“White collar, computer, organized crime, vice. Juvenile. Cold case squad. Of course,
there’s a serial killer on the loose, and it’s my detectives on the case, getting all the heat.”
She lit a cigarette, and intercepted her beer before Mrs. Rickman could set it down.
“I would prefer not to work twenty-four hours a day, if it’s all the same to you. You
know how my cat gets?
Won’t touch me, won’t sleep with me? Not to mention, I haven’t gone out to a movie, to
dinner, in weeks. ” She drank.
“I haven’t finished my fence. When was the last time I cleaned my house?”
“Is that a no?”
Brazil said.
Chapter Eight.
^^’/ Bubba’s Christian name was Joshua Rickman, ^ifSl. Q and he was a forklift operator
at Ingersoll(}{^V Rand in Cornelius. Perhaps the manufacturer’s greatest claim to fame
came and went in the early eighties when it manufactured a snow machine that was used
in the winter Olympics somewhere. Bubba wasn’t clear on the details, and didn’t care.
Air compressors were what one saw on life’s highways. They were in demand all over
the world. His was an international career. This early Monday morning he was deep in
thought as he skillfully deposited crates on a loading dock.
His wife happened to have mentioned the Davidson kid who was dating some big-shot
police woman. Yo. Bubba didn’t have to strain himself to add two and two. His nose
hurt like shit, but no way he was going to a doctor. For what? It was his philosophy that
there was nothing to be done about a busted nose or ripped ears, knocked-out teeth and
other non-life-threatening head injuries, unless one had some queer bait interest in plastic
surgery, which Bubba clearly did not. His nose was a blimp and always had been, so the
setback in this case was
pain and pain alone. Every time he blew his nose, blood gushed and tears filled his eyes, all because of that little son of a bitch. Bubba wasn’t about to forget.
He had books for life’s problems, and referred to them as needed. Make “Em Pay and
Get Even 1 and 2 were especially insightful. These were the ultimate revenge technique
manuals penned by a master trickster and privately published out of Colorado. Bubba
had discovered them at gun shows here and yon. Bombs were an idea. What about a
television tube that would explode, or a Ping-Pong ball loaded with potassium chlorate
and black powder? Maybe not. Bubba wanted some real damage here, but wasn’t
interested in the FBI Hostage Rescue Team (HRT) fast roping in or staking out his
property. He didn’t want prison time.
Maybe what was called for was the trick where certain scents available at the hunt shop
would draw every rodent, neighborhood pet, bug, reptile, and other critter into the yard,
that all might ruin it during the night. Bubba slammed the forklift in reverse, thoughts
buzzing.
Or he could feed beer-laced urine through a tube inserted under the police lady’s front
door. He could mail hair to her, anonymously.
Eventually, would she move? Hell yes. She’d want to, oh yeah. Or maybe Sea Breeze in
the jock strap of that blond kid she was jerking off with, unless both of them were queer,
and, frankly, Bubba had his opinion. Honestly, there was no way a man could look that
good or a woman could be that powerful unless they were suspect. Bubba could see it
now. The pretty boy getting what he deserved, from the rear, from a manly man like
Bubba, whose favorite movie was Deliverance. Bubba would teach the little asshole, oh
yes he would. Bubba hated fags so intensely that he was on the lookout for them in every
sports bar and
truck uz. rairitia^urnweii stop, and in all vehicles he passed on life’s highways, and in politics and the entertainment industry.
V> West and Brazil could not know of their personal peril. They were not thinking of
themselves this Tuesday night as emergency lights flashed on broken glass and the torn,
crumpled remains of a patrol car that had crashed in the affluent residential neighborhood
of Myers Park. Raines and other paramedics were using hydraulic tools to get bodies out