“What is this? Some kind of school going on here?” Bubba asked, as if he owned the place.

The woman gave him her attention, and he didn’t like what he saw in her eyes. This one didn’t know fear. Clearly, she didn’t have sense enough to appreciate what she was looking at, and Bubba went over to her lane and helped himself to her Smith & Wesson.

“Pretty big piece for a little gal like you.” Bubba grinned in his cruel way, dribbling more snuff in his jar.

“Please put it down,” West calmly told him.

Brazil was intrigued and appropriately nervous about where this was going. The big-bellied pig dressed like Ruby Ridge or Oklahoma City looked like he had hurt people in the past and was proud of it. He did not put West’s gun down, but was now dropping out the magazine, checking the slide, and ejecting the cartridge from the chamber. It occurred to Brazil that West was disarmed, and he could not help her, because the .380 was out of ammunition, too.

“Put it down. Now.” West was most unfriendly. “It’s city property, and I am a city police officer.”

“How ’bout that?” Bubba was beginning to enjoy himself immensely. “Little woman here’s a cop. Well, golly gee.”

West knew better than to announce her rank, which would make matters only that much worse. She stepped so close to him, the toes of their shoes were about to touch. Her chest would have pressed against his belly had she not decided against it.

“This is the last time I ask you to put my gun right back where you found it,” she said, staring up into his homely, whisky-flushed face.

Bubba fixed his sights on Brazil, deciding this pretty boy might be in for a life lesson. Bubba strode over to West’s lane, set down her gun, walked up to Brazil, tried to grab the .380 for inspection. Brazil slugged Bubba and broke his nose. Bubba bled over camouflage and dripped on assault weaponry as he hastily packed his duffel bag. It was Bubba’s Last Stand when he cried out from the steps that the lady and her boyfriend had not heard the last from Bubba.

“Sorry,” Brazil said right off when he and West were alone again.

“Jesus Christ. You can’t just hit people like that.” She was mostly embarrassed that she hadn’t resolved the conflict herself.

He was loading magazines and realizing he had never struck anybody in his life. He wasn’t sure what he felt about it as he lovingly studied West’s .380 pistol.

“What does one of these cost?” he asked, with the reverence of the poor.

“You can’t afford it,” she said.

“What if I sold your story to Parade magazine. My editor thinks they’d go for it. I could make some money. Maybe enough . . .”

This was just what West wanted, another story.

“How about I make a deal with you,” she said. “No Parade magazine. Borrow the Sig until you can afford one of your own. I’ll work with you a little more, maybe on an outdoor range. We’ll set up some combat situations. The way you piss people off, it’s a good idea. Rule of etiquette. Pick up your brass.”