Style, you
either have it or you
don't. And if you have it, you have it
all the time.The Rogue's Gambit
by Tux Toledo
Page 3
"What
do you think of these clay pigeons?" Ted asked. "I imported
them from Mexico. Their balance is superb."
I took one of the clay pigeons from the box and examined it
closely. It was nicely molded with "Made in Mexico" stamped
into the clay along the edge.
"Yes, very good birds," I said. True skeet shooters are as
picky about their clay pigeons as fanatical golfers are about their
golf balls.
"I'm importing a shipment of them for the sporting clays tournament my
hunting club is sponsoring in two weeks," he said.
Now I supposed I should explain a few things. First, sporting
clays. Sporting clays is a game, invented by the British of
course, that combines skeet shooting and hunting. But instead
of hunting real game, clay birds are used. Contestants move
from station to station along a woodland course like golfers moving
from hole to hole. The clay birds are launched and made to
duplicate the movement of various game such as pheasant, quail, and
rabbit. One point is awarded for each target hit.
It's not as easy as it sounds.
And now Ted Nance. Ted owned a small, but successful,
import/export business in San Francisco. He shipped mainly to
and from Latin America. He also owned the beautiful piece of
land we were shooting on: one-hundred acres nestled against
the mountains separating the Napa and Sonoma valleys. He was
an avid sportsman and adequate businessman. He wasn't perfect
but he was a good man.
"You will be a member of my team, won't you?" he asked.
"Of course," I said. "Who else is on it?"
"Nance, of course, and a fellow named Richard Rigger. He's my
banker."
Nancy's face momentarily clouded over even though the sky was
clear. That should have given me my first clue but when the
game is afoot, even when it's made of clay, and the sun is glimmering
through brisk clean air, I mean, well one can be excused for enjoying
the moment and letting one's guard down.
"Richard Rigger?" I said. "I don't know him."
"He's throwing a party Friday. You can meet him
there. You're free Friday, aren't you?"
"Come on, Ted, it's your turn to shoot," Nancy growled.
"Pull!" Ted yelled.
Another clay pigeon crossed the sky. Ted raised his gun to
his shoulder, aimed, shot, and hit the target just before it hit the
ground. He turned toward us with a giant grin on his face.
"See if you can top that shot, Nance."
"I think I've had enough shooting for today," she replied.
"Oh, if that's the way you feel." His eyebrows appeared to
melt and drip into his eyes.
"You can stay here and shoot for as long as you like," Nancy
said. "I'm going back to the house. Coming,
Winston?" It was more of a command than a question.
"Sure," I said.
"You don't mind if James stays with me, do you Winston?" Ted
asked. "I would like to get in a bit more practice."
"Have at it," I said.
"We'll have coffee waiting for you," Nancy said.
© 2008 David Biagini