I put down the brush, hurriedly wiped my hands and stood up. I saw Lucy was going through the same motions. She too was looking hopefully at the big car as it came slowly up the drive, scattering sand and pebbles.
I could see two men in the back and the driver. All wore black, all had black slouch hats and they looked like three crows, sitting hunched up and motionless until the car pulled up within ten yards of the bungalow.
I started across the sand as a short, squat man got out of the car and paused to look around. The other passenger and the driver remained in the car.
Thinking back, I can see now that there was something menacing and vulture-like in the way this squat man stood, but that’s thinking back. As I approached him, all I hoped for was this could be a profitable client. Why else, I asked myself, would he be here?
The squat man was looking at Lucy who was regarding him roundeyed, too shy to welcome him; then he looked towards me. His fat, swarthy face lit up with a smile that showed gold- capped teeth. He moved towards me, extending a small, fat hand.
“Mr. Benson?”
“That’s me.” I shook hands. His skin was dry and felt like the back of a lizard. There was power in his fingers, but the grip was friendly without being challenging.
“Augusto Savanto.”
“Glad to meet you, Mr. Savanto.” Thinking back, this was the understatement of the year.
Augusto Savanto was around sixty years of age. I guessed he was Latin-American. His face was full and slightly pock-marked. He wore a straggly moustache that hid his top lip. He had flat, snake’s eyes : genial, darting, suspicious and possibly cruel.
“I’ve heard about you, Mr. Benson. They tell me you are a fine shot.”
I glanced beyond him at the Caddy. The driver looked like a chimpanzee. He was small, very dark with a completely flat face, deep set tiny eyes and hairy strong hands that rested on the driving wheel. I looked at the man in the passenger’s seat. He was young, slim, swarthy and he wore big sun goggles, a black tight suit and a startlingly white shirt. He sat motionless, staring straight ahead, not looking at me.
“Well, I guess I shoot,” I said. “What can I do for you, Mr. Savanto?”
“You teach shooting?”
“That’s what I’m here for.”
“Is it difficult to teach someone to shoot well?”
I had been asked this question before and I gave him the cautious, stock answer.
“It depends what you call well and it depends on the pupil.”
Savanto took off his hat to reveal thin, greasy hair and a bald spot on the crown of his head. He stared into the hat as if expecting to find something hidden in it, waved it in the air, then replaced it on his head.
“How well do you shoot, Mr. Benson?”
That was the kind of question I could live up to.
“Come over to the gallery. I’ll show you.”
Savanto revealed more of his gold-capped teeth.
“I like that, Mr. Benson. No talk… action.” He laid his small hand on my wrist. “I am sure you are very good at hitting the bull, but can you hit a moving target? I am only interested in moving targets.”
“Would you like to see some clay pigeon shooting?”
He looked at me, his small black eyes quizzing.
“That’s not what I call shooting, Mr. Benson. A burst with a shotgun… what’s that? One bullet from a gun… that’s shooting.”
He was right, of course. I waved to Lucy who put down her paint brush and came over.
“Mr. Savanto, meet my wife. Lucy, this is Mr. Savanto. He wants to see me shoot. Will you get some beer cans and my rifle?”
Lucy smiled at Savanto and offered her hand. He shook hands, smiling at her.
“I think Mr. Benson is a very lucky man, Mrs. Benson,” he said.
She blushed.
“Thank you.” I could see she loved this. “I think he knows it. I’m lucky too.”
She ran off to collect some empty beer cans we keep for shooting practice. Savanto watched her go. So did I. Whenever Lucy took off, I was always looking after her. Her neat little bottom would never lose its charm for me.
“Beautiful woman, Mr. Benson,” Savanto said.
This was said very quietly and there was nothing but friendly admiration in the small eyes. I began to warm to this man.
“I guess so.”
“You are doing good business?” He was looking at the buildings and the peeling paint.
“We’ve only just started. A school like this has to be built up. The previous owner got old… you know how it is.”
“Yes, Mr. Benson. This is what I call a luxury trade. I see you are painting the place.”
“Yes.”
Savanto took off his hat and looked inside it. This seemed to be a habit. After he had waved the hat around in the air, he put it on again.
“Do you think you can make money out of a place like this?” he asked.
“I wouldn’t be here if I didn’t.” I was relieved when Lucy came from the bungalow carrying my rifle and a string hag full of empty beer cans.
I took the rifle and she set off across the sand, carrying the string bag. We had often gone through this routine together and it was now close to a circus turn. When she was three hundred yards from me, she dropped the cans on the sand. I loaded the rifle, then waved to her. She began tossing the cans high into the air. She knew by now exactly the right height and just how fast to throw them. I hit each can. On the face of it, it was impressive shooting. When I had punctured ten cans, I lowered the rifle.
“Yes. Mr. Benson, you are a fine shot.” The little snake’s eyes roved over my face. “But can you teach?”
I rested the butt of the rifle on the hot sand. Lucy went off to collect the cans. We were no longer drinking beer : these cans still had a lot of work ahead of them.
“Shooting is a talent, Mr. Savanto. You either have it or you haven’t,” I told him. “I’ve been at it for fifteen years. Do you want to shoot the way I do?”
“Me? Oh, no. I am an old man. I want you to teach my son to shoot.” He waved towards the Cadillac. “Hey… Timoteo!”
The swarthy man who had been sitting motionless in the back of the Cadillac stiffened. He looked towards Savanto, then opened the car door and came out into the hot sunshine.
He was built like a beanpole with big feet and hands : a shambling brittle-looking giant with hidden eyes behind the black sun goggles, a full mouth, a determined chin and a small pinched nose. He shambled across the sand and stood expectantly by the side of his father, dwarfing him by his lean height. He must have been around six foot seven. I’m tall, but I had to look up at him.
“This is my son,” Savanto said and I noticed there was no pride in his voice. “This is Timoteo Savanto. Timoteo, this is Mr. Benson.”
I offered my hand. Timoteo’s grip was hot, sweaty and limp. “Glad to know you,” I said. What else could I say? He was a possible pupil.
Lucy had collected the beer cans and was now approaching.
“Timoteo, this is Mrs. Benson,” Savanto said.
The beanpole giant turned his head, then he took off his hat, revealing crisp black curls. He ducked his head, his face expressionless. The twin mirrors of his black glasses reflected the palms, the sky and the sea.
“Hello,” Lucy said and smiled at him.
There was a long moment of nothing, then Savanto said, “Timoteo wants very badly to shoot well. Can you make him into a good shot, Mr. Benson?”
“I don’t know right now, but I can tell you.”
I offered the rifle to the beanpole. He hesitated, then took it. He held it like you might hold a puff-adder.
“Let’s go over to the gallery. I can tell you when I’ve seen him shoot.”
Savanto, Timoteo and I walked across the sand towards the range. Lucy took the cans back to the bungalow.