Thirty minutes later, the three of us came out into the hot sunshine. Timoteo had fired off forty rounds of my expensive ammunition and had dinned the edge of the target once. The other shots had hummed out to sea.
“Okay, Timoteo,” Savanto said in a cold, flat voice, “wait for me.”
Timoteo shambled away, reached the car, got in and settled down : a depressed-looking statue.
“Well, Mr. Benson?” Savanto said.
I hesitated. Here was a chance of making a little money, but I had to be honest.
“He hasn’t any talent,” I said, “but that doesn’t mean he can’t shoot straight if he’s carefully coached. With ten lessons under his belt, you’ll be surprised how he’ll improve.”
“No talent, huh?”
“It might develop.” I was reluctant to kill a possible pupil. “I can tell you after I’ve had him a couple of weeks.”
“In nine days, Mr. Benson, he must be as good a shot as you.”
For a moment I thought he was joking, then I realised he wasn’t. The flat snake’s eyes had become glittering bits of glass.
His lower lip had turned into a thin line. He was serious all right.
“I’m sorry… that’s impossible,” I said.
“Nine days, Mr. Benson.”
I shook my head, controlling my impatience.
“It’s taken me close on fifteen years to shoot well,” I told him, “and I have talent. I guess I’m a pretty good teacher, but I just don’t perform miracles.”
“Let us talk about it, Mr. Benson. It’s hot out here. I’m not a young man.” Savanto waved his hand towards our bungalow. “Let us get in the shade.”
“Why sure, but there’s nothing to talk about. We’ll just be wasting each other’s time.”
He walked off slowly towards the bungalow. I hesitated, then followed him.
In nine days he must be as good a shot as you.
The boy would not only never make a good shot, but worse, he hated the feel of a gun. I could tell by the way he handled my rifle and by the way he flinched every time he pulled the trigger. He had held the rifle so loosely, his shoulder must be one black bruise right now from the recoil.
Seeing Savanto coming towards the bungalow, Lucy opened the front door, smiling at him. She had no idea what he had just said and she imagined I was about to sign up my first new pupil.
As I joined him, she said : “Would you like a beer, Mr. Savanto? You must be thirsty.”
He regarded her, the genial smile back in place and he lifted his hat.
“That is very kind of you, Mrs. Benson : not now; perhaps later.”
I stepped around him, opened the sitting-room door and waved him in. As he entered the room, I patted Lucy’s arm.
“I won’t be long, honey. You get on with the painting.”
She looked surprised, then nodded and went out into the sunshine. I moved into the room and shut the door, then crossed to the open window and looked out.
Lucy had gone around to the back of the bungalow. The black Cadillac stood in the hot sun. The driver was smoking. Timoteo was sitting motionless, his hands resting on his knees.
I turned around. Savanto had taken off his hat which he laid on the table. He lowered his bulk on to one of the upright chairs we had inherited from Nick Lewis. He looked around the room, slowly and with interest, then he looked at me.
“You don’t have much money, Mr. Benson?”
I lit a cigarette, taking my time, then as I flicked out the match flame, I said, “No, but why bring that up?”
“You have something I can use. I have something you can use,” he said. “You have talent. I have money.”
I pulled up a chair and sat astride it.
“So?”
"It is vitally important that my son becomes an expert shot in nine days, Mr. Benson. For this I am prepared to pay you six thousand dollars. Half down and half when I am satisfied.”
Six thousand dollars!
Immediately, I thought what we could do with a sum like that.
Six thousand dollars!
We could not only give this place the complete face-lift it so badly needed, we could even run to a spot on the local T.V. station. We could
hire a barman. We could be in business!
Then I remembered how Timoteo had handled the rifle. An expert shot? Not in five years!
“Thanks for your confidence, Mr. Savanto,” I said. “I certainly could use money like that, but I must be honest with you. I don’t think your son will ever be a good shot. Sure, I could train him to shoot straight, but that’s all. He doesn’t like guns. Unless you really like guns, you just can’t be a good shot.”
Savanto rubbed the hack of his neck and his eyes narrowed.
“I think perhaps I will have one of your cigarettes, Mr. Benson. My doctor doesn’t like me to smoke, but sometimes the urge is too strong for me. A cigarette at the right time is soothing.”
I gave him a cigarette and lit it for him. He inhaled and let the smoke drift down his nostrils while he stared at the top of the table and while I thought of what Lucy and I could do with six thousand dollars.
Silence hung in the room along with our cigarette smoke. The ball was in his court so I waited.
“Mr. Benson, I appreciate that you are being honest with me,” he said finally, “and this I like. I wouldn’t be happy if you said you could make Timoteo into a good shot the moment I mentioned six thousand dollars. I know my son’s limitations. However, he must become an expert shot in nine days. You told me you don’t perform miracles. In a normal situation I would accept this, but this isn’t a normal situation. The fact remains my son must become an expert shot in nine days.”
I stared at him.
“Why?”
“There are important reasons. They need not concern you.” His snake’s eyes glittered. He paused to tap ash off his cigarette into the glass ash-tray on the table. “You talk of miracles, but this is the age of miracles. Before coming here, I made inquiries about you. I wouldn’t be here unless I was satisfied that you are the man I am looking for. Not only do you have a great shooting talent, but also you are very determined. During the years you served in Vietnam you spent long, dangerous and uncomfortable hours in the jungle, alone with your rifle. You killed eighty-two Vietcong… cold blooded, brilliant shooting. A man who can do that is the man I am looking for… a man who doesn’t admit defeat.” He paused to stub out his cigarette, then went on, “How much money do you want to make my son an expert shot, Mr. Benson?”
I moved uneasily.
“No amount of money can make him that in nine days. Maybe in six months, I might do something with him, but nine days… no! Money doesn’t come into it. I told you… he hasn’t any talent.”
He studied me.
“Of course money comes into it. I have learned over the years that money will buy anything… providing there is enough of it. You are already thinking what you could do with six thousand dollars. With that amount of money you would be able to make a modest living out of this school. And yet six thousand dollars isn’t a big enough sum to convince you that you can perform a miracle.” He took from the inside pocket of his jacket a long white envelope. “I have here, Mr. Benson, two bearer bonds. I find them more convenient to carry around than a lot of cash. Each bond is worth twenty-five thousand dollars.” He tossed the envelope across the table. “Look at them. Satisfy yourself that they are what I say they are.”
My hands were unsteady as I took the bonds from the envelope and examined them. I had never seen a bearer bond before so I had no idea if they were genuine or not, but they looked genuine.
“I am now offering you fifty thousand dollars to perform a miracle, Mr. Benson.”
I put the bonds down on the table. My hands had turned clammy and my heart was thumping.