shouldn’t have humiliated him quite so much.
Maybe she could do it again tomorrow.
They stood now in Ce Ce’s Outfitter store, a battered old repurposed Acadian-styled house complete with a porch spanning the front and about two billion little rooms added on haphazardly, half of which were accessed through a closet or by standing on one foot and singing the “Hokey Pokey” while rubbing one’s ear. It was packed with more merchandise than most stores four times its size.
At the front near the door, was the checkout counter, where biscuits and gravy were homemade for the early morning fishermen. She’d been in charge of cooking the biscuits. Once. Ten fishermen getting their stomachs pumped later, Ce Ce had decided that Bobbie Faye’s talents definitely lay elsewhere.
Off to the right of the counter leaned a few old red, chipped Formica booths, the red worn past the undercoat down to faded yellow plywood underneath. Ce Ce had an ancient TV mounted to the wall, usually tuned to the newsand weather, but it was getting to the point that someone had to smack it every few minutes when it went all fuzzy.
Sometimes, she felt a little too much like that TV, as if the Universe thought she might not be focused enough and therefore needed to be smacked around regularly. She and the Universe? Not exactly on speaking terms right now.
Riles hovered.
If she thought the customer might like a Glock, Riles countered with a Kimber 1911.
If she said SIG, he said, “Walther P. Don’t listen to her, she doesn’t know what she’s talking about.”
When she tried to explain how to unload a Ruger, he took it away to demonstrate.
Trevor had still not called. The hours were ticking away. How the hell did people
do
this?
She picked up the phone to make another call and Riles took the phone away. The only thing that saved her from ripping his arms off and beating him with them was a timorous woman’s voice warbling behind him, asking, “Am I dangerous enough yet?”
Bobbie Faye leaned a little to see around him to octogenarian Mabel Gill, who stood stoop-shouldered, propped on her walker, holding a spatula from the BBQ section.
“I could smack her with it,” she explained to Riles, who appeared, for the first time, a little helpless.
Bobbie Faye would give up her next paycheck to see that expression permanently etched on his face. As it was, she settled for the temporary revenge. “Oh, of course, Miz Mabel could definitely hurt me,” Bobbie Faye said, smiling sweetly at Riles. “You have to frisk her again.”
“Payback is going to be a bitch,” Riles muttered just within her hearing as he turned to the woman. “Arms forward, Mrs. Gill,” he said and the woman beamed.
“Be careful,” Bobbie Faye added. “She hides stuff in her girdle all the time.”
Riles scowled at her, and Bobbie Faye made a mental note to tell Miz Mabel where the flyswatters were located.
“Does Bobbie Faye have an expiration date?”
“We can only hope.”
—Lorelei Chapman, to Terri Smythe Department of Health and Human Resources
Four
She wanted to throw the damned phone across the store and watch the pieces rain down onto the floor, except for the tiny little detail of it then
really
not working, which just was not an option.
Maturity fucking
sucked. It was near the end of the day and she still didn’t have any answers. Friday. Everyone going home for the weekend, no one on duty for her to harass for answers.
Bobbie Faye eased backward just enough to glance out of the storeroom doors and into the main store area, where Riles was surrounded by more than twenty little old ladies and their walkers. Miz Mabel had apparently called in friends, who closed in on him, demanding to be frisked.
Ha
.
“I can’t scry for Trevor,” Ce Ce said, grabbing her attention back to the moment, “because he’s not a demon or a zombie.”
Bobbie Faye looked in askance at her boss. “That’s one of those ‘good news/bad news’ things all
Maybe she could do it again tomorrow.
They stood now in Ce Ce’s Outfitter store, a battered old repurposed Acadian-styled house complete with a porch spanning the front and about two billion little rooms added on haphazardly, half of which were accessed through a closet or by standing on one foot and singing the “Hokey Pokey” while rubbing one’s ear. It was packed with more merchandise than most stores four times its size.
At the front near the door, was the checkout counter, where biscuits and gravy were homemade for the early morning fishermen. She’d been in charge of cooking the biscuits. Once. Ten fishermen getting their stomachs pumped later, Ce Ce had decided that Bobbie Faye’s talents definitely lay elsewhere.
Off to the right of the counter leaned a few old red, chipped Formica booths, the red worn past the undercoat down to faded yellow plywood underneath. Ce Ce had an ancient TV mounted to the wall, usually tuned to the newsand weather, but it was getting to the point that someone had to smack it every few minutes when it went all fuzzy.
Sometimes, she felt a little too much like that TV, as if the Universe thought she might not be focused enough and therefore needed to be smacked around regularly. She and the Universe? Not exactly on speaking terms right now.
Riles hovered.
If she thought the customer might like a Glock, Riles countered with a Kimber 1911.
If she said SIG, he said, “Walther P. Don’t listen to her, she doesn’t know what she’s talking about.”
When she tried to explain how to unload a Ruger, he took it away to demonstrate.
Trevor had still not called. The hours were ticking away. How the hell did people
do
this?
She picked up the phone to make another call and Riles took the phone away. The only thing that saved her from ripping his arms off and beating him with them was a timorous woman’s voice warbling behind him, asking, “Am I dangerous enough yet?”
Bobbie Faye leaned a little to see around him to octogenarian Mabel Gill, who stood stoop-shouldered, propped on her walker, holding a spatula from the BBQ section.
“I could smack her with it,” she explained to Riles, who appeared, for the first time, a little helpless.
Bobbie Faye would give up her next paycheck to see that expression permanently etched on his face. As it was, she settled for the temporary revenge. “Oh, of course, Miz Mabel could definitely hurt me,” Bobbie Faye said, smiling sweetly at Riles. “You have to frisk her again.”
“Payback is going to be a bitch,” Riles muttered just within her hearing as he turned to the woman. “Arms forward, Mrs. Gill,” he said and the woman beamed.
“Be careful,” Bobbie Faye added. “She hides stuff in her girdle all the time.”
Riles scowled at her, and Bobbie Faye made a mental note to tell Miz Mabel where the flyswatters were located.
“Does Bobbie Faye have an expiration date?”
“We can only hope.”
—Lorelei Chapman, to Terri Smythe Department of Health and Human Resources
Four
She wanted to throw the damned phone across the store and watch the pieces rain down onto the floor, except for the tiny little detail of it then
really
not working, which just was not an option.
Maturity fucking
sucked. It was near the end of the day and she still didn’t have any answers. Friday. Everyone going home for the weekend, no one on duty for her to harass for answers.
Bobbie Faye eased backward just enough to glance out of the storeroom doors and into the main store area, where Riles was surrounded by more than twenty little old ladies and their walkers. Miz Mabel had apparently called in friends, who closed in on him, demanding to be frisked.
Ha
.
“I can’t scry for Trevor,” Ce Ce said, grabbing her attention back to the moment, “because he’s not a demon or a zombie.”
Bobbie Faye looked in askance at her boss. “That’s one of those ‘good news/bad news’ things all
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