Tina Whittle_Tai Randall Mystery 01 by The Dangerous Edge of Things Page A
Authors: The Dangerous Edge of Things
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shawarma wrapper and stuffed it in his pocket.
“I was on duty that night,” he said, “so I got there right after the ambulance. Semi crossed the median on 400, just past the Perimeter. Trey managed to avoid it, but ended up head-on with the overpass embankment. Anyway, he got a huge out-of-court settlement from the trucking company, almost three million. And what’s the first thing he does with some of the two million or so left after bills? He pops for a freaking Ferrari. Trey was not a Ferrari guy; he had a Volvo. Secondhand. A condo in Buckhead was next, one of the high rises. And I’m sure you’ve noticed the wardrobe.”
“Rather limited in color.”
“Yeah, black and white all the way. Armani, most of it, or some other Italian crap I can’t pronounce. I mean, he was my best friend and then suddenly—”
“Was?”
“Yeah, was. But then he was gone and then he was back, but it wasn’t him anymore, so we just…” He shrugged, too casually, then stood. “Look, I have a nasty feeling this thing with your brother is about to snowball, so you’d better have your ducks in a row, you and your brother both, and figuring out how to work with Trey is a good start.”
“Does Eric know about Trey’s…?” I waved my hands around my forehead.
“Of course he does. It’s part of what he does at Phoenix—compiling mental health profiles. Didn’t you know that?”
The folder on Eric’s computer labeled Phoenix Confidential. I had been five seconds from getting into it. Now it had been collected and stored at Phoenix, out of my reach, thanks to the efforts of Trey and Landon and the recently unemployed tech support dude.
Across the green, the padded bad guy was spinning in a circle, the dog fastened tight on his arm, its tawny body pinwheeling like a ride at the fair. The applause ratcheted up in volume, punctuated with hoots and whistles. I stood up too.
“No,” I said, “I didn’t know that.”
I was discovering there was a lot about my brother I didn’t know. But I did know one thing—there was more to this story than I was getting over shawarma and K9 demos.
***
The new key to Dexter’s shop was silver and efficiently shiny. The lock was not. I jiggled the handle and bumped hard with my knee, but the door remained stuck. It took two more bumps before I got inside.
Dexter’s Guns and More was more like Guns and Less now, the firearms and knives having been stowed in the safe, leaving the display cases and wall hooks empty. Only the Confederate flag and its associated paraphernalia remained—an infantryman’s jacket, a box of buttons, a single boot.
I put the keys on the counter. The fluorescent lights washed the beige walls into blandness. The smell of linoleum and floor wax tangled with the vanilla potpourri I’d put in the ashtrays. It looked empty and blank, but not fresh-blank like a new canvas. Empty-blank like a hole.
I had no idea how to fill it. I pictured the racks single file with rifles, the cases lined row after row with matte black metal—Walther PPKs and Glock 19s, weapons both utilitarian and exotic. Magazines and clips and the ammo that came in cardboard boxes with the texture of playing cards. Shot cartridges and shells. Camo and holsters.
A gun in your hand isn’t just a gun
, Uncle Dexter told me once.
It’s part of you. Don’t ever pick one up unless you know exactly what you’re capable of doing with it.
He should have warned me the same was true of gun shops. Stripped and bare, it was even more daunting than when stuffed wall to wall with weapons. Part of me wanted to bolt right back to Savannah. Right after I smoked seven cigarettes in a row.
Instead, I stuffed another piece of nicotine gum in my mouth and went to the safe. Then I pulled out one of the revolvers, a Ruger .357 double action. Petite, with a cushioned grip and shiny stainless steel frame, it nonetheless packed a wallop. This one was unloaded, but I could feel its potential. Unfortunately,
“I was on duty that night,” he said, “so I got there right after the ambulance. Semi crossed the median on 400, just past the Perimeter. Trey managed to avoid it, but ended up head-on with the overpass embankment. Anyway, he got a huge out-of-court settlement from the trucking company, almost three million. And what’s the first thing he does with some of the two million or so left after bills? He pops for a freaking Ferrari. Trey was not a Ferrari guy; he had a Volvo. Secondhand. A condo in Buckhead was next, one of the high rises. And I’m sure you’ve noticed the wardrobe.”
“Rather limited in color.”
“Yeah, black and white all the way. Armani, most of it, or some other Italian crap I can’t pronounce. I mean, he was my best friend and then suddenly—”
“Was?”
“Yeah, was. But then he was gone and then he was back, but it wasn’t him anymore, so we just…” He shrugged, too casually, then stood. “Look, I have a nasty feeling this thing with your brother is about to snowball, so you’d better have your ducks in a row, you and your brother both, and figuring out how to work with Trey is a good start.”
“Does Eric know about Trey’s…?” I waved my hands around my forehead.
“Of course he does. It’s part of what he does at Phoenix—compiling mental health profiles. Didn’t you know that?”
The folder on Eric’s computer labeled Phoenix Confidential. I had been five seconds from getting into it. Now it had been collected and stored at Phoenix, out of my reach, thanks to the efforts of Trey and Landon and the recently unemployed tech support dude.
Across the green, the padded bad guy was spinning in a circle, the dog fastened tight on his arm, its tawny body pinwheeling like a ride at the fair. The applause ratcheted up in volume, punctuated with hoots and whistles. I stood up too.
“No,” I said, “I didn’t know that.”
I was discovering there was a lot about my brother I didn’t know. But I did know one thing—there was more to this story than I was getting over shawarma and K9 demos.
***
The new key to Dexter’s shop was silver and efficiently shiny. The lock was not. I jiggled the handle and bumped hard with my knee, but the door remained stuck. It took two more bumps before I got inside.
Dexter’s Guns and More was more like Guns and Less now, the firearms and knives having been stowed in the safe, leaving the display cases and wall hooks empty. Only the Confederate flag and its associated paraphernalia remained—an infantryman’s jacket, a box of buttons, a single boot.
I put the keys on the counter. The fluorescent lights washed the beige walls into blandness. The smell of linoleum and floor wax tangled with the vanilla potpourri I’d put in the ashtrays. It looked empty and blank, but not fresh-blank like a new canvas. Empty-blank like a hole.
I had no idea how to fill it. I pictured the racks single file with rifles, the cases lined row after row with matte black metal—Walther PPKs and Glock 19s, weapons both utilitarian and exotic. Magazines and clips and the ammo that came in cardboard boxes with the texture of playing cards. Shot cartridges and shells. Camo and holsters.
A gun in your hand isn’t just a gun
, Uncle Dexter told me once.
It’s part of you. Don’t ever pick one up unless you know exactly what you’re capable of doing with it.
He should have warned me the same was true of gun shops. Stripped and bare, it was even more daunting than when stuffed wall to wall with weapons. Part of me wanted to bolt right back to Savannah. Right after I smoked seven cigarettes in a row.
Instead, I stuffed another piece of nicotine gum in my mouth and went to the safe. Then I pulled out one of the revolvers, a Ruger .357 double action. Petite, with a cushioned grip and shiny stainless steel frame, it nonetheless packed a wallop. This one was unloaded, but I could feel its potential. Unfortunately,
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