“What’s this?” I asked.
“Shooting gallery. You’re going to practice using your gun.”
I knew this was necessary, but I hated the noise, and I hated the mechanics of the gun. I didn’t like the idea that I was holding a device that essentially created small explosions. I was always sure something would go wrong, and I’d blow my thumb clear off my hand. Ranger got me outfitted with ear protectors and goggles. He laid out the rounds and set the gun on the shelf in my assigned space. He brought the paper target in to twenty feet. If I was ever going to shoot someone, chances were good they’d be close to me.
“Okay, Tex,” he said, “let’s see what you’ve got.”
I loaded and fired.
“Good,” Ranger said. “Let’s try it with your eyes open this time.”
He adjusted my grip and my stance. I tried again.
“Better,” Ranger said.
I practiced until my arm ached, and I couldn’t pull the trigger anymore.
“How do you feel about the gun now?” Ranger asked.
“I feel more comfortable. But I still don’t like it.”
“You don’t have to like it.”
It was late afternoon when we left the gallery, and we ran into rush hour traffic going back through town. I have no patience for traffic. If I was driving I’d be cussing and banging my head against the steering wheel. Ranger was unfazed, in his zone. Zen calm. Several times I could swear he stopped breathing.
When we hit gridlock approaching Trenton, Ranger took an exit, cut down a side street, and parked in a small lot set between brick storefront businesses and three-story row houses. The street was narrow and felt dark, even during daylight hours. Storefront windows were dirty with faded displays. Black spray-painted graffiti covered the firstfloor fronts of the row houses. If at that very moment someone staggered out of a row house, blood gushing from bullet holes in multiple places on his body, it wouldn’t take me by surprise. I peered out the windshield and bit into my lower lip. “We aren’t going to the Bat Cave, are we?”
“No, babe. We’re going to Shorty’s for pizza.”
A small neon sign hung over the door of the building adjoining the lot. Sure enough, the sign said
I looked over my shoulder at Ranger. “The pizza is good here?” I tried not to let my voice waver, but it sounded squeezed and far away in my head. It was the voice of fear. Maybe fear is too strong a word. After the past week maybe fear should be reserved for lifethreatening situations. But then again, maybe fear was appropriate.
“The pizza is good here,” Ranger said, and he pushed the door open for me. The sudden wash of noise and pizza fumes almost knocked me to my knees. It was dark inside Shorty’s, and it was packed. Booths lined the walls and tables cluttered the middle of the room. An old-fashioned jukebox blasted out music from a far corner. Mostly there were men in Shorty’s. The women who were there looked like they could hold their own. The men were in work boots and jeans. They were old and young, their faces lined from years of sun and cigarettes. They looked like they didn’t need gun instruction. We got a booth in a corner that was dark enough not to be able to see bloodstains or roaches. Ranger looked comfortable, his back to the wall, black shirt blending into the shadows.
The waitress was dressed in a white Shorty’s T-shirt and a short black skirt. She had big hooters, a lot of brown curly hair, and more mascara than I’d ever managed, even on my most insecure day. She smiled at Ranger like she knew him better than I did. “What’ll it be?” she asked.
“Pizza and beer,” Ranger said.
“Do you come here a lot?” I asked him.
“Often enough. We keep a safe house in the neighborhood. Half the people in here are local. Half come from a truck stop on the next block.”
The waitress dropped cardboard coasters on the scarred wood table and put a frosted glass of beer on each.
“I thought you didn’t drink,” I said to Ranger. “You know, the-body-is-a-temple thing?
