Death on a Vineyard Beach (13 page)

“I want you to find a pistol for Zee and teach her how to use it.”

He looked at me. “Zee? You're kidding me. Zee hates guns. She wouldn't take one if Jesus gave it to her.”

“Well, you have to do Jesus one better, then. I want her to have a handgun and to know how to shoot it, and I think you're the man to teach her.”

“Let's go up to the house,” said Manny, giving the chair a final approving look. “When we get there, you can tell me what's going on.”

  
11
  

In the basement gun shop at Manny's house, I told him about the incident in Boston and the news that the shotgun was from Vineyard Haven.

Manny whistled. “I see why you want Zee to carry. I
tell you something, J. W., if more women learned how to use guns and carried them, they'd be a lot better off, no matter what these blamed bleeding heart liberals say. My wife knows how to shoot and I told her that if I ever go off my rocker and start beating on her, she should put a slug right in me and never hesitate!” He handed me a pistol.

I couldn't see Helen shooting Manny without hesitating, but I was pretty sure that's what he thought she should do.

“What is this?” I asked, turning the semi-automatic in my hand and looking at it.

“Beretta 84F. .380. Thirteen rounds, double action. I put the wood grips on it. Plenty of whack at close quarters. It'll fit Zee's hand, too, and won't kick too much. She don't like it, we'll come up with something else. Important thing is that she knows how it works, isn't afraid of it, and can hit what she aims at.”

I pointed the pistol at a wall and sighted down the short barrel. Like Scarlett O'Hara, I could shoot pretty well if I didn't have to shoot too far. “The problem will be getting her to learn that stuff,” I said. “She's pretty hostile to guns.”

“Yeah, I been thinking about that,” said Manny. “I think it'd probably be best to go the sporting route. Target shooting for family fun, and like that. She might go for that when she wouldn't go for the self-defense bit. What do you think?”

I thought we'd still have problems. “How much you want for this thing and some bullets to go with it?”

He told me.

“You willing to be the instructor?” I asked.

“Sure. Be glad to. Don't want no Boston hood coming down here and finding Zee unarmed.”

Good. Not only was Manny a better shot than I was, he was an excellent shooting instructor. There was no doubt he'd have a lot more success teaching Zee how to use the pistol than I would. Even so, I knew I wouldn't be surprised if, after dutifully learning all Manny could teach her, Zee would then hide the pistol away and never use it. I decided not to tell Manny that, though.

“I'll take it,” I said.

“Fine. You decide you don't want it, I'll buy it back. Something else. Woman needs a gun, she doesn't want it in her purse where somebody can grab her purse and gun and all. She wants it on her belt where she can get at it if she needs it. They got some rigs that are good for women. After Zee learns how to handle this pistol, I'll come up with some leather for it, so she can have it with her. Like they say, it's…”

“I know,” I said, quoting the ancient dictum: “It's better to have it and not need it than need it and not have it.”

Manny nodded. “You got it, J. W. When you want Zee and me to get started?”

“Tomorrow,” I said. “After work.”

“Meet you at the club at five-thirty,” said Manny. “Tell you what. I'll have Helen come along. She likes to target shoot, and Zee won't feel so much like she's being turned into a Joan Wayne.”

Joan Wayne. I hadn't heard that one before.

I took Zee's new pistol and a box of bullets and went home. I tucked the weapon and ammunition into the drawer of my gun cabinet, and set about making a supper that would soften Zee's resistance: pork saté, a nifty Indonesian barbecue that can set your taste buds singing. The secret is in the marinade, of course.

I melted a quarter cup of butter in a saucepan, then mixed in a tablespoon of lemon juice, a bit of grated lemon rind, a little Tabasco, some onion and brown sugar, a tablespoon of coriander, some cumin, ginger, salt, and pepper, a crunched garlic clove, and about a half cup of teriyaki sauce.

I mixed all of that up, and let it simmer five minutes. Then I cut the fat and sinew off the pork tenderloin, sliced the meat into three-quarter-inch cubes, stirred them into the sauce, and put everything into the fridge to marinate.

By the time Zee got home, I had the meat on skewers, the grill going out back, rice ready to cook, and a fresh spinach salad in the fridge. And of course I had the chilled martini glasses in the freezer beside the bottle of Lukusowa.

We went up onto the balcony with our drinks and looked out toward the sound. The slanting evening light passed over our shoulders, over the garden, over Sengekontacket Pond, where a few die-hard tyro surf sailors were still learning to play with their boards in the falling wind, over the road and beach beyond the pond, out over the sound, and on over the Atlantic, where, just beyond the horizon, darkness was rolling toward us.

After supper, accompanied by the house cabernet sauvignon, Zee sighed and patted her belly.

“I think I can make some money by renting you out to train husbands who don't know how to welcome their wives home in the evening.”

“Let me choose the wives, and it's a deal.”

“On second thought, forget the whole thing.”

After cognac I told her about my purchase.

“I don't want anything to do with it,” said Zee, shaking her head. “I know there's some chance that those guys in Boston may come down here, and I know that the gun being stolen in Vineyard Haven probably makes it more likely that somebody down here is tied into the shooting, but I have no desire at all to learn how to shoot a gun. Forget it.”

“Helen's going to be down at the club with Manny tomorrow, after work,” I said. “They'll be doing some target shooting. I'm not very good at it, compared to Manny, but it's fun sometimes. I'd like to have you come along.”

“No,” said Zee. “I don't like guns.”

“Neither did Sam Spade, but he knew how they worked. You should know, too, because we're going to have them in the house, and the more you know, the safer you'll be.”

She thought about that.

“When we have kids,” I said, “the guns will still be there. They'll be locked up, but they'll be there and I'll want to teach them how to use them correctly. It'll be better if you know about them, too.”

“That's a pretty low road you're taking, Jefferson. Waving our children at me before we even have them.”

“You don't have to shoot if you don't want to, but I'll
feel better if I know that you can if you wish, and that you'll be safe while you're doing it. Guns are very dangerous, especially if you don't know anything about them.”

“I'll take my chances.”

“Will you come down to the club and watch Helen and Manny and me shoot?”

“Sure.”

That was as much as I was going to get out of Zee.

“Good,” I said. “Maybe once you get there, you'll change your mind.”

“Maybe,” said Zee. “But don't count on it.”

Later, in bed, she poked me in the ribs with her finger just as I was sliding off to sleep. “I don't need a gun to protect myself. I don't.”

“Maybe you're right.”

“I am. So forget the whole idea.”

“There's me, too,” I said.

“What do you mean?”

“I mean that I'd like you to be able to protect me, too, if I need protection.”

She lay silent for several minutes. When she spoke, her voice was touched with anger. “You sure can walk the low road when it suits you. First it's our children who need me to know about guns, and now it's you.”

“I'm shameless,” I said. “I admit it.”

“Shameless, and disgusting, too.”

“Shameless and disgusting and lower than a snake's belly.”

“Worse than that, even. You don't deserve to be protected.”

“You're probably right, but I'm so rotten that I want you to protect me anyway.”

“This is a cheat, you know. You're making me do something I don't want to do.”

I sat up in bed and turned on my reading light. Zee stared up at me from her pillow. I looked down at her. “No,” I said. “I would never make you do something you don't want to do. If you do this thing, it has to be because you've decided it's the right thing to do. If you don't think it is, don't do it.”

Her hair was like a black nimbus around her face. Her eyes were huge and dark and deep. “You think we're in danger, don't you?” she asked.

“I don't know if we are or not.”

“But you think we might be.”

“I think we should keep that possibility in mind. I don't think we should start jumping at shadows, but I think we should be careful.”

“So careful that I have to carry a gun?”

My heart turned over as I looked down at her. I touched her lips with my finger and then pushed a strand of raven hair from her forehead. “Not if you don't want to. It's just that I might not be there if you need help. You'll have to help yourself.”

“I'll have to think about it.” She stretched her arms up toward me. “I love you, you know.”

“Yes.” I sank down toward her. When people love you, you can manipulate them even when they know you're doing it.

The next evening, after Zee got home from work, we got into my old Toyota Land Cruiser and drove down to the Rod and Gun Club shooting range.

Manny and Helen Fonseca were already there, with Manny's normal piles of shooting gear spread out on the twenty-five-yard table. He was also wearing his weapons belt, complete with holstered side arm, extra clips, and pouches holding who knew what. I carried the Beretta 84F and its bullets in a paper bag, along with my earplugs and shooting glasses. I put the bag on the table.

Helen and Manny had set up the targets, and I noted with satisfaction that they were using the ringed ones instead of the man-shaped ones. Zee would be more likely to shoot at the ringed ones.

Zee and Helen embraced, and Manny shook our hands, and looked at Zee. “You want to watch for a while?”

“Yes.”

“Fine. It's pretty noisy, so you'd better wear these.” He handed her some earplugs. “What we're going to do, Helen and me, is shoot from here first, then move up and shoot from about ten yards. It's pretty close, but if we were shooting
at, for instance, somebody who was shooting back, the chances are we wouldn't be doing it at long range anyway. The idea here today is just to have some fun and see how good or bad we are.” He gestured at the table. “I got several guns here, and we'll shoot 'em all. Some are revolvers and some, like this one here on my belt, are semi-automatics like the one J. W. brought along. I'll shoot first with this here Colt .45 Double Eagle, and Helen will shoot with her Smith and Wesson Lady Smith .38. You won't have any trouble telling them apart. Mine makes the biggest noise.” He grinned. Nothing made Manny happier than shooting pistols and talking about them.

Manny shot two clips through his .45 and blew the center out of every target he shot at. Helen, reloading between targets, fired her little .38 first with one hand, then the other, then with both, getting the bullets all in the targets, but not so centered as Manny had done.

“Why do you shoot with each hand?” Zee asked Helen, as the shootists paused and targets were being replaced.

“It's just for fun here,” smiled Helen. “I'm really not good at all with my left hand, and I'm only so-so with my right, so if I really want to hit anything I have to do it with both hands. But if I was, say, a police officer and I got shot in my right hand, I'd need to be able to shoot with my left one.”

“Oh,” said Zee.

“Manny's good with either hand,” said Helen with a bit of pride in her voice. “Manny, shoot with your left hand, so Zee can see how it should be done.”