Page 96 of The River We Remember

“The gravel pit,” Scott said. “Bad time?”

“No, Madman. It’s cool. Just wait a second.”

Del left the door and stepped out of sight.

Scott could see a part of the inside of the trailer. A living room, with a threadbare sofa the color of pond algae, heavy curtains, and clutter everywhere. His own house—his grandmother’s actually, but it was all the home he knew—was always tidy and airy and welcoming.

Del returned with his knapsack hanging heavily on his shoulder. The gun, Scott figured.

They left on Del’s motorbike and drove along a country road that paralleled the east side of the Alabaster. A mile outside Jewel, they came to an old excavation where sand and gravel had once been dug. A thick cable was strung across the access road and from it hung a sign that said, NO TRESPASSING. But everyone did, mostly at night. The floor of the pit was scarred with black circles where fires had been built, parties had been held, and drinking and God knew what else had gone on. That afternoon and most others, it was empty.

Del collected beer cans—they were thrown about everywhere—and set up several against a wall of the pit. He pulled the pistol from his knapsack. It was as black and shiny as a scorpion’s back, and although it didn’t seem particularly large, not like the guns in the Westerns on the screen at the Rialto, on the whole it looked quite sinister.

Del hefted it with relaxed familiarity and said, “Creasy told me some gangster in Las Vegas gave it to him. I don’t believe him.” He dug a handful of bullets from the knapsack, released the gun clip, and filled it. “Want to shoot first?”

“No,” Scott said, suddenly not so eager. “You go ahead.”

Del fired all the rounds in the clip and with each shot sent a beer can flying.

“Jesus, you’re good,” Scott said.

“I come here a lot. Sometimes I imagine each of those beer cans is Creasy. Helps.” He reloaded and handed the pistol to Scott. “Give ’em hell. Just keep it pointed that way,” he cautioned, waving at the wall where the targets were set.

Scott took a stance in the way he’d seen Del do, leveled the pistol, closed one eye, sighted, and pulled the trigger. The little pistol kicked in his grip, and a shot cracked, but nothing happened to the beer can.

“Takes a while to get the hang of it,” Del said. “Keep trying.”

They took turns, each shooting a full clip, then passing the pistol. Scott nicked a couple of cans near the end, but Del was like Wild Bill Hickok. He had the knack.

When they’d run out of rounds, they sat down, backs against the pit wall.

“So, what’s up with you, Madman?” Del asked. Now that he had no ammunition, he’d taken to throwing rocks at the cans that still stood. “You’ve been real quiet. Got Holly Coleridge on your mind?”

If there was anyone to whom Scott might confide such a risky truth, it was Del Wolfe. And in a way, he was bursting to share what he’d glimpsed of Mrs. Dern. So he did.

“I’ve seen her in town,” Del said. “Boobs out to here.” He cupped his hands a foot away from his chest. “You saw those?”

“She was wearing a bra, but I pretty much saw everything.”

“If you used it as a slingshot, I’ll bet you could shoot coconuts with that bra. Compared to her, Holly Coleridge’s tits are like a couple of Hershey Kisses.”

Scott picked up a handful of rocks and threw them one by one at the cans.

“Hey, Madman?” Del turned to him. “How would you like to see a naked lady?”

“You got a Playboy stashed somewhere?”

“No, Madman. I mean a real live naked lady.”

“What? Your grandma or something?”

“No. A beautiful naked lady, I swear.”

“Are you kidding me?”

“Honest to God.”

“Where?”