Drink, Dance, Divorce by Charles Alworth

Author:Charles Alworth
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: satire, women sleuths, buddy comedy, comic mystery, buddy detectives, ballroom slaying, dance studio murder, honkytonk detectives

Chapter 11

Strip Joint

Hook 'Em opened her closet. She handed Waltz a rifle and a box of shells. "Load that up."

"No guns."

She rummaged in the closet and pulled out a leather holster. "Did you see how bad these guys scared the clerk? We threatened him with jail and a beating. He could hardly bring himself to inform on them. Do you want to walk up to them unarmed and demand that they tell you who hired them to commit a crime, a crime worth five years of their time for attacking an innocent dance instructor? Maybe the death penalty if Jazz dies?"

Waltz's knees wobbled. "I guess not."

"Load it up."

"How?"

She glowered at him. "I forgot. You can't hit a balloon point-blank. Put it on the table."

She sat at the table. She pulled a pistol out of the holster and shoved shells into the cylinder. "We're not going to shoot anybody. We just want to intimidate them. We'll get them to talk fast."

What if she shot somebody? He collapsed into a chair.

She pushed bullets into the rifle. "You see this? This is the safety. Push it this way and you'll be ready to fire. Back this way and you can't fire it."

"I might hurt somebody."

"Shoot it only if you have to. Into the air, off to the side, into the ground. We don't want to kill anybody."

"Still, it might hit somebody."

"Based on what I see of your marksmanship, we don't need to worry about that. No, you were aiming. On second thought, maybe you'd better aim at them."

"I don't like this. It's dangerous."

"Which is more dangerous? These guns or the needle they’ll stick in your arm in the execution chamber?" She clicked the safety. "It's on safety. Leave it that way. You can't fire it. You won't fire it. Keep your finger off the trigger. You'll simply point it at them. It will intimidate them. I'll do all the shooting."

Waltz opened his mouth to speak.

She held up her hand. "Don't worry. I won't need to shoot. They'll be so scared when we level the guns on them that they won't be able to do anything."

She handed him the rifle.

Waltz held it. It smelled of oil. He felt its heft, heavier than the air rifle, hard and cold, remorseless, made to kill. He imagined how it would feel if a red-hot bullet plowed through your flesh, shattered a bone, and ricocheted to a stop in a vital organ.

He clicked the safety on, then off, then on. "That's on, right?"

"Yes. It's a piece of cake."

"And when the safety is on, that means it won't shoot?"

"Right."

He couldn't possibly shoot anyone. He couldn't imagine a confrontation with guns, but it would be okay. He'd keep the rifle on safety. He wouldn't touch the safety button or the trigger. That way he couldn't hurt anybody.

***

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