straight to what I want to hit. The bullet just travels along that tube and hits the spot I'm staring at.
It's a gift. It's why I won all those shooting competitions. It's why I've got more than a hundred scalps on my belt that I'd like to be rid of, but never can.
It isn't happening today. After three magazines, the best I manage is a three-hole group just over an inch center to center. There have been days when I've put eight bullets into almost the same hole with this rifle at two hundred meters. I quit.
Half-hour later, the Camaro rumbles up to the curb in front of Ice Box's house, a red-shingled ranch on the usual quarter acre. He's out there in the driveway, wearing a guinea-T and too-tight shorts, hosing down a vehicle that's some computer-generated shade of deep, unearthly purple. It's a Dodge or Plymouth minivan, wearing temporary tags, but that's no reason in IB's mind not to gently and lovingly dry the thing with a big piece of real chamois. I'm within ten feet when he moves fast and gets the hose on me. Just a splash. Then he cuts the water.
"What are you doing, showin' up at my home uninvited? Trying to scare my neighbors, get me a bad reputation, get them calling the cops about suspicious characters hanging around 1302 Knollton Road?" He grins. "Thought I told you to come only after dark, and park a couple of blocks away, so nobody would see you."
"Me and my vehicle not quite up to neighborhood taste levels, that it? What are they gonna think about this ... purple space turd you're massaging."
"I told him," I hear Mary Jo's voice from behind the screen door, "to go for the white one. But he saw his beautiful face reflecting back at him in metallic purple and fell right in love. Couldn't persuade him. Tried some pressures too. Didn't work either."
"Sure you did your best, MJ. If you couldn't make it happen, nobody could."
She's backing out the screen door using her butt, both hands holding a big wooden cutting board with a submarine sandwich on it that has to be nearly two feet long, balancing the board on her huge, protruding stomach.
"Looking real good, MJ," I say. She's a pretty brunette with liquid eyes, just a hint of a hook in her nose, hardly any varicose veins in the backs of her shapely legs.
"Lunch!" Ice Box says. "At last."
"Luther, you have always been so full of it," Mary Jo says to me. "I'm looking and walking like a hippo. Feeling like one too."
"How much longer?" I ask, reaching out to take the cutting board.
"Hey, don't you let that weasel near my lunch," IB calls.
"Six more weeks, if I live that long," she smiles at me. "Don't move, Luther. I'll be right back."
She lets the screen door slam behind her. Ice Box is headed my way. Then she's out again, a beer and a Coke in one hand and a big bread knife in the other.
"Hey, don't do that," IB says plaintively, but his wife makes a diagonal cut through the middle of the sub. "Put the board right here on the step, Luther, and eat something."
"Thanks, MJ."
"Yeah, thanks, giving away my food. I needed that," IB says.
"Ice Box, if they locked you in a cell for two weeks and only allowed you a glass of water a day, I doubt you'd come out more than a pound or two lighter," MJ smirks at him. He tries to pat her ass, but she slides away. She moves real well for a big woman.
IB thuds down next to me and we begin to eat the subs: salami, provelone, shredded lettuce, thin-sliced onions, some olive oil. He takes delicate bites all around the edges and then works into the center, but I've still got half of mine to go when he's finished. He looks at it.
"You want this, IB?"
"Nah, you eat it. She gave it to you."
"I'm full, man. You take it."
"Nah, finish it up. Don't want it."
"It's just gonna go to waste."
"You eat it."
I put it down on the cutting board. "Can't do it, dude. I'm full."
"You sure?"
"Oh yeah, IB. Couldn't take another bite."
So he polishes it off, then sucks on his beer. "Don't tell MJ I ate part of yours, right?"
I
It's a gift. It's why I won all those shooting competitions. It's why I've got more than a hundred scalps on my belt that I'd like to be rid of, but never can.
It isn't happening today. After three magazines, the best I manage is a three-hole group just over an inch center to center. There have been days when I've put eight bullets into almost the same hole with this rifle at two hundred meters. I quit.
Half-hour later, the Camaro rumbles up to the curb in front of Ice Box's house, a red-shingled ranch on the usual quarter acre. He's out there in the driveway, wearing a guinea-T and too-tight shorts, hosing down a vehicle that's some computer-generated shade of deep, unearthly purple. It's a Dodge or Plymouth minivan, wearing temporary tags, but that's no reason in IB's mind not to gently and lovingly dry the thing with a big piece of real chamois. I'm within ten feet when he moves fast and gets the hose on me. Just a splash. Then he cuts the water.
"What are you doing, showin' up at my home uninvited? Trying to scare my neighbors, get me a bad reputation, get them calling the cops about suspicious characters hanging around 1302 Knollton Road?" He grins. "Thought I told you to come only after dark, and park a couple of blocks away, so nobody would see you."
"Me and my vehicle not quite up to neighborhood taste levels, that it? What are they gonna think about this ... purple space turd you're massaging."
"I told him," I hear Mary Jo's voice from behind the screen door, "to go for the white one. But he saw his beautiful face reflecting back at him in metallic purple and fell right in love. Couldn't persuade him. Tried some pressures too. Didn't work either."
"Sure you did your best, MJ. If you couldn't make it happen, nobody could."
She's backing out the screen door using her butt, both hands holding a big wooden cutting board with a submarine sandwich on it that has to be nearly two feet long, balancing the board on her huge, protruding stomach.
"Looking real good, MJ," I say. She's a pretty brunette with liquid eyes, just a hint of a hook in her nose, hardly any varicose veins in the backs of her shapely legs.
"Lunch!" Ice Box says. "At last."
"Luther, you have always been so full of it," Mary Jo says to me. "I'm looking and walking like a hippo. Feeling like one too."
"How much longer?" I ask, reaching out to take the cutting board.
"Hey, don't you let that weasel near my lunch," IB calls.
"Six more weeks, if I live that long," she smiles at me. "Don't move, Luther. I'll be right back."
She lets the screen door slam behind her. Ice Box is headed my way. Then she's out again, a beer and a Coke in one hand and a big bread knife in the other.
"Hey, don't do that," IB says plaintively, but his wife makes a diagonal cut through the middle of the sub. "Put the board right here on the step, Luther, and eat something."
"Thanks, MJ."
"Yeah, thanks, giving away my food. I needed that," IB says.
"Ice Box, if they locked you in a cell for two weeks and only allowed you a glass of water a day, I doubt you'd come out more than a pound or two lighter," MJ smirks at him. He tries to pat her ass, but she slides away. She moves real well for a big woman.
IB thuds down next to me and we begin to eat the subs: salami, provelone, shredded lettuce, thin-sliced onions, some olive oil. He takes delicate bites all around the edges and then works into the center, but I've still got half of mine to go when he's finished. He looks at it.
"You want this, IB?"
"Nah, you eat it. She gave it to you."
"I'm full, man. You take it."
"Nah, finish it up. Don't want it."
"It's just gonna go to waste."
"You eat it."
I put it down on the cutting board. "Can't do it, dude. I'm full."
"You sure?"
"Oh yeah, IB. Couldn't take another bite."
So he polishes it off, then sucks on his beer. "Don't tell MJ I ate part of yours, right?"
I
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