He reached for his beer. It was his limited experience that the warmer beer got, the worse
it got.
“So let’s say you grow up and get married someday,” she went on.
“What are you going to expect of your wife?”
“A partner.” He tossed his bottle into the trash.
“I don’t want a wife. I don’t need anybody to take care of me, clean for me, cook for me.”
He got out two more beers, popped them open and set one within her reach.
“Saying I’m too busy to do all that shit for myself someday? I’ll hire a housekeeper. But I’m not going to marry one,” he said as if this were the most ridiculous notion society had ever devised.
“Uh huh.”
She reached for the barrel of the . 380, checking his work. Man talk, she thought. The
difference was, this one could put words together better than most. She didn’t believe a
thing he said.
“It should look like a mirror inside.” She slid the barrel in front of him.
“Scrub hard. You can’t hurt it.”
He picked up the barrel, then his beer.
“See, people should get married, live together, whatever, and do things just like this,” he went on as he dipped a brush in solvent and resumed scrubbing. There shouldn’t be roles.
There should be practicalities, people helping out each other like friends. One weak
where the other’s strong, people using their gifts, cooking together, playing tennis,
fishing. Walking on the beach. Staying up late talking. Being unselfish and caring. ”
“Sounds like you’ve thought about this a lot,” she said.
“A good script.”
He looked puzzled.
“What script?”
She drank.
“Heard it all before. Seen that rerun.”
% So had Bubba’s wife, Mrs. Rickman, whose first name had ceased to be important
when she had gotten married twenty-six years ago in the Tabernacle Baptist Church.
This had been down the road in Mount Mourne where she worked every day at the B&B,
known for the best breakfast in town. The B&B’s hot dogs and burgers were popular,
too, especially with Davidson students, and, of course, with other Bubbas on their way
for a day of fishing at Lake Norman.
When gun cleaning was completed, and Brazil suggested to West that they stop for a bite
to eat, neither of them had a way to know that the overweight, tired woman waiting on
them was Bubba’s wretched wife.
“Hi, Mrs. Rickman,” Brazil said to the waitress.
He gave her his bright, irresistible smile and felt sorry for her, as he always did when he
came to the B&B. Brazil knew how hard food service was, and it depressed him to think
of what it had been like for his mother all those years when she could still get out and go
anywhere. Mrs. Rickman was happy to see him. He was always so sweet.
“How’s my baby?” she chirped, setting plastic laminated menus in front of them. She
eyed West.
“Who’s your pretty lady friend?”
“Deputy Chief Virginia West with the Charlotte police,” Brazil made the mistake of
saying.
So it was that Bubba would learn the identities of his attackers.
tw “My, my.” Mrs. Rickman was mighty impressed as she got an eyeful of this important woman sitting in a B&B booth.
“A deputy chief. Didn’t know they had women that high up. What’ll be? The pork
barbecue’s extra good tonight. I’d get it minced.”
“Cheeseburger all the way, fries. Miller in the bottle,” West said.
“Extra mayonnaise and ketchup. Can you put a little butter on the bun and throw it on the
grill?”
“Sure can, honey.” Mrs. Rickman nodded. She didn’t write down anything as she
beamed at Brazil.
“The usual.” He winked at her.
She walked off, her hip killing her worse than yesterday.
“What’s the usual?” West wanted to know.
“Tuna on wheat, lettuce, tomato, no mayo. Slaw, limeade. I want to ride patrol with you.
In uniform,” he said.
“In the first place, I don’t ride patrol. In the second place, in case you haven’t noticed, I have a real job, nothing important. Just the entire investigative division. Homicide.
Burglary. Rape. Arson. Fraud.
Auto theft. Check theft,” she said.