Page 54 - Demo

Clay Pigeons (continued from preceding page)
“You shot the damn trap house, Rhonda! You can’t wait that long, babe! Shoot the damn thing when it’s still in the air!”
Sonny heard Mr. Lindsay’s cigarette-gruff guffaw from his chair at the trailer. He knew he wasn’t laughing at the woman in red. He was laughing at him, because Mr. Lindsay knew Sonny just got shot-blasted.
“Okay, okay. Let me try again,” she said.
She called “pull” and Sonny followed the pigeon out over the land, waiting for the blast of the shotgun,
but the only sound was the motor in the trap shooter. He ducked. And blam! Shot splattered through the crack again, tinkling against the trap arm, pecking the stacked boxes of clay pigeons.
“Rhonda, you did it again, babe! You can’t wait like that.”
“I’m aiming, Sid! I’m aiming!”
“But you can’t be shooting the trap house. Shoot be-
fore it gets too low. Now, try it again, babe.”
This time Sonny loaded and ducked. She shot at the pigeon before calling “pull.” “You gotta say ‘pull’ so Ken can trigger the pigeon, babe.”
“I know that, Sid, so shut up!” She sounded exasper- ated at the whole confusing routine. “Pull!”
Again, the pigeon flew and made it safely to the ground. The lady’s shot even managed to miss the trap house.
Sonny applauded. The lady looked around for the source of the clapping sound.
Twenty shots later, the lady finally hit a pigeon. The men cheered.
Sonny climbed out of the trap house after they had
moved safely away under the awning.
They’d shot eight rounds of twenty-five. At a penny per pigeon, Sonny made a whopping two dollars. Sid cased his shotgun and waddled over to where Sonny sat tallying the pigeon-count sheet at the picnic table.
“How’s the hand, kid?” “Okay, I guess.”
“She’s just learning.”
“I noticed.”
“Do we tip you or what?”
“Some tip me.”
“You should tip the kid,” Ken said.
Sid frowned, but then reached into his pocket and pulled out a few bills folded in a silver money clip.
He dug deeper in his pocket and pulled out a quarter. “Here you go,” he said, flipping it to Sonny.
Sonny caught it and held it up like it was a Kruegerand. “Hey, thanks. I can buy a Band-Aid.”
“Are you joking?” Sid asked, searching Sonny’s face for humor. Sonny didn’t answer.
Sid folded his arms. “Are you screwing with me?”
Sonny stood up. “I put two hundred pigeons out there for you. Got my hand sliced open and shot in the back of the head, that’s all. But I made two bucks—oh, plus this here tip.”
Ken reached in his pocket and handed Sonny a wad- ded one-dollar bill. Sid frowned. “Well, it’s not like you need a Ph.D to load a trap, kid.”
Sonny handed him the pigeon count sheet and said, “Pay Mr. Lindsay at the trailer.”
And he thought he heard Sid growl, “Maybe I oughta shoot you in the head next time.” But he wasn’t sure, so he didn’t reply.
Sid paid Mr. Lindsay, chatted a minute, before he joined Ken and Rhonda in the Volvo.
The Volvo left a trail of swirling dust in the orange sun slipping between the hills as it headed out of the canyon for the highway.
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