot a stationary target. If the target’s stationary, the job’s over.”
“And you brought us up here to show us how good you are?” Gino said.
“I’d like to. My sight is slightly off. I need to recalibrate.”
“So, recalibrate.”
“Not now. In my workshop.”
“You brought me all the way up here and you’re going to miss?”
“I’m not going to miss. I’ll be a few millimeters left of dead center.” The man picked up a pair of binoculars and handed them to Gino. “Check out the target.”
Gino looked. “That seems pretty close.”
“Not that target. Up the hill to the right. Let me know when you find it.”
Gino scanned the distance. He spotted it. “You can hit that?”
A shot rang out.
Gino flinched and turned around.
The man was just lowering his rifle. He shook his head. “Left of center.”
Gino lifted the binoculars to his eyes to verify, then looked the man over. “Let’s talk business.”
Two hundred fifty thousand. Half up front.”
“You have got to be kidding.”
“Why would I kid about a thing like that?”
“That’s an insane amount of money.”
“Are you calling me insane?”
“Of course not. I’m saying that is way more than I would normally pay.”
“Then you should hire the guys you would normally pay. Maybe this time they’ll have better luck.”
Gino considered that. He took a breath.
“What’s your name?”
“None of your business.”
“If I pay you two hundred and fifty thousand dollars, it’s my business.”
“I’m the shooter. That’s all you need to know.”
“You want me to call you the shooter?”
“I don’t give a damn what you call me as long as you pay me.”
“What do I get for two hundred and fifty thousand dollars?”
“I will hit the target.”
“You never miss?”
“This conversation is boring me. I only take the jobs I want. I’m not sure I want yours. Who is the target?”
Gino nodded to Sylvester.
Sylvester reached into a large manila envelope and handed him a glossy photograph.
The shooter looked at it. “Who is this?”
“Billy Barnett.”
“Why have I heard that name?”
“He was arrested recently as a suspect in the death of a gossip columnist.”
“He’s in jail?”
“He’s out on bail.”
“What’s the problem?”
“Since he got out of jail, he hasn’t shown up at home or at the movie set.”
“You’re telling me you don’t know where the target is?”
“Not at the present time. He has to be found. But isn’t that what you do?”
“No, that’s what a private investigator does. If you want me to do that as well as the shooting, it will cost you three hundred thousand.”
Before Gino could explode, Sylvester jumped in. “We don’t know where he is, but we know where he will be.”
“Oh?”
“His picture’s been nominated for an Academy Award. The Oscars ceremony is Sunday night.”
“You want me to kill him on national TV?” the shooter asked, appearing intrigued by the challenge.
Gino nearly gagged.
“You’re not going to kill him on camera,” Sylvester said. “The event will be televised. We’re simply advising you about where and when you can locate the target.”
“Fine. But how do I pick him out in a crowd full of guys in penguin suits?”
Gino and Sylvester had hoped the photograph would be sufficient, but the man was right—at formal events, men in tuxes tended to all blend together. Gino gave Sylvester a meaningful look.
Sylvester said, “We will find his seat location and communicate it to you before the event concludes.” He didn’t know yet how they’d accomplish that herculean task, but it wouldn’t matter if they couldn’t get the shooter onboard. “If all else fails, you will have seen him in person and can more easily ID him the next time we have a credible location.”
The man considered for a moment, then gave a curt nod, which Gino and Sylvester took to be a seal on their agreement. Then he smiled at Sylvester. “And one last thing: I’ll need access to the area. You will have to get me a ticket.”