“How come you know so much about this classy social event?”
“I happened to bump into Mrs. O’Hara at the Goodhope Slightly Used Children’s Clothing Discount Outlet, where I was again buying shoes for Little Phil and she was buying shoes for her grandchildren, and she happened to casually fill me in.”
That was not exactly true.
What had happened was that Gladys had confided in her confidant Phil that K.J. Sr. had been more than a little pissed when he heard how much it was going to cost him to fund the McNamara-O’Hara Chair of Classical Ballet Dancing at Hilly Springs College.
“Gladys,” Phil had said, “I don’t know how things are done here in Muddiebay, but in New York, Boston, and South Orange, New Jersey, the way things like this are done is that the people who get their names on a project, such as the McNamara-O’Hara Chair of Classical Ballet Dancing, arrange for other socialites and, more important, social climbers, to pay for it by throwing a party to which they otherwise would not be invited and telling them to bring their checkbooks.”
“Okay. I’ll throw a soiree. That would get the women, Phil, but what about the men?”
“You told me, Gladys, that this is a shotgun society, and that Muddiebay men will go anywhere at any time to shoot anything. So why don’t you quietly spread the word that there will be clay bird shooting off your pier while the soiree is going on?”
“You’re a genius, Phil, my confidant. And . . . I just thought of this . . . it would give me the chance to put you and K.J. Junior together so that you can take him under your wing and divert him from buying exotic cars he can’t afford and chasing airheaded blondes with large bosoms and tight little rear ends toward something approaching respectability.”
“What the hell does this mean?” Madame Brunhilde asked, pointing to a handwritten addendum to the invitation, on the back thereof, which read Don’t forget to bring your shotgun.
“I have no idea,” Phil lied. “But if that’s what our hostess wants, I couldn’t leave my shotgun home.”
[ SIX ]
As Phil was taking his shotgun from the trunk of his Jaguar, which he had parked on the lawn of 1001 Scenic Highway 98, a canary-yellow Mercedes-Benz convertible pulled in beside him. A good-looking man in a white dinner jacket and black tie got out of it, bringing with him a shotgun case that Phil, because he knew a little bit about shotguns generally, recognized to be that of the Beretta Corporation, a firm that despite its being Italian made some fairly decent if outrageously priced shotguns.
“Good evening,” the man said. “I couldn’t help but notice the alligator-hide shotgun case you just took out of your trunk. Does it perhaps contain a Diamond Grade Browning Over and Under with full factory engraving, a gold trigger, and selective ejectors?”
“Know a little bit about shotguns, do you?”
“Actually, I know a great deal about just about everything,” the man said with a smile. “In my line of work, I’m expected to. My name is Paul Twinings. And you are?”
“Phil Williams. And this is my wife—”
“I recognize Madame Brunhilde from her photographs in the press reporting the institution of the McNamara-O’Hara Chair of Classical Ballet Dancing. Welcome to the faculty of Hilly Springs College, Madame Brunhilde!”
Madame Brunhilde flashed him a dazzling smile.
“Madame Brunhilde, may I make a suggestion?”
“Of course you may, you charming gentleman!”
“I was going to suggest that, by sneaking around the side of the O’Hara mansion and going directly to the pier and busting a few birds right now, Phil and I could just about eliminate the risk of getting blown off the pier by the shotgunners there, as would be very likely later when the shotgunners get into the sauce. And then you and I, Phil, could go into the mansion and get into the latter.”
“Great idea!” Phil said. “Not only has my experience with shotgunners on the sauce scarred me for life, but I have always advocated getting into the sauce as quickly as possible ante bird popping.”
“Even though my husband thinks it’s a good idea, which worries me,” Madame Brunhilde said, “far be it from me to reject a suggestion suggested by a charming gentleman such as you.”
—
There was a long line of men, each carrying a shotgun, lined up before and onto the pier. Phil’s newfound friend Paul, crying, “Make way! Make way!” made his way through them onto and out to the end of the pier, where a man wielding what Phil, because he knew more than a little about shotguns, recognized to be a James Purdey & Sons Best Grade 12-bore shotgun.
“Oh, darn,” Paul said. “One more proof that into one’s life one must expect a torrent to pour.”
“Excuse me?”
“The fellow with the James Purdey & Sons Best Grade 12-bore shotgun who just called for doubles and then missed one of them, and is saying all those crude, dirty, and sacrilegious words, is Randolph C. Bruce.”
“I’ve been warned about him by Del Champs.”
“Take heed of his warning, Phil,” Paul replied, and then added, “And speaking of the devil, figuratively speaking, of course, there’s ol’ Del now.”
Del Champs walked to them.
“I see that you’ve met Father Paul,” Del said.
“Why do you call him that?” Phil asked.
“Because I’m polite. Did Father Paul point out Randy Bruce to you?”
“Yes, he did, and he told me to heed your warning.”
“Well, maybe we’ll get lucky and we can avoid him.”
“Luck is not with us,” Paul said as Randy walked up to them.
“Is this the EXPLETIVE DELETED!! Yankee I’ve been hearing about?” Randy Bruce demanded.
“Missed one, did you, Randolph?” Paul asked. “Even though I hate to judge lest I be judged, of course, I thought that might be the reason for your complete loss of temper and all that foul and sacrilegious language.”
Before Randy could reply, K. J. O’Hara, Sr., and Archie McNamara both walked up to them. Both were carrying Winchester Model 12 pump action 12-gauge shotguns. K.J. Sr.’s had a rib mounted on its single barrel and Archie’s did not.
“I’m not talking to you, Archie,” Randy announced.
“Not that I give a goddamn—excuse me, Father, that slipped out—but why aren’t you talking to me?”
“Because I suspect that harridan you’re married to called my Auntie Abby and pressured her into pressuring me into coming here tonight and bringing my checkbook with me. It should go without saying that otherwise I wouldn’t be here accepting your hospitality.”
“I suspect that’s exactly what happened,” Archie said. “And I’m glad. And have you written a generous check?”
“Generous is not the EXPLETIVE DELETED!! word. My Auntie Abby and that overstuffed crone you’re married to are not only pals but the aforementioned crone has convinced my Auntie Abby that this ballet EXPLETIVE DELETED!! is the height of culture and my Auntie Abby can’t get enough of culture, which of course I have to pay for out of my Trust Fund.”
A young man of about Phil’s age—a Browning Diamond Grade Over and Under 12-bore with full factory engraving, a gold trigger, and selective ejectors cradled lovingly in his arms—walked over to them.
“Dropped one, did you, Randy?” he asked.
“EXPLETIVE DELETED!! you, Junior!” Randy replied, which told Phil that he was looking at K. J. O’Hara, Jr.
“Quickly changing the subject,” K.J. Sr. said, “Junior, I want you to meet Phil Williams, whom my wife, your mother, tells me is a very good guy, even if he is a Yankee.”
They shook hands.
“Normally, I don’t shake hands with men my mother approves of, and that is especially true when they’re Yankees. But I’m making an exception here because I suspect that alligator-hide case holds a Browning Diamond Grade Over and Under 12-b
ore with full factory engraving, a gold trigger, and selective ejectors.”
“Thank you,” Phil said. “Nice to meet you, too.”
“May I see it?”
“Of course.”
Junior examined it.
“One of the old models, I see. And, from the position of this screw, I deduce it is possibly even a prototype.”
“Sometimes old is better than new,” Phil replied. “This old-timer has served me well over many, many rounds of skeet and trap.”
“Ha!” K.J. Jr. snorted.
“May I ask a possibly rude question, Mr. Williams?” K.J. Sr. asked.
“Why not?”
“What makes you think that that fancy shotgun of yours is any better than the classic Winchester Model 12s that Mr. McNamara and I have been shooting since we were boys?”
“Because, wielding this Browning, I am sure I can break more birds shooting at doubles than you can, even if I fire while bending over with my back to the line of flight and with my head and the gun between my knees and you firing standing up.”
“That’s a crock of EXPLETIVE DELETED!!,” Randy Bruce said, “if I ever heard one.”
“I’ll tell you what I’ll do, Mr. Bruce,” Phil said. “I’ll make you a little bet that Mr. O’Hara Junior here and I can shoot at two sets of doubles, for a total of four birds each, with him standing up and me bending over shooting between my legs, and I will do better than he standing up.”
“How little a bet?” Randy Bruce asked.
“Your call, sir.”
“Ten big ones a little too rich for your blood?”
“Ten big ones it is,” K.J. Jr. said.
“I was asking him, Junior,” Randy Bruce said. “Stop trying to steal my sure-and-in-the-bag ten EXPLETIVE DELETED!! thousand.”
“How about ten for each of you, for a total of twenty thousand?” Phil said.
“I have a small problem with that,” K.J. Jr. said, avoiding eye contact with K.J. Sr. “As I seem to have, even though it’s only the thirteenth of the month, had to cover a number of expenses with most of this month’s allowance, I don’t have ten thousand dollars.”
“I’ll loan it to you,” Phil said. “Because I know that you know how much the outcome will affect your relationship with your father in the future and that you will shoot accordingly.”
“I have a big problem with this,” Paul announced. “Because it sounds like a wager, which means a gamble, and gambling, while not a mortal sin, is still a sin.”
“Well, I can certainly understand that,” Phil said, although he didn’t and was wondering how he could shut up his newfound friend. “But how about this? Rather than having the losers pay the winners, the losers will pay the twenty big ones into the McNamara-O’Hara Chair of Classical Ballet Dancing Fund?”
“That’d work for me,” Paul Twinings blurted a little too quickly. “Bless all three of you! And thank you, Phil, on behalf of Hilly Springs College.”
—
Inasmuch as the typical reader of romance novels such as this is highly unlikely to be much interested in the precise details of a competitive shotgun marksmanship contest such as this, the narrative has been trimmed to the following, where it resumes immediately after the competition previously described concluded:
“EXPLETIVE DELETED!! EXPLETIVE DELETED!! EXPLETIVE DELETED!! EXPLETIVE DELETED!! EXPLETIVE DELETED!!,” Mr. Randolph C. Bruce said so loudly he could be and was heard throughout the O’Hara mansion. “The EXPLETIVE DELETED!! Yankee did it!”
“I’ll be a triple EXPLETIVE DELETED!! in EXPLETIVE DELETED!! spades,” Mr. K. J. O’Hara, Sr., said.
“Perhaps, K.J. Senior,” Phil said, “you will now be able to find it in your heart to be less critical of your son, K.J. Junior, than you have been in the past.”
“I’ll try,” K.J. Sr. said.
“Phil, my newfound buddy and role model and, I hope, shooting coach,” K.J. Jr. asked, “why don’t we go in the mansion and have a little taste of whatever your heart desires?”
As they were having their third little taste of Famous Pheasant, two ice cubes, water on the side, the Reverend Paul Twinings, S.J., D.D., Ph.D., president of both Hilly Springs College and the Jesuit community that ran it, got the attention of the assembled guests and announced the generous contributions being made to the McNamara-O’Hara Chair of Classical Ballet Dancing Fund by Mr. K. J. O’Hara, Jr., and Mr. Randolph C. Bruce, in addition to the generous contributions they had already made.
And a good time was had by all, so good a time that as Phil and Junior and Father Paul sat by the pool—with airheaded blondes with large bosoms and tight little tails sitting on the laps of Junior and Father Paul—Phil found the courage to ask Father Paul if he dared ask him a question.
“Ask away, after you hand me that bottle of Famous Pheasant,” Father Paul replied.
“Correct me if I’m wrong, but as I understand it, members of the Society of Jesus take vows of poverty, chastity, and obedience. Yet here you are, where you showed up in a canary-yellow Mercedes-Benz 560 convertible, carrying a Beretta shotgun, with an airheaded blonde sitting on your lap . . .”
Father Paul raised his hand to silence him.
“As you know, Phil, no mortal man is perfect,” he said. “And as it says in Matthew 7, Verse 1, of the Catholic Bible, and is paraphrased in Bibles used by Protestants and other quasi-heathens, ‘Judge not, lest you be judged.’”
“I’ll try not to.”
“Bless you, Philip.”
That evening, of course, marked Phil’s and Madame Brunhilde’s entrance into Muddiebay Society, such as it is.
XIV
TIME MARCHES ON
[ ONE ]
Muddiebay, Mississippi
Monday, September 15, 1975
Between the time Mr. Philip Williams, and his wife, Madame Brunhilde, became members of Muddiebay Society and the time when Mr. Randy Bruce called Mr. Williams and asked perchance if he would like to go pop a few pheasants with Bertie and Maggie in Scotland, quite a lot of water flowed under the causeway across upper Muddiebay Bay and out into the Gulf of Mexico.
And as someone once observed, a lot of things happen when water is flowing under causeways, some good and some bad.
For example, Phil had of course made some new friends, among them the Reverend Paul Twinings, S.J., D.D., Ph.D., president of Hilly Springs College and the Jesuit Community.
One day, when they were alone busting birds off the O’Hara pier, Father Paul asked Phil where he had acquired so much insight into the female mind, and said he was curious because it approached and even exceeded his own insight into the female mind, which he had acquired through the confessional.
After swearing the priest to secrecy, Phil showed him all three volumes of The Daily Notes of CIC Administrator P. W. Williams. Father Paul found them fascinating. After swearing Phil to secrecy, Father Paul shared hypothetically with Phil some of the really wild things he had heard in the confessional, without of course mentioning any names.
Phil was able to use some of what Father Paul told him in his creative writing, which was a good thing because he was getting close to the end of the single-spaced typewritten pages in Binder Three and didn’t have a EXPLETIVE DELETED!! clue what he was going to do when that source of inspiration had been exhausted.
And truth being stranger than fiction, Phil became close to—one could almost say became a friend of—Randy Bruce. This had to do with shotgun marksmanship. Randy was determined to wipe out once and for all time the humiliation he had suffered, and the attendant financial loss attached, the day they had met.
He demanded a rematch under what he referred to as controlled conditions, by which he meant that he intended to be entirely alcohol free when he called “Pull,” and that Father Paul would serve as referee. After all, if you can’t trust a Jesuit to make honest
calls when popping birds, who can you trust?
The first rematch cost Randy another $10,000, which, of course as a gentleman, he promptly wrote a check to cover. Phil, as a gentleman, was loath to personally profit from outshooting Randy, which was sort of like taking candy from a baby, or shooting fish in a barrel, so he endorsed Randy’s check over to the McNamara-O’Hara Chair of Classical Ballet Dancing Fund at Hilly Springs College.
He thought this might please Madame Brunhilde, Father Paul, and Randy’s grandmother, known as Auntie Abby, and her sister, Auntie Penny. And when Auntie Abby reviewed the checks Randy had drawn on his Trust Fund to see if she would allow them to be paid, it clearly did.
Randy’s grandmother told him she was really pleased that he seemed to be making friends with people like Father Paul and Mr. Williams. Even if the latter was a EXPLETIVE DELETED!! Yankee, he was married to Madame Brunhilde, the close friend of Madame Violet.
Their second rematch cost Randy $20,000, after which he bit the bullet and admitted that the EXPLETIVE DELETED!! Yankee was a better shot than he. He decided that he would make a friendly overture to Phil, learn more about him, and thus be better prepared to seek vengeance for the humiliation and loss of $30,000 in some way not connected with shotgun shooting.
He invited Phil to lunch at his favorite luncheon place, the Blue Gill restaurant on the Muddiebay Bay Causeway, which featured fresh seafood served by young women in wet T-shirts and short shorts.
Randy’s idea of a luncheon invitation was to set a place and a time to meet, and then go to the rendezvous point at a time when it was convenient for him to do so.
When he arrived at the Blue Gill only an hour and a half late, expecting to find Phil waiting for him at the bar, what he got instead was one of the scantily clad food servers pointing to a message written with a bar of soap on the mirror behind the bar for the whole world to see.
Dear Randy Bruce,
Time and Phil Williams wait for no man.
Sincerely, Your Friend,
Phil Williams
Randy later made one more gesture to Phil, and this one turned things around a great deal.
The Hunting Trip Page 30