“No…I mean, you don’t want to get spoiled.”
“It’s nice.” Jim handed the gun back. “We should take it out back and—”
“We don’t have the time for that, Dad.”
“Okay.”
Court said, “What areyoucarrying these days?”
Jim patted the front pocket of his old cargo pants under the table. “Six forty-two.”
It was a tiny five-shot revolver that fired thirty-eight special rounds through a two-inch barrel, made by Smith and Wesson.
Court shrugged. “Not a lot of firepower.”
“I’m a civilian, son. Three by three by three,” Jim said.
Court spoke his father’s language; he knew what the old man meant. Statistically speaking, the average defensive civilian gunfight involved three gunshots in three seconds at a distance of three yards. A five-shot gun with a short barrel was sufficient for the vast majority of violent encounters.
Statistically speaking.
Court said, “I guess my life has been something of an outlier.”
“I’ll bet,” his father said. “Three magazines in three minutes at three hundred yards?”
“On a slow day.”
Both men chuckled, and then Jim said, “I know you didn’t love it all the time, but I sure miss shooting guns with my boys out back. Would have loved to have seen you over the years.”
Court looked through the window. It was getting darker by the minute due to the coming storm; the tall grasses and spotty clusters of trees in the lot across the street swayed. He said, “I had reasons for not coming home. It was nothing personal.”
“I’m sure you were busy,” Jim said. He added, “I’ll admit, though, Ididexpect to see you at your brother’s funeral.”
Now Court looked down at the table. “Yeah. I was out of the country when Chance died. I’m sorry I missed it.”
Jim waved his hand. “Well…as it turns out, it didn’t matter.” The comment confused Court a little. Then the older man said, “You work in the government, right?”
“Not anymore. But yeah, I did.”
“You weren’t military, I know that much. The military had too many rules for a kid like you.”
“No, I wasn’t in the military. To be honest, after being your son, I kind of wanted a little freedom.” He shrugged. “Then I got a little too much freedom, and I got sucked into government service anyway.”
“You went into the CIA.” It was a statement, not a question.
“Dad, the less I tell you about what I’ve been doing the past twenty-odd years, the better it’s going to be for both of us.”
Jim waved a hand in the air. “C’mon, Courtland. Who’m I gonna tell?”
“Whoever the happy hour bartender is at Henry’s.”
The older man smiled. “Haven’t been to Henry’s in years. I quit drinking after the stroke.”
Court cocked his head. “Really?”
“Quit smokin’, too.”
Court said, “Who evenareyou?”
