The fence began to shake as someone gripped the edge of the sign and hoisted himself up. Brazil was hidden by the thick shadows of holly trees as he watched Weed reach for a tree branch and pull himself up with ease, swing over the fence and drop branch by branch to the ground. Brazil took cover behind a monument.
‘Come on, it’s easy,’ Weed said to someone on the other side.
The fence shook harder. Brazil was baffled when a scraggly, bearded face was followed by a filthy, raggedly dressed body missing part of a hand and an entire foot. The street person grabbed a branch, got snagged a couple times, but somehow made it over.
‘Can’t believe I did that,’ the street person said. ‘Haven’t done anything that agile in years.’
He looked around at the mute stony tongues of the dead speaking from the grass, as if searching for something.
‘Shit,’ he said. ‘It ain’t all too promising so far unless I plan on a steady diet of flowers.’
Weed nervously wiped sweat off his face with the tail of his extra-extra-large Bulls jersey and rubbed his hands on his relaxed-leg jeans.
‘Go on,” the street person said to Weed. ‘I’ll scrounge around and catch you later.’
Weed trotted off in untied Nikes as if he knew exactly where he was going. Brazil ducked behind more monuments, boxwoods and trees as he tailed Weed and kept an eye on the street person Weed had brought with him.
Weed jogged past the Presidents Circle and the graves of Jeb Stuart and John Tyler, on to Jeter Avenue and Bellvue, directly to Davis Circle where the vandalized statue of the first and last president of the Confederacy was still dressed for the game, lumpy basketball in hand. Weed stood in front of it and stared in reverence. Every now and then he cast about, his furtive gaze sweeping over the marble sarcophagus where Brazil this moment was hiding.
A swarm of histamines rushed forth to combat the dust mites storming into Bubba’s sinuses and lungs as he probed with a flashlight on the floor of his Jeep. He began to sneeze. His throat and eyes itched and his nose started to run.
‘Goddamn!’ he said.
The Anaconda’s Holo sight was hung on the position spring wire running from one seat to the other. The exposed CB antenna wires Bubba had installed himself and covered with a mat and his work rag were snagged on the trigger.
Smudge’s voice came over the CB because Bubba had not been able to stand the silence and had turned radios and the phone back on. Smudge must be feeling better, Bubba thought snidely. Bubba had nothing to say.
‘Shit!’ Bubba cried when he bumped his funny bone on the door handle and numbness shot up his arm.
He sneezed three more times as he carefully groped under the seat, the engine running.
‘Smudge to Bubba. You stealthing on me, good buddy? Called Queen Bee, says you’re no show.’
Bubba’s eyes were on fire and streaming. He couldn’t breathe out of his nose. The stick shift kept grabbing his shirt. Smudge wouldn’t shut up and Bubba’s portable phone rang. He answered no one. He laid his head against old carpet, straining to see what was required to free his Colt revolver with its eight-inch barrel. He sneezed so hard his nose began to bleed.
Something hard tapped loudly and with authority on his driver’s window, startling Bubba. He jumped and yelled and his shoulder banged the gear shift and knocked the Jeep into reverse. Bubba jammed down the brake with his right hand. He shoved the Jeep back into park and crawled up into his seat, in pain and gasping for breath. He was dazed when Officer Budget jerked open the door.
‘You almost ran me over, you son of a bitch!’ Budget’s eyes were wild, his pistol pulled. ‘Get out with your hands up. Now!’
‘What did I do?’ Bubba cried, mopping his face with his sleeve and sneezing.
‘Get out!’
Bubba did. He was dazzled by sunlight. He was bloody and congested and filthy.
‘Legs spread, hands against the car!’ Budget meant it.