"Get those goggles off !" I barked.
He flinched, but took them off. As he was about to put them in his shirt pocket, Raimundo moved forward.
"I'll have them."
Timoteo hesitated then handed them over. Raimundo took them, paused while he looked at Timoteo, then he dropped the goggles on the sand and trod on them. I wouldn't have done that, but I was glad it was done. The goggles were to this goon as a rag is to a kid who thumb-sucks.
"The rifle is loaded," I said. "Get shooting."
He took the rifle. There was a dumb, broken look on his face. I suddenly thought : suppose he turns the rifle on me or Raimundo? What a couple of jerks we'd look ! Seeing the way he stood, wavering, the rifle in his hinds, brought me out in a sudden cold sweat, but it was all right. I could see the thought had never entered his head. He turned and went to the shooting rest.
This was the first time he had looked through the telescopic sight. I saw his back stiffen as the target seemed to leap at him.
"Take your time," I said in my instructor's voice. "Get the cross wires on the bull. Don't pull the trigger; squeeze it." I gave him a couple of seconds to get ready. "Shoot when you want to."
Another couple of seconds crawled by, then the rifle banged.
Both Raimundo and I looked towards the target. He had hit the bull dead centre.
"Good shot," I said. "That's the way. Now keep on shooting." With that telescopic sight, unless you had Parkinson's disease, you couldn't fail to hit a bull, but with his next ten shots he only hit the bull twice.
I kept him at it : reloading for him, handing the rifle back without looking at him.
Raimundo sat on one of the benches and smoked. After the first shot, he didn't bother to look at the target, but he sat there and I knew his presence was keeping Timoteo shooting.
After an hour, and after he had scored ten bulls out of sixty shots, I said, "Okay . . . break it off." I turned to Raimundo.
"Take him for a walk. I want him back in an hour," and I walked out and headed towards the bungalow.
Lucy was busy scraping the paint off the front door. She paused in
her work and looked inquiringly up at me.
"He's taking time off," I said. "How are you getting on? I have an hour. I'll give a hand."
"It's all right. I like doing it." She stood up. "Do you want a beer?"
"It's too early." I moved to one of our crummy sling chairs on the verandah and sat down. She joined me.
"I didn't hear any shooting."
"He's using the silencer. He's shooting . . . not bad."
"But how is he?"
"He's okay. He's shooting. That's all we need worry about."
"Is that man with him?"
"Raimundo? Oh. sure. He's sitting in on the session. He's the oil that makes the goon function."
"Oh, Jay! Haven't you any heart? Can't you see this boy is frightened to death?" She wrung her hands. "Can't you see this awful man is terrifying him into shooting?"
I rubbed the back of my neck while I restrained my impatience.
"I couldn't talk him into shooting. You couldn't mother him into shooting. Okay, Raimundo is scaring him into shooting. He's got to shoot. I'm being paid fifty thousand dollars to get him to shoot so . . ."
She got up abruptly and went into the bungalow.
So we were going to start this all over again, I thought. I sat there for five minutes, feeling the ache in my jaw, then I got up, kicked the chair away and walked into the living-room.
She was sitting on a stool, facing the empty fireplace, her clenched fists against her face.
"Lucy, will you please try to be helpful," I said. "It's tough enough to have this nut in my hair without you going neurotic on me. This is important to us ! I'm trying to earn . . ."
"Oh, stop it !" Her voice was shrill and her eyes a little wild. "I'm not neurotic! You're just mad about money ! Can't you see . . .?"
"Lucy ! My bark stopped her dead. An Army voice when it is pitched right can stop a clock. "What's with it between you and this goon? Are you falling for him? Have you fallen for him?"
Her face crimson, her eyes shocked, she stared at me.
"What are you saying?"
"I'm asking you. What's all this protective stuff with this creep? What's he mean to you?"
"He's a human being! He's frightened ! I'm sorry for him. That's what he means to me!"
"Well, okay . . . just stay sorry for him, but nothing else. asked you, Lucy, to keep out of this. Please stop throwing spanners in the works ! I have enough to handle without you getting protective."
"Money means everything to you, doesn't it?"
"We're not talking about money ! We're talking about this goon !"
"To von, it's the same thing."
"I'm being paid to teach him to shoot. That's what I'm trying to do!"
"He doesn't want to shoot . . . he told me."
I held on to the explosion that was building up in me.
What he told you and what he is going to do are two different things. Will von please leave this to me?"
"Why don't you find out why he doesn't want to shoot? Why don't you start treating him like a human being? Why do you let a thug dictate to you and to him?" She jumped to her feet. "I can tell you! All you think about is the money you will make!"
"Is that something to be ashamed of?"
"I think it is."
I touched my aching jaw. It looked to me as if we were back on square A.
"I'm sorry you feel this way about it, Lucy," I said. "You've made your point. This is a job I'm going through with. I'm asking you to stick with it for another eight days." I didn't wait for her to make a come-back, I left her and returned to the shooting gallery.
I would have to get Timoteo shooting soon at moving targets. Nick Lewis had an antiquated machine which I had inherited. Sometimes it worked . . . sometimes it didn't. It was run by a small electric motor which turned cogs which turned a conveyor belt. Attached to the belt were six screw bolts. On the bolts you could fix decoy birds, targets, beer cans and so on. The motor could be speeded up if it felt like speeding up or it could take the targets along at a snail's pace.
I was working on the machine when Raimundo and Timoteo came in.
"We'll keep to target shooting for today," I said to Timoteo as I handed him the rifle. "Tomorrow, we'll try a moving target."
I wasn't sure if he had heard me. He didn't look as if he had, but I was past caring. His despairing, broken down look bored me.
He shot until noon. His score of bulls was increasing. A few minutes after noon, his concentration began slipping and I could see it was time to stop.
I turned to Raimundo who was lighting yet another cigarette.
"I'll take him to the bungalow and feed him. We'll start again at 14.00."
Raimundo got to his feet.
"I'll feed him, soldier. He stays with me. Come on, Mr. Savanto, let's go see what Nick's cooked up for us." He cocked a mocking eye at me. "I'll have him here at 14.00."
That suited me. The less I had to do with this goon the better I liked it.
I watched them walk off towards the line of distant palm trees, then I went back to the bungalow.
The next three days are of no interest to record: they followed the same pattern. Raimundo delivered Timoteo to the gallery at nine o'clock every morning, took him away to eat at noon, brought him back at 14.00 and took him away at 19.00. During this time Timoteo shot, used up a lot of ammunition, did what he was told, often badly and sometimes better than badly.
I had to contain my impatience and control my temper when he started on the moving targets. He either shot ahead or behind, but after some hours he began to hit a few beer cans that were being conveyed along at the slowest speed the machine would operate at.
Lucy continued to paint the bungalow. She no longer asked about Timoteo. She had no chance of seeing him anyway. Our personal feelings for each other had suffered a knock. We were both too goddam polite to each other, and we had long minutes of complete silence that hadn't come into our lives before.
I knew she was worried sick and she was hurt, but I kept telling myself that when this was over it would be forgotten and we would get together again as before.
After the third day I became more aware that time was running out and I began to turn on the heat. It wasn't good enough for Timoteo to hit two beer cans out of five as they crept along the belt. He had to sharpen up his ideas.
I gave the wheels driving the belt some machine oil and advanced the motor.
The cans jolted along at three times their previous speed. He fired off forty shots without hitting a can.
Exasperated, I shouted at him, "Shoot ahead ! All the time you're shooting behind !"
I didn't believe anyone could sweat the way he sweated. He was trying all right, but his reflexes were those of a cripple.
He kept shooting, kept missing, and I could see by his desperate expression he was becoming hysterical.
"Okay, stop." I turned to Raimundo. "Take him away. Let him relax." I switched off the motor. "I've had enough of him for today."
Raimundo stared at me, his black eyes evil.
"He hasn't time to relax, soldier. Mr. Savanto is coming to check on him the day after tomorrow. You'll be the one who'll need to relax if he isn't doing better than this."
I would have to be deaf not to catch the threat in his voice. So I kept him shooting until dusk, but it was a waste of ammunition. He hit three of the beer cans out of a hundred shots. By then he was in no condition even to hold the rifle.
"That's it," I said in disgust. "He can't shoot any more. Take him away."
I was sweating myself. If Savanto was coming in forty-eight hours and expected to see something for his money, time was certainly running against me.
When they had gone I returned to the bungalow. I could smell onions frying. I found Lucy in the kitchen, preparing a curry. . . one of my favourite meals and the one thing she could cook well.
"Hi!"
She looked over her shoulder and gave me a ghost of a smile.
"Through for the day?"
"Yeah, I'll take a shower."
"It'll be ready in twenty minutes."
"It smells good."
She nodded and turned back to the stove. I eyed her for a brief moment, feeling depressed and wanting to touch her, but there was no invitation to touch her in that stiff slim back. It'll work out, I told myself. It's got to work out.
After the shower, I put on fresh slacks and a shirt.
We had dinner. The curry was good : just the way I liked it, but I didn't have much appetite: nor did she.
"He's bogged down on the moving target," I said. "It's going to be a miracle if I ever make this sonofabitch shoot."
She moved the food about on her plate with her fork. She didn't say anything.
"His father is coming to check on his progress the day after tomorrow."
That got a reaction. She looked up, her eyes widening.
"Is he?"
"Yes. I wish I hadn't taken this job, Lucy."
"You still have six days." She put down her fork. "You can't expect to make all this money without working for it. That's what you said, wasn't it?"
"That's what I said."
Then followed another of our long, depressing silences.
"I forgot to tell you," she said. "Colonel Forsythe came for his lesson. I told him the school was closed."
"Did he take it all right?" I couldn't care less about Colonel Forsythe or any of my other pupils.
"Yes."
Again a long silence.
"I guess it's too hot to eat," T said and pushed my plate away. She had scarcely eaten anything.
Without looking at me, she got up from the table and went out onto the verandah. From force of habit, I turned on the TV set. A blonde with a mouth as big as a bucket was yelling about love. I turned the set off.
Through the open window, I saw Lucy walking towards the sea. I hesitated for a moment, then went after her.
Side by side, and in silence, we walked along the deserted beach.
After a while, I reached for her hand, but she didn't reach for mine.
* * *
By lunch-time the next day, I knew there was going to be no miracle.
For three solid hours, Timoteo fired at the moving cans, using up ammunition and hitting none of them. He was trying all right, but his reflexes seemed to be paralysed. Even when I slowed the moving targets down again to a crawl he still couldn't hit them.
Finally, I took the rifle out of his sweating hands.
"Sit down, Tim," I said. "Let's talk."
He stood there, his head lowered, his face grey and drawn. He looked like a bull with the pies in, waiting for the blade.
"Tim !" I barked at him. "Sit down ! I want to talk to you!"
The snap in my voice brought his head up. The despair and the hate in his eyes shocked me. Then he turned and moving like a zombie, he walked out of the gallery and into the hot sunshine. He hesitated for a moment, then set off with his slow, shambling stride towards the distant palm trees.
I looked at Raimundo who was sitting on one of the benches, watching me.
"That's it," I said. "I'm quitting. I know when I'm licked. He'll never make it. I want to talk to your boss."