32 Caliber
By McGibeny, Donald

CONTENTS:

I BRING JIM HERE

II TWO MEN AND A WOMAN

III I COULD KILL HIM

IV THE WORST HAPPENS

V ACCIDENT OR MURDER

VI A CLUE AND A VERDICT

VII I TURN DETECTIVE

VIII IT LOOKS BAD FOR HELEN

IX LOOK OUT, JIM

X I ACCUSE ZALNITCH

XI A DOUBLE INDICTMENT

XII WHO AM I

XIII WE PLAN THE DEFENSE

XIV BULLET PROOF

XV THE ANSWER

XVI THE MECHANICIAN

XVII RED CAPITULATES

XVIII I LISTEN TO MY FOREBEARS

***

excerpt from CHAPTER ONE - BRING JIM HERE

I was in the locker-room of the country-club, getting dressed after the best afternoon of golf I had ever had. I had just beaten Paisley "one-up" in eighteen holes of the hardest kind of sledding.

If you knew Paisley you'd understand just why I was so glad to beat him. He is a most insufferably conceited ass about his golf, for a man who plays as badly as he does; in addition to which he usually beats me. It's not that Paisley plays a better game, but he has a way of making me pull my drive or over-approach just by his confounded manner of looking at me when I am getting ready to play.

We usually trot along about even until we come to the seventh hole--in fact, I'm usually ahead at the seventh--and then conversation does me in. You see, the seventh hole can be played two ways. There's a small clay bank that abuts the green and you can either play around or over it to the hole, which lies directly behind. The real golfers play over with a good mashie shot that lands them dead on the green, but dubs, like Paisley, play around with two easy mid-iron shots. When we get to the place where the choice must be made, Paisley suggests that I go around, which makes me grip my mashie firmly, recall all the things I have read in the little book about how to play a mashie shot, and let drive with all my force, which usually lands me somewhere near the top of the clay bank, where it would take a mountain goat to play the next shot. After that, Paisley and I exchange a few hectic observations and my temperature and score mount to the highest known altitude.

Of course, every now and then, I forget my stance and Paisley long enough to send the ball in a beautiful parabola right on to the green, and when I do--oh, brother!--the things I say to Paisley put him in such a frame of mind that I could play the rest of the course with a paddle and a basket-ball and still beat him. This particular afternoon he had tried to play the seventh hole as it should be played, and though we had both foozled, I had won the hole and romped triumphantly home with the side of pig.