The Empty Chair
“Then he glanced at her twice and after some tacit debate said, "You know, I was going to ask you . . . When you drew your weapon, when that turkey came outa the brush. Well, and at Blackwater Landing too when Rich Culbeau surprised us . . . That was . . . well, that was something. You know how to drive a nail, looks like."She knew, from Roland Bell, the Southern expression meant "to shoot.""One of my hobbies," she said."Nofoolin'.""Easier than running," she said. "Cheaper than joining a health club.""You in competition?"Sachs nodded. "North Shore Pistol Club on Long Island.""How 'bout that," he said with a daunting enthusiasm. "NRA Bullseye matches?""Right.""That's my sport too! Well, skeet and trap, course. But sidearms're my specialty."Hers too but she thought it best not to find too much in common with adoring Jesse Corn."You reload your own ammo?" he asked."Uh-huh. Well, the .38s and .45s. Not the rimfire, of course. Getting the bubbles out of slugs – that's the big problem.""Whoa..., you're not telling me you cast your own bullets?""I do," she admitted, recalling that when everyone else's apartment in her building smelled of waffles and bacon on Sunday morning hers often was redolent of the unique aroma of molten lead."I don't do that," he said apologetically.MoreLess
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