Crack Shot
Chapter 1
The party was in full swing.
Jimmy Burton's finger had been broken catching a football thrown by one of Lolly MacKenzie's grandnieces; the bunkhouse toilet had stopped up twice; Charley Bell was making eyes at Burdger Harris's wife, who, at eighty-one, was eating it up, much to the consternation of her husband, who was looking a lot like a rained-on rooster; four kids had been thrown in the pond; Chi Chi Tapia, the chickenshit cowboy, had passed out in the hay barn; Top Dog, my triathlete firefighting cousin who lives on the San Carlos Reservation, had filled his plate three times; and Prego, the local mechanic, was wearing a muscle shirt featuring the Statue of Liberty and slow dancing with Shiwoye, my Apache grandmother, who appeared to be having some trouble figuring out just where to put her hands on his naked shoulders.
All that and we’d had close to two inches of rain in twenty-four hours.
That probably doesn't sound like much if you're from Wisconsin, but in Tucson, in early July, it's unusual. Our summer monsoon season starts the end of June and usually doesn't get really cranking until mid-July.
But here it was the f ...
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