Once Upon a River Page 0,85

boat tied to the dock.

Margo squatted beside the hundred-pound black dog. She stroked him with both hands.

“Do you sell those skins? I mean, does your friend sell them?”

“Sells them to a guy on the north side.” The old man wore a dark blue uniform-style shirt. The name tag said Smoke. He readjusted his oxygen tubes on his bristly cheeks.

“How much money does he get?”

“Not enough to pay back what he owes me.” He looked around, as though hoping the man in question would come out of the garage or rise up out of the river to argue with him. The orange sticker on the window of the garage said CONDEMNED.

“Could I borrow a bucket?” Margo asked. “Oh, crap. I left my duck on the boat.”

“Wait,” he said. “Nightmare, go get the duck, boy.”

The big dog barreled down the concrete steps, onto the boat. He picked up the mallard by the shiny green head and brought it to the old man, laid it at his feet without a tooth mark on it.

“That’s a good dog you got, Mr. Smoke.” Margo noticed that the porch door was missing, and just inside, plain as day, was an enameled canning kettle being used as a garbage pail. If she had that pot, she could not only wash the duck, but could make duck soup afterward. “Can I borrow that kettle?” Margo pointed.

“Hell, no.”

“Can I buy it?” She was surprised at his harshness. “I’ve got some money.”

“What do I need with money? Here in paradise.” He laughed and disconnected his oxygen tubes. Then he lit a cigarette.

“Everybody needs money.”

“What about that fancy rifle? Is it just for poaching ducks?”

“I can’t give you my Marlin.” After a moment she added. “I’m a trick shooter.”

“You’re no goddamned trick shooter,” he said and then grew thoughtful. “Unless you can shoot an apple off my head.”

“I could.”

“I haven’t got an apple. How about a peanut? Can you shoot a peanut off my head?”

Margo paused to study the old man. “I could shoot the ash off that cigarette in your hand.” The cigarette’s burning end was about as big a target as a duck’s eye. Hitting the cigarette in someone’s hand was a shot that Annie Oakley had done again and again. From ten paces, Margo estimated she had about a fifty percent chance of making such a shot, if everything went perfectly.

“How about out of my mouth? Can you do that?”

“Same thing,” she said. “But a .22 bullet can travel a mile and a half. Might go through that fence.”

“Shoot it into the garage.”

“It could hit something, a can of paint or acid on a shelf.” She thought of Crane’s old shed, stuffed with paint and lighter fluid, carburetor cleaner, and six kinds of lubricant. But the wall of the garage would give her the best sight picture.

“Nothing to hit that I care about.” He coughed into his fist.

“You really want me to shoot a cigarette so close to your face?”

“You want my canning kettle?”

“Does it have a lid?”

“You’ll have to dig in the cupboard for it. But I’m not giving it to you for doing nothing.”

“What about the dog? Won’t the shooting bother him?” The Murrays’ black Lab went crazy when guns went off. He was a great swimming dog, but no good for hunting.

“Nightmare doesn’t mind gunshots. He just doesn’t like strange men. Dog doesn’t believe me that women are just as dangerous.”

The old man dropped his unfiltered cigarette butt, still burning, and lit another. He turned away from her so he was looking out over the river. She was now facing the right side of his body in profile. Margo’s head cleared as she began to imagine her shot, the beginning, middle, and end of it.

“What do you do with that camper?” Margo watched the man to see whether he tended to make sudden movements that could screw up the shot.

“Built it myself to be lightweight. Used to stay in there when the house got too hot. Took it up and down the river. Lived in there for three years once when my sister and her brats were staying here.”

“It’s got an inboard motor?” She asked. If the man suddenly lurched forward at the wrong time, she’d take off his jaw or knock out a few of his lower teeth, but she saw his motions were slow, measured, even when he coughed. She loaded another cartridge into the magazine tube—the probability was good she could hit it within two shots—and then she changed her mind and