took to save the day.
“Get out of the car,” said Bubba.
In his mind, he was not in plaid shorts, white tube socks, Hush Puppies, and a Fruit of the
Loom white T-shirt that had never been washed with bleach. In his mind, he was in
military fatigues, with black grease under his eyes, hair a buzz cut, sweaty muscles
bunching as he gripped his weapon and prepared to score two more points for his country
and the guys at the hunt club. He was Bubba. He knew the perfect sliver of undeveloped
lake property where he could do his duty, having his way with the woman first. Take that, he would think as he drove home his point. Now who’s got the power, bitchf
^/Ak? W Police cars turned onto Sunset East. They traveled single file, lights going, in a
neat flashing line. Inside the truck stop, several truckers, who believed they had been
stagecoach drivers in an earlier life, had lost interest in microwave nachos,
cheeseburgers, and beer. They were looking out plate glass, watching what was going on
at the edge of the parking lot as pulsing blue and red lights showed through trees.
“No way that’s a rifle,” Betsy was saying as she chewed on a Slim Jim.
“Oh yeah it is too,” said Al.
“Then we should go on out and help.”
“Help which one?” asked Tex.
All contemplated this long enough for police cars to get closer and the sound of chopper
blades to be barely discernible.
“Looks to me like Bubba started it,” decided Pete.
“Then we should go get him.”
“You hear about the guns he’s got?”
“Bubba ain’t gonna shoot us.”
t^ The argument was moot. Bubba could feel dark armies closing around him, and he got desperate.
“Git out now or I’m going to let loose!” he screamed, racking a cartridge into a chamber that already had one.
“Don’t shoot.” West held up her hands, noting the double feed that had just jammed his gun.
“I’m opening the door, okay?”
“NOW!” Bubba pointed and yelled.
West positioned herself before the door as best she could, and planted a foot on it. She
raised the handle, and kicked with all her strength, as eight police cars roared in, sirens
ripping the violent night.
Bubba was slammed in his midsection, and flew back, landing on his back, the rifle
skittering across tarmac. West was out and on him before her feet hit the ground. She
did not wait for her backups. She didn’t care a shit about the big, burly drivers boiling
out of the truck stop to help. Brazil leapt out, too, and together they threw Bubba on his
fat belly and cuffed him, desperate to beat him half to death, but resisting.
“You goddamn son-of-a-bitch piece of chicken-eating shit!” Brazil bellowed.
“Move and your head’s all over with!” exclaimed West, her pistol pressed hard against the small of Bubba’s thick neck.
The force hauled Bubba away, with no assistance from the truckers, who returned their
attention to snacks for the road, and cigarettes. West and Brazil sat in silence for a
moment inside her car.
“You always get me into trouble,” she said, backing up.
“Hey!” he protested.
“Where are you going?”
“I’m taking you home.”
“I don’t live at home anymore.”
“Since when?” She tried not to show her surprised pleasure.
“Day before yesterday. I got an apartment at Charlotte Woods, on Woodlawn.”
“Then I’ll take you there,” she told him.
“My car’s here,” he reminded her.
“And you’ve been drinking all night,” she said, buckling her shoulder harness.
“We’ll come back and get your car when you’re sober.”
“I am sober,” he said.
“Compared to what?” She drove.
“You won’t remember any of this tomorrow.”
He would remember every second of it for the rest of his tormented life. He yawned, and
rubbed his temples.
“Yeah, you’re probably right,” he agreed, deciding it had meant nothing to her. It also meant nothing to him.
“Of course, I’m right.” She smiled easily.
She could tell he was indifferent. He was one more typical asshole-user guy. What was
she, anyway, but a middle-aged, out-of-shape woman who’d never been to a city bigger