‘That’s a coon dog in the back?’
‘One of the best.’
Budget continued to stare at Half Shell. She stared back. She started barking and tried to break out of her pen.
‘You sit right here and don’t you move.’ Budget backed away from the Jeep. ‘And that dog gets out, you’re in a lot of trouble.’
Passman was about to dash out to her car when 218 sounded in her headphones. ‘Unit 218. Traffic stop,’ Budget let her know. ‘Go ahead, Unit 218.’ Passman was stressed as she looked up at the clock.
‘Sixty-eight hundred block Midlothian Turnpike with Boy-Union-Boy-hyphen-Adam-Henry.’
‘Ten-4, 218 at 0748 hours,’ Passman said, getting desperate.
Bubba punched in the cigarette lighter and noticed the tip of his.44 Magnum Colt Anaconda protruding from underneath his seat. Fear seized him. He broke into a cold sweat. He had a concealed weapon and no permit for such.
He kicked at the revolver, trying to shove it out of sight. It resisted his efforts, stainless steel glinting in plain view. Bubba slowly sneaked his right hand down to the floor, but his arm wasn’t long enough to reach the gun unless he bent over or got on the floor. He knew it would not be a. good idea to give the impression he was hiding something or had hidden something under his seat.
Bubba shoved some more and realized that his monster revolver was hung up on something. He envisioned the release lever or a bolt or maybe an exposed spring pushing against the trigger. He imagined rotted fabric caught in the hammer. With the slightest motion the gun would go off.
Brazil had gotten off to a miserable start. He was hot. Gnats had begun to pay attention to him. His urge to use the bathroom overrode decorum and he’d finally relieved himself behind azalea bushes near a plot of realistic tree-shaped markers that had something to do with the Woodmen of the World.
Brazil was tired of waiting for Weed to show up. Brazil couldn’t bear to admit that West had been right. Worse, he had to tell the radio room he needed a ride. The thought was awful.
All cops on the air and people with scanners would know Brazil was alone on foot in Hollywood Cemetery. He could hear the jokes. He could imagine the sniggers. The pretty boy’s been reassigned to the dead beat.
‘Unit 11,’ Brazil got on the air.
‘Go ahead, 11,’ Patty Passman quickly came back.
‘At Hollywood Cemetery. Need a unit to 10-25 me here.’
‘Ten-4, 11, 0749 hours. 562.’
‘Unit 562,’ Rhoad came back.
Brazil recognized Talk in a Box’s unit number and cringed. Oh please don’t ask him to pick me up.
‘Five-six-two. Need you to 10-25 a party at Hollywood Cemetery ASAP.’ Passman’s voice was strained as it came back.
Passman had fabricated calls in the past to divert Rhoad from her illegally parked car, and he wasn’t about to fall for it this time.
‘What’s your 10-20?’ Passman asked Rhoad over the air.
‘Unit 562. Broad and Fourteenth,’ he answered.
‘Ten-4, 562, 0750 hours.’
‘Unit 562,’ he got back to her.
‘Five-six-two.’
‘Unit 562,’ he said. ‘Got to make one stop first. Can 10-30 11 with an estimated 10-26 of 0830 hours.’
‘Eleven,’ Brazil shoved his way on the air. ‘Radio, can you send another unit? Need to get out of here long before then.’
Passman was in a panic as she glanced up at the clock. She frantically stuffed the other half of a chocolate eclair into her mouth.
‘Eleven, that’s 10-10,’ she informed Brazil. ‘All other units are 10-6.’
‘Can you 10-9 that?’ ‘All other units are 10-6,’ she repeated. It was a lie. Everyone on the air knew radio traffic had been light so far, with no indication whatsoever that all other units, or even half of them, were tied up.
‘Ten-12.’ She told Brazil to stand by.
‘Eleven.’ Brazil’s voice was getting irritated. Ten-5 562 and ask his 10-20.’
‘Five-six-two.’ Rhoad didn’t wait for the message to be relayed, since he clearly heard what unit 11 asked and was capable of being direct. ‘Ten-20’s Broad and 9th.’
‘Well, can you 10-25 me now or not?’