Like A Hole In The Head

     As I started across the sand to the shooting gallery, Lucy said, "Jay . . ."

     I paused, frowning at her. My mind was already busy. What is it?"

     "Are you sure we should get mixed up in this? I — I have a feeling . . . I . . ."

     "This is something you have to leave to me," I said. "Never mind how you feel, honey . . . this is a chance in a lifetime."

     I sat in the gallery and smoked cigarettes and thought. I sat there until it was close on 19.00 and by then I had convinced myself that I could earn Savanto's money. I had been one of the top range instructors in the Army, and God knows, I had had dozens of dopes through my hands who didn't know one end of the rifle from the other. Somehow, with patience, by shouting at them, by cursing them, by laughing with them, I had turned them into respectable riflemen, but a respectable rifleman is miles away from an expert shot. I knew that, but the thought of all that money lessened the problem.

     I left the gallery and crossed the sand to the bungalow where Lucy was still painting the window frames. She looked at me, her eyes troubled.

     "Have you decided?"

     I nodded.

     "I'm going ahead. I'll talk to him now. I'll need your help, honey. I'll go into the details after I've talked to him."

     I went into the bungalow. I looked up the number of the Imperial Hotel and after a delay, Savanto came on the line.

     "This is Jay Benson," I said. "One thing I want to know before I commit myself. . . . Just how co-operative will your son be?"

     "Co-operative?" I heard the surprised note in Savanto's voice. "Of course he will be co-operative. He understands the situation. You will find him most willing to learn."

     "That's not what I mean. If I take him on, he's got to be more than willing. He's got to work at it, and I mean work. When do you have to put up?"

     "September 27th."

     I thought for a moment. That would give me nine clear days, starting from tomorrow.

     "Okay. From tomorrow at 06.00 until the evening of the 26th, he's mine . . . body and soul. He will stay here with me. He will do nothing but shoot, eat, sleep and shoot. He doesn't leave this range for a second. He will do everything I tell him to do and he won't argue, no matter what I tell him he is to do. I have a spare bedroom he can have. Until the evening of the 26th, he belongs to me . . . I'll repeat that . . . he belongs to me. Unless he agrees to these terms, it won't work."

     There was a pause on the line. I could hear Savanto's breathing. Then he said, "It sounds as if you are thirsty for my money, Mr. Benson."

     "I am, but I intend to give you value for your money."

     "I think you will. All right . . . my son will be with you at 06.00 tomorrow."

     "How about my terms?"

     "That is all right. I will explain everything to him. He knows how important it is."

     "I don't want any mistake, Mr. Savanto. When he comes here, he is mine. Is that understood?"

     "I will tell him."

     "That's not good enough. I want your guarantee. He's mine or we forget it."

     Again there was a long pause, then he said, "You have my guarantee."

     I drew in a long slow breath.

     "Fine. Now I want some money. I'll have to buy a lot of ammunition. I must buy him a gun. He has to have a gun to fit him. He can't shoot with my rifle. His arms are too long."

     "You don't have to worry about that. I have bought him a gun : it is a Weston & Lees. I had it made for him. He will bring it with him."

     Weston & Lees were the top gunsmiths in New York. To buy a madeto-measure gun from them costs around $5,000. He was right. If Weston & Lees had built a gun for his son I had nothing to worry about on that score.

"Okay. I want an advance payment of five hundred dollars," I said.

"Do you, Mr. Benson? Why?"

     "I am closing the school. I am getting rid of my pupils. I have bills to settle. We have to eat. I don't want anything on my mind except your son."

     "That is reasonable. Very well, Mr. Benson, you shall have five hundred dollars if it will make you happy."

     "That's the idea."

     "And you think you can make my son a good shot?"

     "You said this is the age of miracles. I've thought about it. Now, I believe in miracles."

     "Good." Again a long pause, then he said, "I would like to have a final word with you, Mr. Benson. Have you a car?"

     "Sure."

     "Then would you come to my hotel tonight . . . at ten o'clock?" He wheezed a little and then went on, "I would like to finalise our arrangement. I will have the money for you."

     "I'll be there."

     "Thank you, Mr. Benson," and he hung up.

     Lucy was in the kitchen, cutting sandwiches. In our present state of economy, we had agreed that sandwiches were about the cheapest food we could live on. The previous day, I had bagged four pigeons and Lucy had spit-cooked them. With their breasts cut very fine plus a touch of Tabasco and a sliced pickle they made an acceptable sandwich.

     I propped up the kitchen doorway.

     "We have to have Mr. Savanto's son here, honey," I said. "For the next nine days, I've got to live with him eighteen hours a day. Is it okay to put him up in the spare bedroom?"