Havana by Stephen Hunter

move, flicking this way and that, but nowhere near anxiety. He just watched.
    He was completely ill-dressed for the dinner-jacketed formality of the evening, and if he’d noticed it—unlikely—it clearly didn’t bother him a bit. His khaki suit was rack-bought, new, rather baggy and shiny at once, and too tight through the shoulders. Roger had to fight the temptation to give the man his tailor’s name.
    But then Roger noticed something, a lump under the coat, left side, under the arm where it oughtn’t to be.
    â€œYou’re armed? ”
    â€œYes, sir. Today and every day.”
    Roger sort of slid around and, looking across the chest, he could see the grip of a pistol protruding just half an inch from the shoulder holster that contained it. He brightened, because he recognized it.
    â€œOh,” he said, “your old .45? I carried one, too.”
    â€œClose enough,” Earl said. “Yeah, it’s a Government Model, but not a .45. It’s what’s called a Super .38.”
    Roger knew just a little about guns.
    â€œSuper? It must kick?”
    â€œMuch less than a .45. The point is, it holds two more rounds. Nine. It shoots a little small bullet, about half the weight of a .45, but much faster. It’ll go through most anything. I figured down here if I’m shooting—and I hope to hell I’m not—I’m shooting through or at a car. Sometimes a .45 won’t even get through a car door.”
    Roger suddenly lit up. He had it!
    â€œ Say, ” he said, “I know! You’re a shooter, a hunter. Would you like to shoot pigeons while you’re down here? You know what, I’d like to put you together with Hemingway. He’s a great shotgunner. Damn, that would really be something. You’re a hero, he’s a hero, he’d love you. I’ll bet you’re a great shotgunner.”
    â€œI’ve shot ducks. In Arkansas, we flood the rice fields in the fall, and the mallards come in. Many a fine morning I’ve spent there with a good friend. I hope to take my boy duck hunting soon.”
    â€œHemingway,” said Roger, from his reverie. “Let me work on that! A little shooting party. You, Hem, possibly the ambassador, down at Finca Vigia. We’ll hunt, then roast the ducks, drink wine, or rum punch or vodka. I’ve known him since the war. You’ll love Hemingway. He’s a man’s man. Wait till you see his place, his trophies. He has a buff you simply would not believe. Oh, say, won’t this be something?”
    â€œUh,” said Earl, “who’s this…Hemingway?”
    Before Roger could register incredulity at the fact the state policeman had never heard of America’s most famous writer, a new presence swirled in on them. It was Lane Brodgins, a little drunk, clearly on a mission from Harry.
    â€œEvans, Sergeant Earl, howdy. Great party, Evans. You boys know how to throw a hoedown and damn if Harry doesn’t appreciate it.”
    â€œAh, yes,” said Roger. “Well, as I was telling Sergeant Swagger, this is just the warm-up. Next Monday, the stars come out.”
    â€œSay, that’s a great idea! Harry will like that one, he will. Earl, you should relax. You’re off duty now.”
    â€œI’m fine.”
    â€œI have a feeling Sergeant Swagger will only relax in his grave, if there,” said Roger.
    Swagger, for the first time, let a crease of a smile play across his face. Roger had been flattering him hard, not easy work but he was good at it, and finally the effort was beginning to tell.
    â€œTell you what,” he said, “maybe I’ll have a Coca-Cola.”
    â€œThat’s the spirit, old man!” said Roger. He snapped his fingers, a waiter appeared. “El Coca-Cola, por favor,” he said, sending the man off on his mission.
    â€œI was just telling Sergeant Swagger I thought I could put an afternoon of pigeon shooting together.