“Step out of the car,” Budget said.

“If you don’t mind, I’ll just give you my license and registration like last time, Officer Budget. I’ve been up all night lost in the woods coon hunting.”

The racial slur was astonishing.

“Not a good time to say something like that, Mr. Fluck,” Budget said in an icy voice. “How many you catch, huh? You hang ’em from trees or shoot ’em?”

“We get ’em in trees if we can,” Bubba said. “It’s not legal to shoot ’em right now.”

Budget jerked open the door and looked down at Bubba. He wanted to beat him up. It occurred to him that he might be able to get away with it since this was Rodney King in reverse. But they weren’t in California.

“Once we get ’em up in the trees,” Bubba was talking too much because his nerves were frayed, “we shine a light in their eyes. Course, it’s the dogs that get them first, really. The dogs track ’em down.”

Budget looked back at Half Shell. The dog seemed docile enough.

“And just what kind of dog? Pit bulls? Dobermans?” Budget hatefully said.

“No, no. Coon dogs.”

“That’s a coon dog in the back?”

“One of the best.”

Budget continued to stare at Half Shell. She stared back. She started barking and tried to break out of her pen.

“You sit right here and don’t you move.” Budget backed away from the Jeep. “And that dog gets out, you’re in a lot of trouble.”

Passman was about to dash out to her car when 218 sounded in her headphones.

“Unit 218. Traffic stop,” Budget let her know.

“Go ahead, Unit 218.” Passman was stressed as she looked up at the clock.

“Sixty-eight hundred block Midlothian Turnpike with Boy-Union-Boy-hyphen-Adam-Henry.”

“Ten-4, 218 at 0748 hours,” Passman said, getting desperate.

Bubba punched in the cigarette lighter and noticed the tip of his .44 Magnum Colt Anaconda protruding from underneath his seat. Fear seized him. He broke into a cold sweat. He had a concealed weapon and no permit for such.

He kicked at the revolver, trying to shove it out of sight. It resisted his efforts, stainless steel glinting in plain view. Bubba slowly sneaked his right hand down to the floor, but his arm wasn’t long enough to reach the gun unless he bent over or got on the floor. He knew it would not be a good idea to give the impression he was hiding something or had hidden something under his seat.

Bubba shoved some more and realized that his monster revolver was hung up on something. He envisioned the release lever or a bolt or maybe an exposed spring pushing against the trigger. He imagined rotted fabric caught in the hammer. With the slightest motion the gun would go off.

Brazil had gotten off to a miserable start. He was hot. Gnats had begun to pay attention to him. His urge to use the bathroom overrode decorum and he’d finally relieved himself behind azalea bushes near a plot of realistic tree-shaped markers that had something to do with the Wood-men of the World.