“What kind of convertible is it?” Hammer looked distracted.

“Dark blue Sebring,” Brazil said. “Modest, not showy, although one of the big guys at Philip Morris wanted to drive you in his red Mercedes V12 convertible.”

“Not a good idea,” Hammer muttered.

“I don’t think you should be in the parade at all,” West said with conviction. “The parade could be a possible target for Smoke. And I hate for you to be riding slow in a convertible anyway. There’re a lot of kooks out there.”

Hammer got up. She really didn’t care what happened to her.

“It’s important,” she dully said. “Every little thing we do to reach the community is helpful. I won’t back out of a promise.”

“Well, we’re going to have fifty off-duty cops there in addition to the regular shifts,” West told her. “To the public, it will appear we’re there mainly for traffic control. And we’re mobilizing about twenty plainclothes guys to mingle, just in case Smoke shows up or someone else decides to cause a problem.”

Bubba was thinking the same thing. He believed Chief Hammer should not be riding in an open car in the Azalea Parade, and worse, it had been in the newspaper so everybody knew it. It was possible this was where all roads met. Bubba had been called to save her from a terrible danger. Bubba also figured the Pikes somehow factored in.

At eight o’clock this morning, he was already parking in front of Green Top Sporting Goods on U.S. Route 1, some twenty minutes outside of Richmond. There was no place Bubba would rather be. The minute he walked through the door and was greeted by thousands of fishing rods and all that went with them, his pulse quickened. When he turned to the right and saw hundreds of rifles, shotguns, pistols and revolvers, he got flushed. He felt lust in a way he had never experienced with Honey.

“Hey, what’cha know.” He was enthusiastically greeted by Fig Winnick, the assistant manager.

By Virginia law, a citizen could buy one handgun every thirty days and no more. This had given rise to the tongue-in-cheek Gun-of-the-Month Club. It was a small but clever group of one hundred and eighty-nine men and sixty-two women who sent each other reminders when their thirty days, loosely interpreted as a month, were up. It was April 2.

“If only I’d come in two days ago, I could have bought a gun then and another one today,” Bubba misinterpreted, as usual.

“Wishful thinking,” Winnick told him again. “Doesn’t work that way, Bubba. And it sure as hell is too damn bad.”

“So you’re saying it’s not once a month,” Bubba challenged what he refused to believe.

“Not literally. But sort of. If you start with the first day of each month.”

“You know, someone stole all my guns.” Bubba browsed.

“The guys were talking about it,” Winnick sympathized.

“So all I got left’s the Anaconda and I need something I can pack easier,” Bubba spoke the language.