wayf More lights came on. Dogs barked. West went into her police mode without a
conscious thought. She walked over to Brazil and firmly took his arm.
“Andy, you’re disturbing the entire neighborhood.” She spoke with quiet calm.
“Let’s go home.”
Brazil stared defiantly at her.
“I want to make a difference.”
She nervously scanned their surroundings.
“Believe me. You are.”
More lights turned on, and someone had come out on his porch to see what crazy person
had wandered into his quiet neighborhood.
Briddlewood had fled in his Cushman minutes earlier.
“Which is why we need to go,” West added, pulling Brazil along as they started walking back.
“You want to help. Okay. Tell me what you have to contribute besides tantrums and
words.”
“Maybe we could plant something in one of my stories to trick him.” He had an idea.
“I wish it were that simple,” she said, and she meant it.
“And you’re assuming he reads the paper.”
“I bet he does.” Brazil wished she would have an open mind, as he flew through
possibilities of what subliminal propaganda he might plant to ensnare this monster.
“The answer’s no. We don’t plant stories.”
Brazil hopped ahead again, excited.
“Together we could get him! I know it.”
“What’s this together stuff?” West said.
“You’re just a reporter. Hate to remind you of that fact.”
“I’m a volunteer cop,” he corrected her.
“Uh huh. The gun less wonder.”
“You could give me shooting lessons,” he then said.
“My dad used to take me out to a dump in the county …”
“He should have left you there,” she said.
“We’d shoot cans with his .38.”
“How old were you?” West asked when they were in Brazil’s driveway.
“Starting when I was seven, I think.” He had his hands in his pockets, and was looking down as he walked, a streetlight lighting up his hair.
“Seems like I was in the second grade.”
“I mean, when he died,” she gently said.
“Ten,” he said.
“I had just turned ten.” He stopped, and did not want West to leave. He didn’t want to go in and face the way he lived.
“I don’t have a gun,” he told her.
“Thank you, Jesus,” she said.
Chapter Seven.
Days went by. West had no intention of furthering the cause of Andy Brazil. His
problems were his own, and it was time he grew up. When the following Sunday rolled
around and Raines was interested in brunch, she called Brazil because she was a certified
firearms instructor. If he needed help, it was only fair that she offer. He said he could be
ready in ten minutes. She told him that unless she flew the Concorde to Davidson, she
would not be picking him up for at least an hour.
She drove her personal car for this, a Ford Explorer with dual air bags. It was a white
sports utility vehicle with four-wheel drive that ate snow for a snack. She roared into his
driveway at three p. m. ” and he was out the door before she could open hers. The
obvious range would have been the one at the police academy, but this she could not do
because volunteers were not allowed, nor were guests. West chose The Firing Line on
Wilkinson Boulevard, just past Bob’s Pawn Shop, and a number of trailer parks, the
Oakden Motel, Country City USA, and Coyote Joe’s.
Had they continued another block or two, West realized, they would have ended up in the
parking lot of the Paper Doll Lounge. She had been in there before on fights. It was
disgusting. Topless women were on the same block as gun and pawn shops, as if breasts
and g-strings somehow belonged in the same category as used merchandise and weapons.
West wondered if Brazil had ever visited a topless lounge and sat stiffly in a chair, his
hands in a white-knuckle grip on armrests, as a naked woman rubbed against his inner
legs, and got in his face.
Probably not, West decided. She had a feeling he was a foreigner who didn’t speak the
language, hadn’t tried the food or seen the sights.
How could this have happened? He didn’t have girls after him in high school, in college?