In the river
water ripples the branches
leaves drift past the clouds—Soezi
Sunday morning finds me whipped. A night of torment kept me awake and writhing, trying to manage the pain with meditation until I passed out from exhaustion. Fatigued, achy, hot one minute, cold the next, simultaneously wired and dispirited. It’s the flu, I tell myself, but I’ve seen the same symptoms in junkies we’ve had in lock-up. They weren’t coming down with the flu, they were kicking. We always saw that they received medical attention and a modicum of relief, which is more than I plan to do for myself. A guilty conscience insists I suffer. Mindfulness dictates I experience every wracking minute but I am grateful to have been unconscious through at least some of it.
It’s late morning by the time I pull myself together enough to brave the day. At ‘Lotta Cars for Less, a brisk cold wind hasn’t discouraged the shoppers any. I have to fend off rabid salesmen as I weave my way through a lot jammed with cars, looking for and half expecting to find Hector’s Eterniti, taken in trade for drugs. I have my hand on the knob of Carlotta’s office door when a deep voice behind me says, “Ain’t gonna find no bargains in there, Mister.”
I whirl around to find Carlotta’s heavy-handed sales muscle at my back. He makes it clear that what he’s holding in his right pocket is not the Kelly Blue Book.
Carlotta’s voice comes through the door. “What’s going on out there?”
“I want to talk to you, Carlotta,” I say before the salesman can answer.
“Will, honey, is that you?” she asks. “Give me five and come on in.”
When I’m finally admitted to the office, I find the air is thick with cigar smoke. Carlotta sits enthroned as before in her mauve chair, her feet on the desk. The crystal dish of heroin I’m used to seeing in the middle of the desk is nowhere in sight. Across from her with his back to the door, a man sits in the side chair. He twists around to face me. It’s Airol Jones.
“Mansion, right?” he says.
“Right. Helping Carlotta dust her cigars? You help polish the desk, too?”
Jones frowns and Carlotta chuckles.
“Why, Will, honey, I do believe you’re jealous.” She smokes in short quick puffs that give her an air of nervousness. “Didn’t find anything on the lot that interested you?”
“How about something in the luxury department, say, an Eterniti? With a gold paint job. Got anything like that?”
Carlotta smirks. “I wish.”
“I’m talking about Hector’s Eterniti. You don’t have it?” I peer over her shoulder through the window behind her. No Eterniti in the rear lot. “Where is it? Did you sell it? Give it back to Hector?”
“If I had—and I’m not saying I did—why should I tell you?” she asks with a peevish grin.
“Because old drinking buddies don’t keep secrets from each other?”
She puffs away in stubborn silence. I flip out my ID. “How about, because it’s police business?”
Carlotta lifts her feet off the desk and stands. “I was wondering when you were going to come clean. ‘Friend of Hector’s,’ my ass.”
Jones springs from his chair. “You sonofabitch.”
“Now how about it, Carlotta? Did Hector take the car?” I ask.
“Hector? Hector’s dead.”
“And how would you know? Did you kill him?”
She grabs the newspaper from the top of her desk, clenches it in her fist, and waves it in my face. The banner headline flashes: “Diamond Merchant Iced.” “I read the paper, honey, and not just to make sure they don’t run my ads upside down. That’s how I know about Hector. Now I want you out. Get out!” Carlotta points the paper at the door.
“Sure, I can go. But you’re coming with me. And all the nice evidence you’ve got tucked away here. We’ll finally get to shut you down, Carlotta, you and your little private club. You, too, Jones. You’ve slammed your last dunk.”
At first round with fear, Carlotta’s eyes slowly narrow and a satisfied smile returns to her lips. She reaches into her desk and draws out the plastic bag that holds the shot glass and cigar stub with my fingerprints and saliva. “All the evidence? In that case we’ll also have to bring this. Then your buddies in blue will know you were there, too.”
Jones heaves a sigh of relief.
Carlotta smiles like a poker player who holds all aces. “If I go down, you’ll go down with me, Will Mansion. A dirty cop in the joint. I can see it now. They will eat you up, honey. Yes, they will.”
Indeed they will. The threat of punishment I deserve must not sway me from this course. Running from the consequences of my actions has been like trying to swim without rippling the water. “I’ll take that chance.”
Airol’s eyes widen in surprise. “He’s kidding, right?” he says to Carlotta.
“You’re kidding,” she says to me. When I don’t respond, she says, “You’d go to prison just to make a bust?”
“Want to make a date to meet on the exercise yard?” I ask her.
Master of the fake on the court, Jones tries a distraction play. “Now why we be sitting around here talking about jail? Let’s be smart. Mansion, there’s plenty of room on the team for a guy like you.”
Much as I’d like to play center for the pros, I doubt he’s talking about the Rebels. I shake my head. “Come on, let’s go.”
“Don’t be stupid, man. We’ll never go down for this. Carlotta has connections. Tell him, woman.”
Carlotta licks her upper lip.
“Shrike not too happy with you these days, Carlotta?” I ask. “Not pleased about your boy Hector dying without paying what he owed?” What was that debt? Shrike said Hector left him holding the bag but for how much? Must have been a bundle for him to offer my life in trade for Hector’s. Now that Hector’s dead, where does that deal stand? “Is Shrike leaning on you to make good on the debt?” Maybe Shrike has the Eterniti. Where is the damn car?
“I’m not worried,” she says, but she puffs nervously.
“Work with me, Carlotta. You know it’ll go easier on you if you do.”
“Tell the man what he want to know,” Airol urges. “It won’t hurt to have him on our side.”
“What’s your problem, Airol?” Carlotta says. “Afraid of a little heat?”
“Not the heat. But the media’ll take me apart and my career will be in the dumper.”
“You could always come work for me.”
“Woman, I be a star, not a pusher ... of used cars. Come on, what’s the big deal?”
“Yeah, Carlotta, what’s the big deal?” I ask. “Unless you killed him.”
“Killed him? Honey, I thought you knew me better than that. I’m a businesswoman. Why would I kill Hector when he was a good customer? He bought enough junk for two men. No, honey, I didn’t kill him and I don’t know anything about his car.”
“Right.”
Carlotta closes the space between us, smiles and fingers my lapel. “I’m telling you, Will, honey, I don’t know. I wish I did. You’re right, Shrike isn’t happy with me. I could put a smile back on his face if I had the car.”
She presses herself against me. I find myself measuring her height. Too short to be the mystery woman in the hooded cape.
“Now, can we go back to being friends?” she asks.
“Well—”
“And friends don’t arrest friends, do they?” she says.
Not with armed salesmen around. I doubt I’d make it off the lot. Leading in a bizarre fox trot with Carlotta in my arms, I mince backward toward the desk and its plastic bag of evidence. Carlotta anticipates my move and lunges. With Airol guarding me, she makes it to the desk before I do and grabs the bag.
“Sorry, Will. I’d better hang onto this,” she says. “Otherwise, you just might go tell your new friends about our little club. Wouldn’t you?”
“Yes. I would.”
“And I’m afraid I just can’t let that happen, can I?”
“No.”
She smiles sweetly. “I’m glad we understand each other.
I leave, having given Carlotta the barest for-publication details about Hector’s death. She didn’t ask many questions, either because she didn’t care or she already knew the answers.
*****
At the Canterbury, Old Paint gets its usual scathing glance from the parking valet, but I get the last laugh. I badge him, and steer the vehicle to the prime front parking lot. The lot is crammed. In first gear, I drive up one aisle and down the next, looking for an empty space amongst the Merecedeses, Caddies, Lexuses, Eternitis. . . .
Eterniti. Gold. Right here. Damn! Of course, I can’t say for certain it’s the gunboat that’s hounded me, I never got a good enough look but I’ll find out soon enough whose it is. I jot down the number of the license plate housed in a Haviland Eterniti dealership frame, then exit Old Paint to make a closer examination. The luxury car is dirty, water-spotted. A wiper-sized wedge is the only clean area in a grimy windshield. I’m about to peer inside when the blare of a car horn behind me draws me away. A man behind the wheel of a Suburban waves his hand at Old Paint as if to shoo it from his path. Reluctantly I leave the Eterniti and park, wishing I had a cell phone or radio so I could run the plate.
Canterbury Bazaar doesn’t have a public pay phone, but the restaurant does, in its foyer which at this hour is crammed with Sunday brunchers waiting to be seated. Fortunately I don’t have to fend off anyone else wanting to use the phone while I wait for Dispatch. These people all have phones of their own.
The car is registered to Hector Waltann, Columbus Street, Paradise City. No wants, no warrants.
Has the thing been here the whole time? It has been Overshort driving it! I charge off for Facets under a full head of steam.
It’s toasty inside Facets and there is hot cider on tap as well as coffee but the cozy atmosphere fails to soothe me. I identify myself to the salesgirl who greets me and demand to see Overshort.
“He’s not here.”
“How about Heidi Quince?”
“She’s not here, either.” The clerk’s eyes slide nervously toward the commotion at the other side of the room, an irate couple whose complaints can be heard over the Muzak. At the counter, the female of the pair opens a small gray Facets paper bag, removes a velvety plum box, and plops it onto the glass counter top.
“It cracked!” the woman shouts. “It simply cracked as if it were nothing more than bottle glass.”
The clerk attending her, a young man whose neck is too skinny for his collar, takes a step back. “Emeralds are not indestructible—”
“But this is ridiculous. It must be paste. I didn’t pay five thousand dollars for strass! I was told it was a high-quality emerald.”
“I can’t explain it, Ma’am, but if there’s a problem, we’ll correct it.”
“Trouble?” I ask my salesgirl.
“Oh, it’s nothing,” she says.
“Nothing Heidi couldn’t fix?”
She smiles apologetically.
“Who did you say originally sold you this piece?” the clerk asks.
The missus pulls a wadded-up receipt from her bag, shakes it out, and slams it on the counter, jostling the baubles in the case.
“Mr. Overshort, and I want to see him,” her husband says. “Now get him out here!”
“I’m sorry, he’s—”
“I don’t care where he is or what he’s doing, I want him out here now,” the husband yells and pounds the case with his fist.
The clerk looks worried and I don’t blame him. If the angry man hits the glass case any harder, it will break.
I step over to the couple and ask, “Is there a problem?”
“Who the hell are you?” the man asks.
I show him my identification.
He turns to his wife. “Who said there’s never a cop around when you need one?” To me he says, “Yes, there’s a problem. I’ve been robbed. I paid for an emerald and I got a hunk of glass.”
Overshort sold a piece of junk for a fine jewelry price? Just the opposite of what he may have done with the insurance claim after the theft. Then, I seem to recall, he undervalued his inventory.
I open the little box which contains a ring nestled against dark velvet. A big faceted green stone glitters in an ornate gold setting. It reminds me of the one I saw on Nikki Saint Clair’s finger when she skimmed her hand down her bare ... I give the image a mental shove. “When did you buy this, Ma’am?”
The missus waves the receipt in my face. “Six weeks ago.”
Right after the theft. I pretend to examine the ring while I try to solidify my misgivings about Overshort. Up to this point, I’ve hesitated to suspect him of wrongdoing, aware that my dislike for him and the way he browbeats the staff, especially Heidi, may prejudice my judgment. Now, between this and the Eterniti, it appears he is up to something after all. Is he passing off imitation jewels as authentic? Why? He could be skimming. So why not also submit a fraudulent claim to the insurance company? Because an investigation would invite too much scrutiny? Did he need Hector Waltann out of the way for the same reason? Now that Hector’s dead, once the insurance company settles on the death claim, Overshort becomes sole owner of Facets and can run whatever scam he wants.
“Please,” says the clerk, his Adam’s apple bobbing. “Let us look into this. There must be some mistake.”
“Damn right there’s a mistake. Now what are you going to do about it?” the angry man asks of us both.
The nervous clerk’s glance volleys between me and his customer, unsure of who represents the greater menace.
“No doubt it’s just an oversight,” I assure the complainant. “But I’ll look into it and if there appears a fraud was perpetrated, we will investigate further. Leave the piece with me. I’ll find out what went wrong and get back to you.” Heidi Quince will be able to tell me if it’s a phony.
The husband frowns. “Give it to you?”
A property form, evidence bag, and numbered tag would impress them and I’d have them in the trunk, if I were driving the Crown Vic. “Can you make out a receipt that will document this?” I ask the clerk.
“I really should check with Mr. Overshort first.”
“Maybe he should,” the wife says.
“You said Overshort was the cause of this problem. Do you really want to check with him?”
The husband rubs his lip with his index finger and the wife studies her shoes.
“Well, fine. If there’s no complaint here, I’ll be on my way and you can take this up with Overshort, when he shows up. If he shows up.” I set the ring box on the counter.
“No, wait,” says the wife. She gives me a smile and turns to her husband. “Honey?”
He picks up the ring and narrows his eyes at me. “We just need some assurance.”
“Call the stationhouse. Give them my badge number. Tell them what’s happening here. It’ll be a matter of record.”
The husband nods. “I believe I’ll do just that. Phone?” he asks the clerk.
He points to one beside the cash register.
The man picks up the receiver. I start to give him the non-emergency number and he says, “Stop. I’ll look it up for myself.” He gives me a smug, self-satisfied smile and snaps his finger at the clerk. “Phone book.”
The clerk produces one from behind the counter. The husband dials. After a brief conversation, he says to his wife, “He’s legit.”
“All right then.” Again I ask the clerk for a receipt.
“I—I can come up with something.”
That appears to mollify the angry couple. They get comfortable with a couple of cups of cider while the clerk retreats to the back office. He returns with several pages of documentation: a narrative with dates, names, photocopies of everyone’s identification, the ring’s description and stock number. We all sign it. The clerk boxes up the ring and wraps it in its little sack which I put it in my pocket.
I take the salesgirl aside. “Where is Overshort?”
She bites her lower lip and glances down to the right.
“Look, it could be nothing, an honest mistake. If it’s not, it could look suspicious, you covering up for him,” I tell her.
Her glance drifts to the left and she chews her lip on the other side. “He said not to disturb him.”
“I don’t have to say who told me where I could find him,” I tell her.
“He’s at the Belleaire Hunt Club,” she says, her voice barely above a whisper.
“Thanks. I’ll be in touch.” Now that I’ve picked up the scent I’m eager to get down the trail and I head for the exit with long strides. What I hear just before the door closes behind me turns my legs to stone.
“Here’s your copy, sir,” the clerk tells the angry man. “First thing Monday, I’ll have our certified gemologist contact you.”
“Fat lot of good that will do,” she replies. “It’s your so-called certified gemologist who did the original appraisal!”
*****
The Belleaire Hunt Club is, of necessity, out in the boonies. The wind blowing unimpeded across fallow fields rattles the bare branches in the trees along Rifleshot Road. West of the city, two lane blacktop turns to gravel road lined on one side by weedy meadows. The Gin Mill River runs perpendicular under the road and disappears into a wooded tract. A discreet green Belleaire Hunt Club sign alerts me that I’m nearing the facility but I don’t need signs to tell me I’m close. I can hear the pop of shotguns even over the road noise and Old Paint’s heater. My shoulders hunch, my stomach cramps, and my ears ring. What was I thinking, coming here?
The gravel road ends at the club’s wrought iron gate. A wide paved drive, neatly landscaped with small junipers and holly bushes, leads to the clubhouse. In the softly lit lobby, cushiony green carpeting muffles noise and contributes to a genteel hush. A young, pretty receptionist stands behind a mahogany counter. Her close-fitting green jacket matches the carpeting. The burgundy and green plaid of the upholstered club chairs is echoed in her necktie. I ask her where Overshort is.
“He’s shooting Hunter’s Clays.”
Competitive shotgunning, like trap and skeet, only the ranges simulate game bird and waterfowl shooting.
Her delivery shifts into something like recitation. “We have two upland ranges for quail and dove hunters, and two waterfowl ranges backed up to the Gin Mill River for goose and duck hunters. Our Hunter’s Clay’s facilities are second to—”
“And Mr. Overshort is at? ...”
She frowns at the interruption. “Range One, waterfowl,” she says.
“Thanks.” I turn away from the desk and she says, “Excuse me. Are you a member?”
I show her my universal membership badge. With a look of concern, she asks, “Trouble?”
“I’m not expecting any, are you?”
She doesn’t answer directly. Instead she offers to escort me to the range.
The lobby branches off into several corridors. Carved pine signs point the way to the lounge, the restaurant, locker rooms, the pro shop, meeting rooms. Plate glass doors opposite the reception desk open to the outside. “That’s OK, I’m sure I can find it,” I reply, and I’m across the lobby and out the doors before she can protest. I follow more signs down a concrete path toward the sound of guns. The closer I get, the tenser I become. A cold sweat glazes my skin; nerves and muscles flinch despite my silent chant: This is not Terminal Road, not Terminal Road.
The path leads to an open-sided spectator shelter surrounded by fields. The pennant edges of the green and gold vinyl canopy flap in the wind. Cushioned wrought iron chairs ring matching tables. Two of the shooting fields around this observation center are bordered by hedgerows and trees. At the end of the other two fields, the taller trees have been removed in favor of bushes and grasses which only partially conceal the narrow trickle of the Gin Mill River—little more than a brook—beyond.
Overshort stands alone facing a meadow edged by the river. Day-Glo-orange and black shards of broken targets blaze in the dry grass twenty-some yards away. He wears the requisite tweeds, even a cap, but on him the natty threads look like someone else’s clothes. Red debris of spent shell casings speckle the pavement at his feet. A Hunt Club attendant in green and plaid operates the pull station a few yards behind him. Nearby, a rack holds a spare shotgun.
A lone spectator sits at the canopied table, gloved hands wrapped around a foam-topped pedestal mug.
“Hello, Heidi.”
Her head whips around not once but twice. “Will! Will, my God, what are you doing here?”
“You said to keep in touch. And I wanted to talk to Overshort.”
“Ready!” yells Overshort.
A two-toned composite disk roughly the size of a small ashtray spins out of a trap hidden behind tall grass along the riverbank. Overshort aims, fires, and reduces the clay pigeon to pieces fifteen feet in the air. Completely absorbed in the sport, he hasn’t noticed me.
“Nice shooting,” I observe through gritted teeth. I clench every muscle trying to hold myself together.
“How did you know we were here?” Heidi asks, pitching her voice over the percussive popping from the next range.
“Someone at the store told me.”
A waiter in Belleaire colors stops at our table. “Can I get you something from the bar, sir?” he asks, nearly shouting to be heard over the noise. “An Irish coffee like the lady’s, perhaps?”
Whiskey and coffee sounds oh, so good. Or maybe just the whiskey. A nip would keep the shakes under control. Just this one, for medicinal purposes. No, I’m done with lying to myself. “Hot tea would be nice,” I reply.
The waiter nods to confirm and goes off to get it.
Heidi hoists her cup. “Should have gotten one of these, you’d enjoy it.” She takes a sip and a line of whipped cream clings to her upper lip. She licks it off slowly.
“Ready!” Overshort says.
A fresh bird whirls up high from yet another hidden trap and Overshort nails it despite a sudden gust that alters what might have been a predictable trajectory.
“So, what brings you here?” Heidi asks.
“An official matter. Hector’s dead.”
At Overshort’s shouted “Ready!” Heidi turns her head away and I miss her reaction to my announcement. Two birds spin into the air from different directions and Overshort hits them both. Doubles. I’m impressed.
“An official matter.” She chuckles, but her laughter tapers off when I produce my identification. “I didn’t realize you were with the police.”
“I wasn’t. Well, I was. But then I wasn’t. Now I am again.”
“Maybe it’s a good thing you didn’t get anything alcoholic. You’re not making much sense.”
Barrel pointed at the ground, Overshort turns to say something to the attendant and spots me. Sunlight winks off his heavy duty shooting glasses. The barrel of the gun comes up level with my chest. My skull seems to compress, my skin breaks out in goose bumps, and muscles tense from remembered pain and terror more than fear of immediate danger. Using the gun as a pointer, Overshort waves us over. “What are you doing here?” he asks.
Hard to tell if he is yelling from nervousness or defensiveness or simply to be heard over the other party’s shooting.
“Hector’s dead.”
Overshort frowns and removes ear plugs which I wish I had. “Huh?”
“I said, Hector’s dead.”
There is no missing his reaction as we are face to face, but a steady gaze behind thick shooting glasses gives nothing away.
“Marybeth told me,” he says. “Guess you can stop looking for him, huh?”
“Stop looking for him, yeah. Start looking for his killer.”
Overshort’s features pinch together in a scowl. “What’s that to you?”
Heidi clears her throat. “Mr. Overshort—”
“Just butt out, Mansion.”
“Mr. Overshort—”
“Police’ll look into it—”
I reach for my identification and Heidi says, somewhat more forcefully, “Mr. Overshort!”
“What?” he shouts.
“He is the police!”
I smile in acknowledgment. “Marybeth didn’t tell you that?”
Overshort doesn’t nod or shake his head, but his angry eyes reveal he’s not happy to be caught by surprise.
“So who do you think did it?” I ask him.
He shrugs. “Hell, I don’t know. You keep asking me questions about Hector like we were joined at the hip. Look, I worked with the guy, that’s all. We weren’t close personal friends.”
“I guess that’s why you’re out here the day after his death.”
“Where else should I be? Home boo-hooing or something? Like that’s gonna bring him back.” Overshort tips four shells into the magazine. “No, might as well enjoy myself while I can. With Waltann gone and me the sole owner, I’m gonna be very busy with the store.” He is so calm he could be talking about the defection of a part-time clerk instead of the death of a partner whose blood may be on his hands.
“That’s why we came out here,” Heidi hastens to say. “To do some short-range planning, head off any crises.”
“You’re having a crisis right now,” I tell her. “One of your customers was in the store bitching about being ripped off. Seems someone sold her a fake.” I want to show Heidi the gem in question, but not with Overshort breathing down her neck.
“At our s-s-store?” Heidi asks. “Now who would do a thing like that?”
“Actually, they claim it was you, Overshort,” I say.
“I’m sure it’s a simple mistake,” he replies.
“Like the Eterniti?”
“I don’t get you.”
“Hector’s car. It’s been in the Canterbury parking lot all this time.”
“All what time?” To the man at the pull station Overshort says, “Delay,” raises the gun’s stock to his shoulder, and yells “Ready.” A second passes, then another before a high-flying target emerges from the brush. Overshort reduces it to smithereens. The shell casing falls with a ping a few feet away. He doesn’t catch it or even pick it up. In fact, he hasn’t collected any of his brass. Maybe that’s déclassé at a hunt club.
He tells the attendant “Report pairs,” and yells “Ready!” A target flies up and Overshort sweeps the weapon across the sky. No sooner does he fire than another bird appears in the air. He gets them both.
“Good shooting,” I say.
“Damn straight it is. I practice plenty. Other guys, you get a cold day like this, they’re home sitting on their butts watching ‘Outdoor Life’ on TV. Not me. I’m out shooting.” He reloads the gun, a round in the chamber and three in the magazine. “Pays off. Been known to get forty out of fifty birds and this is a tough course. I like a challenge, though.”
Likes to brag, too.
“It’s good sport, Hunter’s Clays. I like a moving target. Like that one.”
I follow his glance to where a tan target has foolishly broken cover just in front of the brush line. No clay pigeon, it’s a cottontail.
Overshort draws a bead.
I’ve shot my fair share of small game but this isn’t hunting, this is an assassination. My dad would have had a fit. My first time out he railed at me for just such unsportsmanlike behavior. I fake tripping just enough to jostle Overshort. His shot goes wild and the rabbit runs for cover.
“Hey, you ruined my shot.”
“I thought you said you liked a moving target.”
“You think it’s so easy. Let’s see what you can do.” Overshort reloads and holds out the gun. I give my mug to Heidi and examine the weapon, a semiautomatic Beretta twelve-gauge. The shell casing I picked up outside the bookstore Wednesday night was a twelve-gauge. Not exactly the weapon Grady said was used on Forbes Road but it is a repeater and Grady could have been wrong about the pump action.
Overshort yells, “Ready!”
Startled, I swing the gun up late, point at the sky with nothing that could be called “aim,” and fire. The shot, of course, goes wild and the clay pigeon soars to its apogee before it falls to the ground, still whole. The recoil shoves my shoulder. I think I’ve pulled a muscle in my back and torquing my body hasn’t done my leg any good. My temper flares.
Overshort flashes the same smirk he wore in Knockers when he challenged me at darts. “Hell, I would have thought you’d be good at this, all the practice you get,” he says.
I’m good enough, but I get more exercise with handguns. The heat of humiliation burns in my face. This is not a contest I want to lose.
Overshort calls for another target. This time, more familiar with the weapon and the target’s speed and trajectory, I feel I may have come a little closer but it’s still a miss. Fuming, I lower the gun.
He chuckles. “Third time’s a charm,” he says and waits, arms folded across his chest.
I pull my handkerchief from my pocket. With a weak smile, I wipe my face and hands, make a show of being flustered. Accidentally on purpose, I fumble the handkerchief and it falls to the ground. Bending down to pick it up gives me a chance to catch a casing ejected from one of my own tries in its folds.
I take my time with the business of stowing the handkerchief and taking up the gun. Meanwhile, I work to calm my breath, my mind. Zen master Shunryu Suzuki taught that the key to right action is to do it without attachment to the result. “If your practice is good, you may become proud of it,” he observed. “Pride is extra. Right effort is to get rid of something extra.”
What do I want to do here? Prove something to Overshort or nail this shot? Because I can’t do both.
I inhale, pull the gun into my shoulder, site down the barrel. I’ve been trying too hard to aim. Wingshooting’s more about holding the gun consistently, maintaining good gun-eye coordination. Hard to do with an unfamiliar firearm. The breeze against my face gives me a hint of the wind’s direction and velocity, suggests the spray pattern of shot as it fans out in the air, the twirling flight of the bird. I exhale, release all tension. Before Overshot can get the jump on me, I yell, “Ready!” and swing the weapon up, stretching from ankle to wrist. My arm is the barrel, the muzzle my eye. I see the target and follow it, fly with it. I am one with the wind, the shot, the bird. I am the wind, the shot.
I am the bird.
There is no “I,” only the bird.
The clay pigeon explodes into Halloween-colored dust.
Overshort’s eyebrows go up. “You learn fast.”
“Yes,” I reply. “Once I get my target in sight, I’m unstoppable.