This time the bottle caps were laid flat. The first shooter was Gris-Gris, who hugged down on his Remington as he sat in a ragged vinyl chair. Behind him the men made noise, creating excuses for themselves, turning over long-necks, dragging tables around and rattling money into the jukebox. Gris-Gris became still as a stone and fired his ten shots, hitting four of the caps. Two men followed, shooting only three caps each. Colette watched them all, deliberately not thinking of the money at stake, focusing on the idea of God-given talent. That was the only thing that gave her a chance, an ability to put technique out of her mind and handle the gun like a dance partner, mining grace out of herself by instinct. This time, when it was her turn, she sat resting her elbow on the windowsill, lining up her sights on the target until sights and target seemed one object. Then she breathed comfortably and one muscle in her whole body moved, the one in her finger, and that as slowly as a minute hand. Her rifle spat and the first cap spun off into the water. She hit the next one and was so surprised that her heart began to race, sending little pulses down the length of the rifle. She missed four straight shots before calming down and nipping two more caps off the iron. The marine shot last, standing, and also knocked off four.

For the three remaining shooters, the bartender walked out on the wharf and set up the targets himself. He swung a two-foot piece of cedar with five kitchen matches sticking up from it out over the water. He nailed one end of the board to a piling top thirty feet from the window and told the kid to get off the wharf. As he walked back, he grinned at the three stern-faced shooters, twirling a hammer in his hand.

Paul sidled up to Colette, leaning into her. “You all right?”

“Just fine,” she said, not really noticing him, already lining up the sights in her mind.

This time the marine went first. He became so still for the first shot, Colette thought he had gone asleep. Then the sound broke through the window. It was a miss. He raised his head and inspected the targets, lowered it, pulled the trigger, and missed again. Taking his hat and jacket off, he wound the rifle sling around his left arm and sat down in a chair. He hit two matches and missed the last. Colette studied his face and saw that he was not really as old as she had thought, more like twenty-one, just out of the service. He seemed not so much confident as shy. She tried hard not to like him.