“What does one of these cost?” he asked with the reverence of the poor.
“You can’t afford it,” she said.
“What if I sold your story to Parade magazine. My editor thinks they’d go for it. I could make some money. Maybe enough …”
This was just what West wanted, another story.
“How about I make a deal with you,” she said.
“No Parade magazine.
Borrow the Sig until you can afford one of your own. I’ll work with you a little more,
maybe on an outdoor range. We’ll set up some combat situations. The way you piss
people off, it’s a good idea. Rule of etiquette. Pick up your brass. ”
Hundreds of shiny cartridge cases were scattered in their area. Brazil got down and
began plucking them up, clinking them into a metal can while West gathered her
belongings. She had an unpleasant thought, and looked at him.
“What about your mother?” she asked.
He kept working, glancing up, a shadow passing behind his eyes.
“What about her?”
“I’m just wondering about a gun being in the house.”
“I got good at hiding things a long time ago.” He loudly clanged brass into the can,
making his point.
j^j W Bubba was waiting in the parking lot, inconspicuous inside his spotless chrome and
black King Cab pickup truck with gun rack. Confederate flag mud flaps, roll bar, KC fog
lights, Oilie North bumper sticker, PVC pipes for holding fishing poles on the front grille,
and neon lights around the license plate. He held a wadded-up undershirt to his bleeding nose, watching as the lady cop and her asshole boyfriend emerged from the firing range,
walking through the gathering dusk. Bubba waited long enough to see her get out keys
and head for an impeccable white Ford Explorer in a corner of the unpaved lot. Her
personal wheels, Bubba supposed, and this was even better. He climbed down from his
cab, a tire jack in a meaty fist, ready for a little payback.
West was expecting him. She was practiced in the modus operandi of Bubbas, for whom
revenge was a reflex, like getting up for a beer during commercials. She had already
dipped into her tote bag for what looked like a black golf club handle.
“Get in the car,” she quietly ordered Brazil.
“No way,” he said, standing his ground as Bubba strode toward them, a menacing sneer
on his gory face.
Bubba didn’t get within six feet of her car before West was walking to meet him. He was
surprised, not expecting kick-ass aggression from this little lady cop. He tapped the tire
iron against a meaty thigh as a warning, then raised it, eyeing the Ford’s spotless front
windshield.
“Hey!” Weasel, the manager, yelled from the range’s entrance.
“Bubba, what d’ya think you’re doing, man!”
The retractable steel baton snapped out like a whip,
suddenly three feet long with a hard knobby tip that West pointed at Bubba. She drew
slow circles in the air, like a fencer.
“Put it down and leave,” she commanded Bubba in her police tone.
“Fuck you!” Bubba was really losing his temper now because he was losing his nerve.
He had seen weapons like hers at gun shows and knew they could be mean.
“Bubba! You quit right now!” screamed Weasel, who ran a clean business.
Brazil noticed that the manager was most upset but did not get one step closer to the
trouble. Brazil was casting about, wanting to help.
He knew better than to get in her way. If only the . 380 was loaded. He could shoot out
this goon’s tires or something, perhaps cause a diversion. West caused her own. Bubba
raised the tire iron again, this time completely dedicated to connecting it with her car,
because he had committed himself. It no longer mattered what he felt. He had to do it,
especially now that Weasel and a gathering crowd were watching.
If Bubba didn’t carry out his threat and avenge his injured nose, everyone in the Charlotte-Mecklenburg region would know.
West smacked the bony part of Bubba’s wrist with the baton, and he howled in pain as the
tire iron clanked to the parking lot. That was the end of it.