But by the same token, you don’t want to pull when they jump either.”
“Huh.” Sid smiled to himself. “So what you’re sayin’ is I gotta finesse the fish, that right?”
“Well, yeah, I guess you could say that.” Russ hadn’t thought of it until then, but Sid seemed to be full of finesse. “I’m sure you’ll finesse the next one.”
It was only as Trooper Price lay on the ground bleeding that he’d suddenly remembered: Martha hadn’t been wearing a bra. Hell, that’s why he’d gone ape over her to begin with.
To say the least, his relief had been mixed. He’d only dodged one bullet. The other was in his chest.
X-rays and a little probing had shown that after the slug had passed through Price’s citation folder, it entered his chest, cracked, and deflected off a rib. What remained of the hollow-point slug was tucked up under the next rib. He had been lucky. Very lucky.
He had a dime-sized hole two and a half inches below his nipple and a bruised area surrounding that. After plucking out the lead, the doctor stitched it up, slapped a Band-Aid on it, and gave him some antibiotics. He was sent home.
Price felt gypped.
If a cop gets shot in the chest and survives, he can usually expect a month off at the least. And who knows? Maybe he can get a sweet disability deal. A trooper Price knew slammed a cruiser door on his hand and suffered “permanent damage” to his trigger/pen finger. The digit in question had a fractured knuckle and had lost sixty percent of its mobility. So this guy gets an early retirement—way early—with eighty percent of his pay. Price had seen the guy recently, and his finger apparently had regained ninety-nine percent mobility. He was bowling with it. The ex-trooper was sitting pretty.
But Price didn’t slam a door on his finger, he got shot in the chest. And what happens? Nothing. His injury was termed a “flesh wound,” which meant he wasn’t eligible for any of the bennies.
Now it was Sunday afternoon, and Price was planted in front of the TV. He was off duty, so he’d put the small diamond stud earring in his right ear. It was a vestige of something cool he and the guys in high school all did, and made him feel virile. His wife, Debbie—after setting him up with a beer, the channel changer, and a kiss—had run off to her sister’s to gab. Even Debbie was acting like getting shot in the chest was no big deal.
So he sat there in his den, surrounded by all his high school football trophies, sipping beer, watching
The Sons of Katie Elder
, and wishing he’d gotten shot in the right index finger. That’s when he decided that maybe he should pop in a tape. He didn’t much feel in the mood for any of his Super Bowl tapes, much less any of the blooper tapes, much less
North Dallas Forty
or
The Longest Yard
.
Next to the VCR was a bag from the video store with the movies Debbie had picked up on her way home from shopping. One tape was some romantic comedy featuring that ugly French guy with greasy hair. Price loathed that stuff at any time. The other tape was
The Elvis Conspiracy
. Well, that’s what the box said, but what was inside didn’t look like a commercial tape. Probably a bootleg. It wasn’t even rewound.
Price fed the tape into the machine.
Val chewed out Little Bob but good when she found him still asleep at noon. Godless wastrel that he was, Bob knew there would be no peace until he atoned. Some arduous yard work, followed by a visit to his mother-in-law’s to clean the dog poop off her lawn, usually bought the Lord’s forgiveness.
So it was after cleaning the gutters, shutters, and car, after weed-whacking the fence line, after scraping the BBQ grill and heading over to Mother’s for tea and dog poo that Val took up her knitting and left Bob in peace late that Sunday afternoon. And as Val took a dim view of feasting on “God’s Day,” dinner was a cold sup of the individual’s choosing, eaten apart. Bob had the whole
“Huh.” Sid smiled to himself. “So what you’re sayin’ is I gotta finesse the fish, that right?”
“Well, yeah, I guess you could say that.” Russ hadn’t thought of it until then, but Sid seemed to be full of finesse. “I’m sure you’ll finesse the next one.”
It was only as Trooper Price lay on the ground bleeding that he’d suddenly remembered: Martha hadn’t been wearing a bra. Hell, that’s why he’d gone ape over her to begin with.
To say the least, his relief had been mixed. He’d only dodged one bullet. The other was in his chest.
X-rays and a little probing had shown that after the slug had passed through Price’s citation folder, it entered his chest, cracked, and deflected off a rib. What remained of the hollow-point slug was tucked up under the next rib. He had been lucky. Very lucky.
He had a dime-sized hole two and a half inches below his nipple and a bruised area surrounding that. After plucking out the lead, the doctor stitched it up, slapped a Band-Aid on it, and gave him some antibiotics. He was sent home.
Price felt gypped.
If a cop gets shot in the chest and survives, he can usually expect a month off at the least. And who knows? Maybe he can get a sweet disability deal. A trooper Price knew slammed a cruiser door on his hand and suffered “permanent damage” to his trigger/pen finger. The digit in question had a fractured knuckle and had lost sixty percent of its mobility. So this guy gets an early retirement—way early—with eighty percent of his pay. Price had seen the guy recently, and his finger apparently had regained ninety-nine percent mobility. He was bowling with it. The ex-trooper was sitting pretty.
But Price didn’t slam a door on his finger, he got shot in the chest. And what happens? Nothing. His injury was termed a “flesh wound,” which meant he wasn’t eligible for any of the bennies.
Now it was Sunday afternoon, and Price was planted in front of the TV. He was off duty, so he’d put the small diamond stud earring in his right ear. It was a vestige of something cool he and the guys in high school all did, and made him feel virile. His wife, Debbie—after setting him up with a beer, the channel changer, and a kiss—had run off to her sister’s to gab. Even Debbie was acting like getting shot in the chest was no big deal.
So he sat there in his den, surrounded by all his high school football trophies, sipping beer, watching
The Sons of Katie Elder
, and wishing he’d gotten shot in the right index finger. That’s when he decided that maybe he should pop in a tape. He didn’t much feel in the mood for any of his Super Bowl tapes, much less any of the blooper tapes, much less
North Dallas Forty
or
The Longest Yard
.
Next to the VCR was a bag from the video store with the movies Debbie had picked up on her way home from shopping. One tape was some romantic comedy featuring that ugly French guy with greasy hair. Price loathed that stuff at any time. The other tape was
The Elvis Conspiracy
. Well, that’s what the box said, but what was inside didn’t look like a commercial tape. Probably a bootleg. It wasn’t even rewound.
Price fed the tape into the machine.
Val chewed out Little Bob but good when she found him still asleep at noon. Godless wastrel that he was, Bob knew there would be no peace until he atoned. Some arduous yard work, followed by a visit to his mother-in-law’s to clean the dog poop off her lawn, usually bought the Lord’s forgiveness.
So it was after cleaning the gutters, shutters, and car, after weed-whacking the fence line, after scraping the BBQ grill and heading over to Mother’s for tea and dog poo that Val took up her knitting and left Bob in peace late that Sunday afternoon. And as Val took a dim view of feasting on “God’s Day,” dinner was a cold sup of the individual’s choosing, eaten apart. Bob had the whole
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