Rules of Civility - Amor Towles [73]
The promise that he had wanted to keep was to take me shooting—which was pretty much a doozy, no matter how long he took to get around to it. When I asked him what I should wear, he suggested something comfortable. So, I dressed as I thought Anne Grandyn would: in khaki pants and a white button-down shirt with the sleeves rolled up. I figured if it didn’t work out as my gun-shooting outfit, it could always serve as my Amelia-Earhart-getting-lost-over-the-Pacific-never-to-be-heard-from-again outfit. He wore a blue V-neck sweater trimmed in yellow with holes in the sleeves.
—I think your hair is . . . super, he said.
—Super?!
—Sorry. Was that . . . unflattering?
—Super’s not bad. But I also answer to gorgeous and glamorous.
—How about . . . gorgerous?
—That’s the ticket.
It was a bright summer day, and at Wallace’s suggestion I took a pair of tinted glasses from the glove compartment. I leaned back and watched the sunshine dappling the leaves over the parkway, feeling like a cross between an Egyptian queen and a Hollywood starlet.
—Have you heard from . . . Tinker and Eve? Wallace asked.
It was the normal sort of common grounding used by an acquaintance to fend off silence.
—I’ll tell you what, Wallace. If you don’t feel the need to talk about Tinker and Eve, I won’t feel the need to either.
Wallace laughed.
—Then how will we . . . explain knowing one another?
—We’ll tell people that you caught me picking your pocket on the observation deck of the Empire State Building.
—All right. But only if . . . we make it you who caught me.
Wallace’s hunt club was surprisingly run-down in appearance. Outside there was a low portico and slim white pillars that made it look like a sorry excuse for a Southern mansion. Inside, the pine floors were uneven, the rugs frayed, and the Audubon prints slightly askew, as if victims of a distant earthquake. But like the moth-eaten sweater, the worn aspect of the club seemed to put Wallace at relative ease.
At a diminutive desk by a sizable trophy case sat a well-groomed attendant in a polo shirt and slacks.
—Good afternoon, Mr. Wolcott, he said. We’re all set for you downstairs. We’ve laid out the Remington, the Colt and the Luger. But a Browning Automatic came in yesterday and I thought you might like to take a look at her as well.
—Terrific, John. Thanks.
Wallace led me down to the cellar where a series of narrow alleys were separated by white clapboard walls. At the end of each alley, a paper bull’s-eye was pinned to a stack of hay bales. Beside a small table, a young man was loading the firearms.
—That’s fine, Tony. I’ll . . . take care of it. We’ll see you at the . . . trout pond.
—Yes sir, Mr. Wolcott.
I took up a position at a respectful distance. Wallace looked back and smiled.
—Why don’t you . . . come a little closer.
Tony had laid out the guns with their barrels pointing in the same direction. With a polished silver finish and a bone handle, the revolver looked like a pretty fancy sidearm, but the other guns were a no-nonsense gray. Wallace pointed to the smaller of two rifles.
—That’s a . . . Remington Model 8. It’s a good target rifle. That’s a . . . Colt 45. And that’s a . . . Luger. A German officer’s pistol. My father brought it . . . home from the war.
—And this?
I picked up the big gun. It was so heavy it hurt my wrists just to balance it in the air.
—That’s the Browning. It’s a . . . machine gun. It’s the one that . . . Bonnie and Clyde used.
—Really?
—It’s also the . . . gun that killed them.
I put it down gently.
—Shall we start with the Remington? he suggested.
—Yes sir, Mr. Wolcott.
We approached one of the alleys. He broke open the breach and loaded the rifle. Then he introduced me to the various parts: the action and bolt; the barrel and muzzle; the front and rear sights. I must have been making a bewildered face.
—It sounds . . . more complicated than it is, he said. The Remington has only fourteen parts.
—An eggbeater has only four. But I can’t figure out