“So what do you want to do now?” Cooper asked after he ended his call and another minute or so had passed. “The nurse says that Mia is on heavy duty pain killers and with the sedation, it may be hours before we can talk with her. How about I take you back to your place or that motel you stayed in at the beach? Or, if you want, I could take you to the gun range I told you about. It’s not too far from here.”
“The gun range,” I said.
“The gun range it is then,” Cooper said with an almost palpable sense of relief. I don’t think Fred Cooper liked hospitals all that much more than I did.
The drive out to the gun range was done at the same five miles per hour below the speed limit. I distracted myself by asking Fred about his work through the years on the police force—and his relationship with Chance Kemp. Some cops don’t like to talk about the job and others enjoy telling their old war stories. Fortunately, Fred Cooper was a good talker, and the time driving to the gun range passed quickly.
The shooting range that we went to was actually a huge gun shop at the front with a very large target shooting area hidden in behind it. The operating theory was that a perspective gun purchaser could try a weapon out before actually buying it. Good business. Fred told me that the owner of the shop was a former cop named Dave Kidd who had run into a few personal and professional problems and had taken early retirement from the police force. From what Cooper intimated, I would have guessed that Kidd’s leaving the Tampa Police Department for early retirement had not been entirely his own idea.
In any case, Kidd had bought out this business from the company managing its sale. The company was disposing of it after the original owner- a landed Cuban immigrant named Jesus D’Angelo—the Angel of Death in some circles—had been convicted of selling stolen, as well as permitted arms, illegally. The Feds had closed D’Angelo down three years earlier.
Dave Kidd built the business back up and now extended occasional shooting privileges to his good customers. I was about to join that number. Fred also told me that a couple of small shooting clubs rented the facility from the shop on Tuesday and Thursday evenings. If I joined one of those clubs, I could shoot here regularly. Of course, Fred was forgetting one thing. I didn’t yet legally own a gun. And he didn’t know about the two I had illegally.
As we entered the massive gun emporium, various volumes of different calibre popping noises could be heard at irregular intervals from behind the sound proofed rear wall of the sales area. When there was no popping, there was classic rock and roll to keep things moving along. A tall guy in his late thirties sporting a goatee, a ponytail and gold stud earring came over to offer us any assistance he might provide in preparing for the next world war. Fred asked him if the owner, Dave Kidd, was around.
“Mr. Kidd isn’t available to the public today Sir. He is working in his office,” the tall guy said.
Fred flashed his badge and said, “Who does he think he is—the artist formerly known as Prince? Tell the fat peckerwood that Fred Cooper is here to see him.”
The sales guy wasn’t happy, but what was he going to do? “No problem,” was his answer as he shuffled off in the direction of a small windowless office tucked away in the front corner of the building.
A minute or so later, a middle aged man the shape of a bowling ball and almost as bald emerged from his office and waddled at speed towards us. His thick right hand was extended out ahead of him. Fred responded in kind, and I watched as the Dave Kidd pulled Fred Cooper to him and gave him a crushing bear hug. For his part, Cooper looked embarrassed by the overt display of affection but kept up a good front. When the two men separated, Fred introduced me. Kidd extended his calloused right hand towards mine and pumped it heartily. I felt as if I was holding on to a small ham. I then wondered how anyone with hands so thick could be the best gunsmith in all of Florida, which was how Cooper had described Dave Kidd.
“So you old fart, Kemp’s personal assistant, that shit for brains, Barlow, said you might be by,” Kidd said with a chuckle and a feinted punch towards Cooper’s right shoulder. Fred flinched at the expected impact that never happened, “what can I do for you today—slumming or real honest to God police business?” He stretched out police to sound like—polleeese—some kind of inside joke!
Fred Cooper laughed trying to cover the reference to Kemp and the implication that he was using this shopping trip to set me up. He then became serious. I believe that he probably wanted to pull out his service weapon and put two bullets in Kidd’s big round smiling face.
“My young friend here may be in need of some protection,” Fred said without elaboration.
“Well, you came to the right place,” stated Dave Kidd as if he was about to sell me the greatest used car ever. I knew that he realized that he had made a gaff in mentioning Kemp’s name. He turned and waddled towards the incredibly long series of illuminated showcases in which his varied assortment of handguns was displayed. “I presume it is a pistol of some sort you’d be looking for—any preferences? What have you shot before?”
I wanted to say—'What did Kemp suggest?'—But sometimes, you can learn more by playing along.
“The last gun I held was my service weapon—a Glock 27,” I stated.
“Well. That’s a good weapon, but there are better,” Kidd said letting a slight southern drawl invade his tone before he barked out a raucous laugh. I had never found the Glock or any other gun to be that funny. The salesman in Kidd was rising to the surface.
“He’s a Canuck,” Fred said trying to move things along. “He used to be on the job a few years ago in Toronto, Canada.”
“I know where Toronto is Fred,” Kidd rounded on Cooper as if he was deeply wounded that Cooper could think he didn’t know where Toronto was, “I shot a big old moose up there a year or so back.”
He must have meant Canada. I doubted that any self-respecting moose would have been caught dead anywhere within the boundaries of Toronto in the past three or four decades—unless Kidd had potted one at the Metro Zoo. Always that possibility!
Cooper just laughed at his old friend and asked, “How about an older used automatic in good shape?” Perhaps, Cooper had detected my mouth going slack as I bent forward to study the prices displayed on some of the new weapons. I had not bought a gun since I was a kid. I had no idea how much they could cost.
“Yep, I got no problem with that, but I do got a few new wheel guns on sale this month—cheaper than most of the semi-automatics. But all my guns are in good shape, or they don’t get on the shelves,” Kidd said as he turned and waddled further down the display cases. These ones weren’t illuminated. “I got some really good used Berettas on sale this month. I want to clear out a couple of models I’ve had in the inventory for a while. I can give you a good deal on one of them if you like ‘em. Beretta had trouble with the slides bustin’ on some of these models. They got ‘em made in Brazil. That was contrary to the government specs. They got a bad rap, and I got stuck with too many of them. But these slides are the newer ones—and safe. I replaced them myself.”
Kidd scooted around the back of the display case and pulled out three Berettas—all variations on the basic 92 model. He placed them on the heavy glass top of the display case. He then shuffled to another case while Fred and I handled the Berettas. He was back in seconds with two other automatics. One of them, almost predictably, was a Colt Mk IV forty-five calibre handgun. The other was a Sig Saur P 230. I was a little surprised that he didn’t bring along a Glock. Then, I started to wonder if the Sig was the product of the talk Kidd had earlier with Kemp’s “shit for brains” assistant. Was this a coincidence or a setup, or was I just getting paranoid? I’ve never been a huge fan of coincidence.
“Let’s go out back and see how these fit,” Kidd said as he handed me the Colt and Sig. He picked up two of the Berettas, and Cooper grabbed up the last one.
“What about ammo?” I asked.
“Lots out back—both 9 mm and 45 cal—and anything else anyone fires here,” Kidd replied.
&n
bsp; The range behind the main shop was actually a mid size lobby with a few tables and chairs. A Pepsi dispenser and a confection machine—a variety of chips and chocolate bars available at inflated prices—were side by side along the back wall for the thirsty or hungry. There were twenty shooting stations separated by heavy painted plywood partitions. Each station was equipped with a motorized pulley and target mounts that allowed for practice at distances of from five to fifty yards. The pungent odour of cordite was evident despite the large vent fan working in the ceiling. A layer of translucent smoke floated slowly near the heavy suspended ceiling tiles. Two large fan blades moved lazily making only the smallest impact on the quality the breathable air. At the south side of the lobby, there was a heavy painted metal door with crash bar that led to the adjacent outdoor range. Six guys and two women all wearing heavy headphone style protectors were popping away at varying regularity. All of them were also wearing protective tinted shooting goggles.
Kidd stopped at the vacant station farthest away from his paying customers and pulled over a shooter’s stand. He placed the guns he was carrying on it. The shooting stand was just a wooden elevated workbench on wheels. As he turned away from us, he told us that he would be right back. He waddled away at speed to get targets and bullets from the “range master”—a goofy looking older guy wearing a black Grateful Dead concert T-shirt and tight faded blue jeans. He was available to help novice shooters and offer advice to those who asked. He would respond to any breach of shooting etiquette. He could also sell boxes of ammunition at a premium price to those who were dry. There was no doubt in my mind that he was also there to push the stock Dave Kidd wanted cleared. Seconds later, the chubby gun shop owner returned to our shooting stand. He was a little out of breath.
For the next half an hour—time that seemed to go by in a flash—the chubby gunsmith offered the pros and cons of each of the weapons we were trying. He then showed me all the firing characteristics of each weapon. Targets were sent up the alley and pulled back periodically. Kidd knew his guns, and he was an excellent marksman. There was a great deal of pulling headphones on and off as instruction followed by demonstration was done by the short fat guy. It was quickly obvious that Dave Kidd favoured the Colt. It also happened to be the most expensive of the guns on display. For his part, Fred Cooper seemed to be content to just stand and observe as a knowledgeable and excited Kidd got deeper into his subject. At one point he drifted away and returned with a can of Diet Pepsi and a pack of M&Ms.
While all of the semi-automatics—both 9 mm and 45 cal—were slightly different from my old Glock—shooting is shooting. You can do it and get better and then quite good—or you can struggle with it all the time and improve only marginally. Finally, I was permitted to fire up range. I tried each of the five weapons and happily realized that I was still a pretty fair shot. There comes a certain personal satisfaction and exhilaration in doing something, anything, really well. I enjoyed a mild adrenaline rush when Kidd pulled back my first target and complimented me on my center grouping. Praise from the master.
I found that I liked the heft and action of one of the Berettas more than any of the others. There was something about the feel of it, and my accuracy with it, that made this particular weapon feel like a natural extension to my hand. Kidd was still pushing the Colt, and I believe that Cooper was waiting to see if I gravitated toward the Sig.
“So what will it be?” Kidd asked as we gathered up the used casings and targets.
“I really like this Beretta,” I replied holding the weapon that I preferred. “But isn’t there some kind of restriction about ownership. Don’t I have to write a test or go through a police check?”
“Yeah, but we can start that here right now, and if Fred vouches for you, we can waive the waiting period before you return to pick up your Beretta,” Kidd said looking over to Fred who gave a quick head bob. “So how do you want to pay?”
“VISA, I guess,” I said cheerfully knowing that Frank always kept my balance owing at zero. The Berettas were all on sale, but they probably still would have been the cheapest of the guns I’d handled during the last hour or so. The Beretta I liked was the most expensive of the Italian guns—$675.00. The Sig Saur was available for $785.00 and the Colt was listed at $885.00. All of these guns were re-conditioned used weapons. I briefly wondered what Langdon must have paid new for the upper end Sig that I had stashed in Mrs. Reilly’s toilet. I would never afford the price a new gun unless I got really serious about shooting again.
I signed the VISA chit and thanked the gunsmith for his time and instruction. Cooper nodded in agreement when Kidd threw in a box of 9 mm ammunition after he placed the gun in a narrow cardboard box and wrapped it in brown paper and then thoroughly sealed that box with heavy-duty plastic tape. It reminded me of the way the Sig had been wrapped by Babe Langdon. Maybe there was a law. Wrapped box and ammo went into a bright yellow plastic bag before we shook hands. Parcel in hand, Fred and I headed back to the not so unmarked police car.
“Nice guy,” I commented as I waited for Fred to go around to the driver’s side and open up.
“Yeah,” Cooper nodded as he started the car. “He’s had a bit of a train wreck in his life though. His wife is in a nursing home.”
“Why’s that? He doesn’t seem that old.”
“He’s not, and she’s not either. A few years ago, his wife started doin’ dippy things—not just on a single occasion but steady. Like, one day she went to make a cup of tea. Filled the electric kettle and walked away—burned the house to the ground. The insurance guys say that it’s not their problem. They won’t pay up.”
“I thought electric kettles were supposed to go off after they come to a boil,” I said not certain my information was accurate. I was starting to bristle at the insurance company’s callous treatment of a nice guy.
“Not if you turn the stove on under them,” Cooper said with a wry smile. He glanced quickly in my direction. “Alzheimer’s—she’s only forty-eight years old too. Sometimes, life’s a bitch eh?”
“Let’s get something to eat,” Cooper said as he pulled off the road into a strip mall. “Leave the gun under your seat. No one will bother with this car anyway.”
We spent the next forty- five minutes in Smokey Bones—a favourite of Fred’s. It was an airy restaurant with a friendly ambience that was suited to business people at lunch or families out for dinner. At Fred’s request, we were given a booth by a window where we could look out at the parking lot—and the car with my Beretta. Fred was being prudent. The ribs were great and the time passed quickly. I got a better sense of Fred and my respect for the guy grew. Not only was he a very good cop, he was one of the good guys. He was telling me about his two kids that were still in university when the Blackberry vibrated in my pocket. I had turned the ring feature off before getting in the cruiser first thing in the morning. I excused myself and went into the washroom.
“Doc. ..?”
“Yeah Max,” I said quietly. It wasn’t Max; it was Frank.
“We’ve got a problem—you’ve got a problem. Max just got creamed on the I-75. No details yet—I’ll call.” And he hung up.
I returned to the table and offered to pay for lunch. Fred declined my offer and told me I had been the guest of the Tampa Bay Police Department.
“Are you okay? You look a bit off,” Cooper asked.
“No, I probably ate too quickly. Spare ribs for the first meal of my day, even though we’re into mid-afternoon, may not have been a good choice.” (And my safety net just got wiped out on the interstate.)
We drove in complete silence for the next few minutes. I was preoccupied with Frank’s news. I looked around and realized that Fred was taking me back to the beach. It had been quite a day—and it wasn’t over yet.
An hour and thirty minutes after leaving Dave Kidd’s gun store, Cooper dropped me off at Mrs. Reilly’s empty house. Maybe it had been a long few days for him, or maybe it was the way Fred Cooper always looked. But he truly appear
ed to be totally exhausted. Just before he pulled the unmarked cop car away from the curb, he dropped his car window.
“You be real careful if you came across Mia’s step-brother, Terry,” he said, “That guy is very definitely a dangerously retarded asshole.”
Point taken—I thanked him and stood watching as he slowly drove away. I did a quick sweep of the entire house. Everything appeared to be in order. In the shadow of the old garage, I unwrapped the Beretta and loaded the clip. Nothing adds to my personal safety like a loaded handgun nearby was my new motto. I don’t recall what the old one was. I put the Beretta under a T-shirt at the top of my backpack. I could grab it quickly if I needed it.
After finishing my quick visual check of the area surrounding the house, I unlocked the garage door and backed out the Jaguar. I left it idling while I retrieved Langdon’s Sig Saur from the toilet tank and checked to see that seals of its protective series of zip-lock plastic bags were intact. The gun had not been touched. I hid it again. Only this time I put it amongst some old flowerpots Mrs. Reilly had stored on a primitive work shelf at the front of the garage. When I was satisfied that it would not be found in a superficial search, I closed and locked the folding garage door. I was doing a mental inventory of my growing arsenal. I had a legal Beretta close at hand in my backpack—Glock in my trunk—Sig and silencer in the garden pots inside the garage; and then he did it again.
“Food Guy.”
“Jesus Papa. You almost gave me a goddamn heart attack.
“Sorry Food Guy—but I gotta tell you something.”
“What?”
“Some guy has been cruising round the area looking for you. He’s driving a big black Mercedes. A while ago, he parked back in front of Tan’s and asked Ling Ling if she knew the guy that got beat up there yesterday.”
“Was he young or old Papa?”
“You got beat up yesterday.”
“Not me—the guy looking for me.”
“Not too old—not really young. I guess he was sort of in the middle like thirty or something—but big—not fat—big—like that Arnold guy. What are you gonna do Food Guy?”
“Two things Papa—one is—I’m going to take you around to Tan’s, and we’re going get you something to eat. Two—my name is Joe or Doc—not Food Guy—okay?”
It was getting late in the afternoon. I wanted to find out what Ling Ling could tell me about the guy who drove a Mercedes. I imagine, with my old backpack in hand, and Papa at my side, I looked just like any another homeless guy. Ling Ling must have seen us coming as she appeared in the door of the small restaurant before we arrived and said, “No serve. No money, no food. Not today.”
I took out two twenties and handed them to the tiny Chinese woman. “Dinner for Papa; he’ll eat out here. And a quick bit of information when you have a moment.”
“You sit there,” Ling Ling said pointing to the painted yellow picnic bench furthest from the entrance. “I be back.”
I was just as happy to be sitting outside. Papa was in bad need of a shower. Ling Ling was back in a few moments.
“What you want to drink?”
“Diet cola on ice with lime for me,” I said. “Papa?”
“Beer—any kind—don’t matter.”
Ling Ling looked as worried as I felt. “Okay Papa, but just one. I think I may need your help some more.”
“You got it Food Guy—er uh Joe.”
During the next twenty minutes, we sat in the late afternoon sun and Papa enjoyed his meal. While he ate, he told me another version of his life story and switched to water after only one beer. Ling Ling appeared beside our picnic table twice to hurry us along. I guess we were bad for business. On one of her stops, I asked her about the guy in the Mercedes.
“He think you get beat up bad. Ask where you live. I tell him I don’t know you.”
“Thanks Ling Ling. One more thing—did this guy walk funny?” I stood up and did a rough imitation of Terry Bullock’s walk. Ling Ling laughed.
“Yeah, he walk that way.”
“Thanks again Ling Ling.”
Name is not Ling Ling. Name is Jane.” And the tiny woman disappeared back into the restaurant.
I looked at Papa. He just shrugged his shoulders.
A niggling thought followed by a loud bell went off somewhere deep in my brainpan. I wondered how many times Mia’s family had inquired about her recovery. For members of a family, concern would seem to be a natural response. Questions would be asked. Answers would be demanded. And how many times had any of them visited her at the hospital? And right now, was it was a really bad idea to give them access to her at all.
I told Papa I’d see him later. I had something to do.
Back to the Hospital