“How’s my baby?” she chirped, setting plastic laminated menus in front of them. She eyed West.
“Who’s your pretty lady friend?”
“Deputy Chief Virginia West with the Charlotte police,” Brazil made the mistake of saying.
So it was that Bubba would learn the identities of his attackers.
tw “My, my.” Mrs. Rickman was mighty impressed as she got an eyeful of this important woman sitting in a B&B booth.
“A deputy chief. Didn’t know they had women that high up. What’ll be? The pork barbecue’s extra good tonight. I’d get it minced.”
“Cheeseburger all the way, fries. Miller in the bottle,” West said.
“Extra mayonnaise and ketchup. Can you put a little butter on the bun and throw it on the grill?”
“Sure can, honey.” Mrs. Rickman nodded. She didn’t write down anything as she beamed at Brazil.
“The usual.” He winked at her.
She walked off, her hip killing her worse than yesterday.
“What’s the usual?” West wanted to know.
“Tuna on wheat, lettuce, tomato, no mayo. Slaw, limeade. I want to ride patrol with you. In uniform,” he said.
“In the first place, I don’t ride patrol. In the second place, in case you haven’t noticed, I have a real job, nothing important. Just the entire investigative division. Homicide. Burglary. Rape. Arson. Fraud.
Auto theft. Check theft,” she said.
“White collar, computer, organized crime, vice. Juvenile. Cold case squad. Of course, there’s a serial killer on the loose, and it’s my detectives on the case, getting all the heat.”
She lit a cigarette, and intercepted her beer before Mrs. Rickman could set it down.
“I would prefer not to work twenty-four hours a day, if it’s all the same to you. You know how my cat gets?
Won’t touch me, won’t sleep with me? Not to mention, I haven’t gone out to a movie, to dinner, in weeks. ” She drank.
“I haven’t finished my fence. When was the last time I cleaned my house?”
“Is that a no?”
Brazil said.
Chapter Eight.
Bubba’s Christian name was Joshua Rickman, and he was a forklift operator at Ingersoll Rand in Cornelius. Perhaps the manufacturer’s greatest claim to fame came and went in the early eighties when it manufactured a snow machine that was used in the winter Olympics somewhere. Bubba wasn’t clear on the details, and didn’t care. Air compressors were what one saw on life’s highways. They were in demand all over the world. His was an international career. This early Monday morning he was deep in thought as he skillfully deposited crates on a loading dock.
His wife happened to have mentioned the Davidson kid who was dating some big-shot police woman. Yo. Bubba didn’t have to strain himself to add two and two. His nose hurt like shit, but no way he was going to a doctor. For what? It was his philosophy that there was nothing to be done about a busted nose or ripped ears, knocked-out teeth and other non-life-threatening head injuries, unless one had some queer bait interest in plastic surgery, which Bubba clearly did not. His nose was a blimp and always had been, so the setback in this case was pain and pain alone. Every time he blew his nose, blood gushed and tears filled his eyes, all because of that little son of a bitch. Bubba wasn’t about to forget.
He had books for life’s problems, and referred to them as needed. Make “Em Pay and Get Even 1 and 2 were especially insightful. These were the ultimate revenge technique manuals penned by a master trickster and privately published out of Colorado. Bubba had discovered them at gun shows here and yon. Bombs were an idea. What about a television tube that would explode, or a Ping-Pong ball loaded with potassium chlorate and black powder? Maybe not. Bubba wanted some real damage here, but wasn’t interested in the FBI Hostage Rescue Team (HRT) fast roping in or staking out his property. He didn’t want prison time.
Maybe what was called for was the trick where certain scents available at the hunt shop would draw every rodent, neighborhood pet, bug, reptile, and other critter into the yard, that all might ruin it during the night. Bubba slammed the forklift in reverse, thoughts buzzing.