21
“Christ, Tone,” I say, “where’d you learn to shoot like that?”
I also want to ask him how he went
from being a simple tough-guy-earth-mover to Dirty Harry in a just half a
decade. But one thing at a time.
“You don’t know everything about
me, Son,” he says, popping another bit of tobacco in his mouth. “I used to
shoot with your dad now and again. I just got better at it while living out
here. You know the right people, you can buy a gun on the street here. Don’t
need a license.” He spits tobacco juice on the jungle floor, smiles proudly.
“And I know the right people.”
When we get to the camp, Rudy is stealing
small sips of whiskey while applying an antibiotic ointment to the red and swollen,
rope-shaped irritation banded around his neck.
“A mere few hours ago, I was a
simp
