“How ’bout that?” Bubba was beginning to enjoy himself immensely.
“Little woman here’s a cop. Well, golly gee.”
West knew better than to announce her rank, which would make matters only that much worse. She stepped so close to him, the toes of their shoes were about to touch. Her chest would have pressed against his belly had she not decided against it.
“This is the last time I ask you to put my gun right back where you found it,” she said, staring up into his homely, whisky-flushed face.
Bubba fixed his sights on Brazil, deciding this pretty boy might be in for a life lesson. Bubba strode over to West’s lane, set down her gun, walked up to Brazil, tried to grab the. 380 for inspection. Brazil slugged Bubba and broke his nose. Bubba bled over camouflage, and dripped on assault weaponry as he hastily packed his duffel bag.
It was Bubba’s Last Stand when he cried out from the steps that the lady and her boyfriend had not heard the last from Bubba.
“Sorry,” Brazil said right off when he and West were alone again.
“Jesus Christ. You can’t just hit people like that.” She was mostly embarrassed that she hadn’t resolved the conflict herself.
He was loading magazines, and realizing he had never struck anybody in his life. He wasn’t sure what he felt about it as he lovingly studied West’s. 380 pistol.
“What does one of these cost?” he asked with the reverence of the poor.
“You can’t afford it,” she said.
“What if I sold your story to Parade magazine. My editor thinks they’d go for it. I could make some money. Maybe enough…”
This was just what West wanted, another story.
“How about I make a deal with you,” she said.
“No Parade magazine.
Borrow the Sig until you can afford one of your own. I’ll work with you a little more, maybe on an outdoor range. We’ll set up some combat situations. The way you piss people off, it’s a good idea. Rule of etiquette. Pick up your brass. ”
Hundreds of shiny cartridge cases were scattered in their area. Brazil got down and began plucking them up, clinking them into a metal can while West gathered her belongings. She had an unpleasant thought, and looked at him.
“What about your mother?” she asked.
He kept working, glancing up, a shadow passing behind his eyes.
“What about her?”
“I’m just wondering about a gun being in the house.”
“I got good at hiding things a long time ago.” He loudly clanged brass into the can, making his point.
Bubba was waiting in the parking lot, inconspicuous inside his spotless chrome and black King Cab pickup truck with gun rack. Confederate flag mud flaps, roll bar, KC fog lights, Oilie North bumper sticker, PVC pipes for holding fishing poles on the front grille, and neon lights around the license plate. He held a wadded-up undershirt to his bleeding nose, watching as the lady cop and her asshole boyfriend emerged from the firing range, walking through the gathering dusk. Bubba waited long enough to see her get out keys and head for an impeccable white Ford Explorer in a corner of the unpaved lot. Her personal wheels, Bubba supposed, and this was even better. He climbed down from his cab, a tire jack in a meaty fist, ready for a little payback.
West was expecting him. She was practiced in the modus operandi of Bubbas, for whom revenge was a reflex, like getting up for a beer during commercials. She had already dipped into her tote bag for what looked like a black golf club handle.
“Get in the car,” she quietly ordered Brazil.
“No way,” he said, standing his ground as Bubba strode toward them, a menacing sneer on his gory face.
Bubba didn’t get within six feet of her car before West was walking to meet him. He was surprised, not expecting kick-ass aggression from this little lady cop. He tapped the tire iron against a meaty thigh as a warning, then raised it, eyeing the Ford’s spotless front windshield.
“Hey!” Weasel, the manager, yelled from the range’s entrance.
“Bubba, what d’ya think you’re doing, man!”