"He missed the sheet," Rafe mumbled behind me.
"Fire again," Harry Rex said.
I did, and again couldn't see where the bullet landed. Rafe gently took my left arm and eased me forward another ten feet. "You're doin' fine," he said. "We got plenty of ammo."
I missed the hay on the fourth shot, and Harry Rex said, "I guess the Padgitts are safe after all."
"It's the moonshine," I said.
"It just takes practice," Rafe said, moving me forward yet again. My hands were sweating, my heart was galloping away, my ears were ringing.
On number five I hit the sheet, barely, in the top right-hand corner, at least six feet from the target. On number six I missed everything again and heard the bullet hit a branch up in one of the oaks.
"Nice shot," Harry Rex said. "You almost hit a squirrel."
"Shut up," I said.
"Relax," Rafe said. "You're too tense." He helped me reload, and this time he squeezed my hands around the gun. "Breathe deeply," he said over my shoulder. "Exhale right before you pull the trigger." He steadied the gun as I looked down the sight, and when it fired the target took a hit in the groin.
"Now we're in business," Harry Rex said.
Rafe released me, and, like a gunslinger at high noon, I unloaded the next five shots. All hit the sheet, one would've taken off the target's ear. Rafe approved and we loaded up again.
Harry Rex had a 9-millimeter Glock automatic from his vast collection, and as the sun slowly disappeared we took turns blasting away. He was good and had no trouble drilling ten straight shots into the upper torso from fifty feet. After four rounds, I began to relax and enjoy the sport of it. Rafe was an excellent teacher, and as I progressed he passed on tips here and there. "It just takes practice," he kept saying.
When we finished, Harry Rex said, "The gun's a gift. You can come out here anytime for target practice."
"Thanks," I said. I stuck the gun in my pocket like a real redneck. I was delighted that the ritual was over, that I had accomplished something that every other male in the county had experienced by his twelfth birthday. I didn't feel any safer. Any Padgitt who jumped from the bushes would have the advantage of surprise, and the benefit of years of target practice. I could almost envision myself grappling with my own gun in the darkness and finally unloading a bullet that would more likely hit me than any assailant.
As we were walking back through the woods, Harry Rex said from behind me, "That bleached blonde you met, Carleen."
"Yeah," I said, suddenly nervous.
"She likes you."
Carleen had lived at least forty very hard years. I could think of nothing to say.
"She's always good for a hop in the sack."
I doubted if Carleen had missed too many sacks in Ford County. "No thanks," I said. "I got a girl in Memphis."
"So?"
"Good call," Rafe said under his breath.
"A girl here, a girl there. What's the big difference?"
"I gotta deal for you, Harry Rex," I said. "If I need your help picking up women, I'll let you know."
"Just a roll in the hay," he mumbled.
I did not have a girl in Memphis, but I knew several. I'd rather make the drive than stoop to the likes of Carleen.
* * *
The goat had a distinctive taste; not good, but, after the chitlins, not nearly as bad as I had feared. It was tough and smothered in sticky barbeque sauce, which, I suspected, was applied in generous layers to counter the taste of the meat. I toyed with a slice of it and washed it down with beer. We were on the deck again with Loretta Lynn in the background. The moonshine had made the rounds for a while and some of the guests were dancing above the pond. Carleen had disappeared earlier with someone else, so I felt safe. Harry Rex sat nearby, telling everyone how effective I'd been shooting squirrels and rabbits. His talent for storytelling was remarkable.
I was an oddity but every effort was made to include me. Driving the dark roads home, I asked myself the same question I posed every day. What was I doing in Ford County, Mississippi?
Chapter 10
The gun was too big for my pocket. For a few hours I tried walking around with it, but I was terrified the thing would discharge down there very near my privates. So I decided to carry it in a ragged leather briefcase my father had given me. For three days the briefcase went everywhere, even to lunch, then I grew weary of that too. After a week I left the pistol under the seat of my car, and after three weeks I had pretty much forgotten about it. I did not go to the cabin for more target practice, though I did attend a few other goat parties in which I avoided chitlins, moonshine, and an increasingly aggressive Carleen.
The county was quiet, a lull before the frenzy of the trial. The Times said nothing about the case because nothing was happening. The Padgitts were still refusing to pledge their land for Danny's bail, so he remained a guest in Sheriff Coley's special cell, watching television, playing cards or checkers, getting plenty of rest, and eating better food than the common inmates.
The first week in May, Judge Loopus was back in town, and my thoughts returned to my trusty Smith & Wesson.
Lucien Wilbanks had filed a motion requesting a change of venue, and the Judge set it for a hearing at 9 A.M. on a Monday morning. Half the county was there, it seemed. Certainly most of the regulars from around the square. Baggy and I got to the courtroom early and secured good seats.
The defendant's presence was not required, but evidently Sheriff Coley wanted to show him off. They brought him in, handcuffed and wearing new orange coveralls. Everyone looked at me. The power of the press had brought about change.
"It's a setup," Baggy whispered.
"What?"
"They're baitin' us into runnin' a picture of Danny in his cute little jail outfit. Then Wilbanks can run back to the Judge and claim the jury pool has been poisoned yet again. Don't fall for it."
My na?vet? shocked me again. Wiley had been positioned outside the jail in another effort to ambush Padgitt when they loaded him up for court. I could see a large front page photo of him in his orange coveralls.
Lucien Wilbanks entered the courtroom from behind the bench. As usual, he seemed angry and perturbed, as if he'd just lost an argument with the Judge. He walked to the defense table, tossed down his legal pad, and scanned the crowd. His eyes locked onto me. They narrowed and his jaws clenched, and I thought he might hop over the bar and attack. His client turned around and began looking too. Someone pointed, and Mr. Danny Padgitt himself commenced glaring at me as if I might be his next victim. I was having trouble breathing, but I tried to keep calm. Baggy inched away.
In the front row behind the defense crowd were several Padgitts, all older than Danny. They, too, joined the staring, and I had never felt so vulnerable. These were violent men who knew nothing but crime, intimidation, leg breaking, killing, and there I was in the same room with them while they dreamed of ways to cut my throat.
A bailiff called us to order and everybody stood to acknowledge the entrance of His Honor. "Please be seated," he said.
Loopus scanned the papers while we waited, then he adjusted his reading glasses and said, "This is a motion to change venue, filed by the defense. Mr. Wilbanks, how many witnesses do you have?"
"Half a dozen, give or take. We'll see how things go."
"And the State?"
A short round man with no hair and a black suit bounced to his feet and said, "About the same." His name was Ernie Gaddis, the longtime, part-time District Attorney from up in Tyler County.