Hornet's Nest (11 page)

“For what?” He was baffled.

“Trust me. She’ll let you know,” said Hammer, shaking her head. “I wouldn’t be alone with her or trust her. I’d get rid of her.”

Mrs. Mullis-Mundi knew the meeting could not have gone well. Cahoon had not sent for water, coffee, tea, or cocktails. He had not summoned her on the intercom and asked her to show the chief out. Mrs. Mullis-Mundi was conjuring up herself in her Chanel compact, checking her smile in the mirror, when Hammer suddenly was there. This was not a woman who bleached her teeth or waxed her legs. The chief tossed some sort of report in a file folder on the executive secretary’s enameled Chinese desk.

“These are my stats, the real ones,” Hammer said as she left. “See to it he gets them when he’s feeling open-minded.”

School kids were getting the grand tour through the marble lobby when the chief’s rapidly clicking heels carried her out. She glanced at her Breitling watch without really noting the time. Tonight was her twenty-sixth anniversary of being married to Seth. They were supposed to have a quiet evening at the Beef & Bottle, the rare steak hangout that he loved and she tolerated. It was on South Boulevard, and it had been her experience whenever she had dined there that she generally represented her gender alone as she picked at her meat.

She began, as always, with baby frog legs sautéed in wine and garlic, and a Caesar salad. The din grew louder around them in this darkly paneled room, where city fathers and planners had met for decades, on their way to heart attacks. Seth, her husband, loved food better than life and was fully engaged with shrimp cocktail, hearts of lettuce with famous blue cheese dressing, bread, butter, and a porterhouse for two that he typically did not share. Once upon a time, Seth had been an enlightened and handsome assistant to the Little Rock city manager, and he had run into Sergeant Judy Hammer on the capitol grounds.

There had never been any question about who was the engine driving the train in this relationship, and this was part of the attraction. Seth liked her power. She liked his liking it. They were married and began a family that quickly became his responsibility as the wife soared and was called out at night, and they moved. That Hammer was her name and not his made sense for those who knew them and gave the matter a thought. He was soft, with a weak chin that called to mind the watery-eyed knights and bishops of portrait galleries.

“We should pick up some of this cheese spread for the house,” Seth said, laying it on thick in candlelight.

“Seth, I worry about what you’re doing to yourself,” Hammer said, reaching for her pinot noir.

“I guess it’s port wine, but it doesn’t look like it,” he went on. “It might have horseradish in it. Maybe cayenne pepper.”

His hobby was studying law and the stock market. His most significant setback in life was that he had inherited money from his family and was not obligated to work, was gentle, and tended to be mild, nonviolent, and tired much of the time. At this stage in life, he was so much like a spineless, spiteful woman that his wife wondered how it was possible she should have ended up in a lesbian relationship with a man. Lord, when Seth slipped into one of his snits, as he was in this very minute, she understood domestic violence and felt there were cases when it was justified.

“Seth, it’s our anniversary,” she reminded him in a low voice. “You haven’t talked to me all evening. You’ve eaten everything in this goddamn restaurant, and won’t look at me. You want to give me a clue as to what’s wrong, for once? So I don’t have to guess or read your mind or go to a psychic?”

Her stomach was balled up like a threatened opossum. Seth was the best diet she’d ever been on, and could throw her into anorexia quicker than anything. In rare, quiet moments, when Hammer walked alone on a beach or in the mountains, she knew she had not been in love with Seth for most of their marriage. But he was her weight-bearing wall.
Were he knocked out, half her world would crash. That was his power over her, and she knew it like any good wife. The children, for example, might take his side. This was not possible, but Judy Hammer feared it.

“I’m not talking because I have nothing to say,” Seth reasonably replied.

“Fine.” She folded her cloth napkin and dropped it on the table as she began searching for the waitress.

Miles away on Wilkinson Boulevard, past Bob’s Pawn Shop, trailer parks, and Coyote Joe’s and near the topless Paper Doll Lounge, The Firing Line was conducting a war of its own. Brazil was slaughtering silhouettes screeching down the lane at him. Ejected cartridge cases sailed through the air, clinking to the floor. West’s pupil was improving like nothing she’d ever seen. She was proud.

“Tap-tap, you’re out!” she rudely yelled, as if he were the village idiot. “Safety on. Dump the magazine, reload, rack it! Ready position, safety off! Tap-tap! Stop!”

This had been going on for more than an hour, and good ole boys were peering out from their booths, wondering what the hell was going on down there. Who was that babe shouting like a drill sergeant at that faggy-looking guy? Bubba, who was begot by a Bubba and probably related to a long line of them, was leaning against a cinder-block wall, an Exxon cap low over his eyes. He was big and bad in fatigues and a camouflage vest, as he watched the target screeching closer and closer to the blond guy.

Bubba was aware of the dense, tight spread, recognizing this guy’s skill at head shots. Bubba drooled snuff in a bottle, and glanced back at his own lane to make certain no one thought about touching his Glock 20 ten-millimeter combat-type handgun or his Remington XP-100 with Leupold scope and standard load of fifty-grain Sierra PSP bullets and seventeen grains of IMR 4198 powder. This was a handgun that rested very nicely over sandbags. His Calico model 110 auto pistol, with its hundred-shot magazine and flash suppressor, wasn’t half bad, either, nor was the Browning Hi-Power
HP-Practical pistol, complete with Pachmayr rubber grips, round-style serrated hammer, and removable front sight.

There was little Bubba liked better than to machine-gun a couple of targets, brass flying like shrapnel, as drug dealers walked behind him, not the least bit interested in messing with the man. Bubba watched the bitch down range unfasten a target from its metal frame. She held it up and looked at her dead-eye, sweet boyfriend.

“Who pissed you off?” she asked Brazil.

Bubba’s manly stride carried him their way as more rounds exploded like strings of firecrackers.

“What is this? Some kind of school going on here?” Bubba asked, as if he owned the place.

The woman gave him her attention, and he didn’t like what he saw in her eyes. This one didn’t know fear. Clearly, she didn’t have sense enough to appreciate what she was looking at, and Bubba went over to her lane and helped himself to her Smith & Wesson.

“Pretty big piece for a little gal like you.” Bubba grinned in his cruel way, dribbling more snuff in his jar.

“Please put it down,” West calmly told him.

Brazil was intrigued and appropriately nervous about where this was going. The big-bellied pig dressed like Ruby Ridge or Oklahoma City looked like he had hurt people in the past and was proud of it. He did not put West’s gun down, but was now dropping out the magazine, checking the slide, and ejecting the cartridge from the chamber. It occurred to Brazil that West was disarmed, and he could not help her, because the .380 was out of ammunition, too.

“Put it down. Now.” West was most unfriendly. “It’s city property, and I am a city police officer.”

“How ’bout that?” Bubba was beginning to enjoy himself immensely. “Little woman here’s a cop. Well, golly gee.”

West knew better than to announce her rank, which would make matters only that much worse. She stepped so close to him, the toes of their shoes were about to touch. Her chest would have pressed against his belly had she not decided against it.

“This is the last time I ask you to put my gun right back where you found it,” she said, staring up into his homely, whisky-flushed face.

Bubba fixed his sights on Brazil, deciding this pretty boy might be in for a life lesson. Bubba strode over to West’s lane, set down her gun, walked up to Brazil, tried to grab the .380 for inspection. Brazil slugged Bubba and broke his nose. Bubba bled over camouflage and dripped on assault weaponry as he hastily packed his duffel bag. It was Bubba’s Last Stand when he cried out from the steps that the lady and her boyfriend had not heard the last from Bubba.

“Sorry,” Brazil said right off when he and West were alone again.

“Jesus Christ. You can’t just hit people like that.” She was mostly embarrassed that she hadn’t resolved the conflict herself.

He was loading magazines and realizing he had never struck anybody in his life. He wasn’t sure what he felt about it as he lovingly studied West’s .380 pistol.

“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.

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, Ollie 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 thick 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.

“Why didn’t you arrest him?” Brazil wanted to know a little later, as they drove past Latta Park in Dilworth, close to where she lived.

“Wasn’t worth it,” she replied, smoking. “He didn’t damage my car or me.”

“What if he takes out warrants on us, for assault?” The thought was weirdly appealing to Brazil.

She laughed as if her ride-along hadn’t lived much. “Don’t think so.” She turned into her driveway. “Last thing he wants is the world knowing he got beat up by a woman and a kid.”

“I’m not a kid,” he said.