Stephen Hunter - Black Light

“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.

He popped the shells out, reached into his shell bag and took out a No. 7½ Winchester Heavy Trap load, and slipped it into his lower barrel, where the tighter of his two chokes was screwed, the Improved Cylinder.

He set himself again. Oh, he hated these far teal. It was so easy for the bird to find a hole in the shot pattern and so distant it was also possible for the bird to take a bunch of hits and yet not break or chip. It happened all the time.

“Pull,” he shouted.

The bird rose, the gun rose and as these two things happened, yet another did: the vibrator on his pager went off, momentarily disconcerting him.

He lost a tenth of a second and when he got up to where the bird was supposed to be paused as gravity overcame its upward velocity, he was late; it was already falling.

But Red didn’t panic.

He punched the gun downward hard, caught up with the falling orange disk and fired as he passed it.

Goddamn, he missed.

“No, you hit it, Red,” said the judge. “I saw a chip. Not much of one, but by God a chip. Great shooting, damn you.”

“Do you mind if I make an emergency call?”

“Sure, go ahead. It’s your concentration.”

Red leaned the Krieghoff against the cage, stepped outside and pulled his folder off his belt. He punched the key that accessed Duane Peck’s hot line for the recorded report.

“Ah, sir, here’s the latest. Yesterday, I followed ’em out Route 71 toward Waldron and then lost ’em. I went back and forth for a coupla hours and finally I picked ’em up at some field out near, uh, Waldron. They never saw me. They were there until dark. That was the kid, you know, and that Bob Lee guy, and they got old Sam Vincent with ’em. Uh.”

The man paused, seemed to lose track, then got himself settled down.

“So anyway, today, today , early, Sam trots over to the temporary courthouse and files some papers. He files what’s called a Motion of Exhumation, to get county permission so that they can dig up Earl Swagger and perform some kind of autopsy on the body. Uh, what’s your thought? They don’t got no idea I’m interested, except for that fucking kid looked at me smart when I first bumped into ’em. I could deal with it now, before it gets too much.”

It was like the sun breaking out on a cloudy day. It was like finding a million dollars. It was free sex with a beautiful woman and no consequences.

He pushed the button to reach the recorder.

“Don’t do a thing. I think we got ’em flummoxed. We may git out of this one without a real problem. Things are looking very, very good.”

They were. This one was covered.

“You look as though you’ve had extremely good news,” said the judge, as Red returned to the cage.

“You know sometimes how a deal looks like it’s going to fall apart on you with all kinds of difficulties? But then something you did years ago, because you were smart and thought about it, clicks in, and it turns out just the way you figured.”

“Well, I can’t say I’ve had that exact pleasure.”

“Well, it feels great,” Red said.

He picked up the gun, popped the breech and dropped two more 7½s in.