I pulled the laptop over onto the bed. The battery was running low, so I plugged the A/C adapter into the power strip on the floor and got to work.
Ross Pemberton owns several small businesses - a chain of drugstores and three health clubs, two here in the city and one out in Kingsburg. If he has a mistress, he probably meets her out there.
I pulled up a map of the Pembertons' neighborhood and made some notes. Most of the houses were on two-and-half acre lots. The house next door was owned by Mrs. Edna Smith, 86. She probably lived alone or cared for an even older husband. I was betting that Mrs. Smith had a lot of time on her hands.
To carry or not to carry...
Guns are heavy and bulky; having one on your person can be an invitation for trouble. I was tempted to go without, but I'd be covering a lot of territory today. I don't know anyone in Kingsburg, so I thought that it might be wise to take along a little backup.
Guns are heavy and bulky; having one on your person can be an invitation for trouble. I was tempted to go without, but I'd be covering a lot of territory today. I don't know anyone in Kingsburg, so I thought that it might be wise to take along a little backup.
The gun locker holds my holy trinity: .38, .22, and .45, the Father, the Son, the one that's most likely to introduce some stupid bastard to the Holy Ghost.
The .38 is my favorite, balanced, smooth trigger, reliable revolver action. I love the roar that comes out of that barrel. The sound alone will scare an intruder into the second half of next week. It's bulky, though, so I don't like to carry it.
For today's excursion, I decided to go light and take the .22, a compact handgun that's absolutely devastating up close. I doubt if I'll need it, but you never know when you might run into some aggressive testosterone head for whom reason is a foreign language.
The .38 is my favorite, balanced, smooth trigger, reliable revolver action. I love the roar that comes out of that barrel. The sound alone will scare an intruder into the second half of next week. It's bulky, though, so I don't like to carry it.
For today's excursion, I decided to go light and take the .22, a compact handgun that's absolutely devastating up close. I doubt if I'll need it, but you never know when you might run into some aggressive testosterone head for whom reason is a foreign language.
I stopped first at Ming's Flowers and purchased a colorful arrangement complete with a dainty little white vase - the perfect gift for a respectable lady. I grabbed a couple of extra cards. On one I wrote: Edna Smith, 267 Hazel Lane.
Once in Brownewood, I parked one street over and two blocks down from the Pembertons. There was no point in announcing my arrival. I put the .22 in the trunk - the glove box isn't secure - strapped on a small camera bag, and carried the vase of flowers toward the Pembertons' street.
Sure enough, trouble was waiting. Two dickheads in a blue Chevy were watching the house and everything that went past. I noted the license plate: P75-23J. I took a deep breath. I was going to have to sell this next performance.
I walked directly and speedily toward the Pembertons' front door and rang the bell. I didn't know what to expect. If I saw Mrs. Pemberton, I'd at least know that she was okay. If I didn't, I might figure out some way to ask when she might be back. My nerves were on edge. I was rethinking my decision to leave the .22 in the car, but there was no turning back.
There was no answer. I rang again and waited and then knocked vigorously. No one was home.
It was show time. I walked back to the sidewalk with a confused look on my face as I pulled the phone out of my pocket. One of the dickheads, a portly, middle aged white guy, was standing by the passenger door, smoking. He watched me closely as I pretended to dial the phone.
"Yeah, this is Steve on delivery in Brownewood. I got an arrangement for Mrs. Edna Smith, but nobody's home," I announced loudly and clearly.
I held up a piece of paper and pretended to examine it. "Yeah, it's 267 Hazel in Brownewood," I told my imaginary dispatcher. "267 Hazel Lane... Yeah, I'll wait."
I pretended to pace nervously. "What?" I asked. "Yeah, 267... Two-sixty-FIVE? Are you sure?"
I continued the ruse. Hopefully, the gorillas in the Chevy were buying it.
"265 Hazel Lane," I clarified. "Because I don't want to knock on every house in the neighborhood. ... Okay...Okay, I got it."
I walked toward the house next door while carefully slipping a new card into the envelope. I rang the bell; an elderly lady opened the door.
"Mrs. Edna Smith?" I asked.
"Oh, they're beautiful!" she exclaimed. "Won't you come in?"
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