“You want me to come over to Wesley’s every night and guard you? Because I will.”
“I need to protect myself, Honnett.”
“You want a gun? You?” Honnett looked upset.
“Why not me? I can go to the shooting range and practice. It can’t be that hard.”
“No, it’s not hard. It’s just so not you.”
“Don’t bet on it. I need a gun, Honnett.”
“You can buy one, I guess,” he said, not convinced.
“That takes weeks, doesn’t it?”
“You go in and pick out your gun and do the paperwork. The state just passed a bill that requires you to take a safety course and pass an exam. And then California has a two-week waiting period.”
I looked at him, frustrated. “That’s what I’m saying. Maybe I don’t have two weeks. Maybe someone will be knocking down my bedroom door tomorrow night, Honnett. I want a gun now.”
He looked down to see my hands clenched around the seat of the bench. I loosened them immediately, trying to appear less worked up and insane.
“Look,” I said, “can’t you lend me a gun? Until I can get my own. Maybe I’ll like what you give me and I can buy one just like it.”
He looked at me.
“See, I don’t know who else to turn to. I don’t know that many people who might have a gun. We’re kind of a peaceful crowd. And I figured you would understand about weapons.”
“In case you haven’t noticed, I’m not a real ‘gunnie,’ Madeline. I don’t have dozens of firearms stored in my basement bunker, whatever you may think of me.”
“Can you lend me a gun or not?” I asked, staring at him, waiting. He had let me down before, so I was just thinking about what I would do if he refused to help me now.
“All right. I’ll bring you a gun. But only on the condition that you let me show you how to clean it and store it and that you really do take that safety course and go out to a pistol range and get some serious, professional instruction.”
“Thank you, Chuck,” I said, burying my face into his shoulder, hugging him hard. “I’ll be fine. I’ll practice. I’ll just have it for an emergency, you know?”
“Okay,” he said, hugging me back, but I could feel he wasn’t as happy about the gun as I was.
“Can we go get it now?” I asked.
He looked at me, uneasy. “I’ll bring it to you at Wesley’s.”
“When?”
“How about an hour, an hour and a half?”
“No later, okay?”
He kept looking at me. “And you promise you won’t take risks. You won’t take it out with you. You won’t—”
“Honnett! I won’t get you in trouble. I’ll be good.”
We stood up. Honnett looked apprehensive. Me, I practiced looking like an angel. An angel who would soon have a gun.
“I Get a Kick Out of You”
I got down to the Brea Indoor Shooting Range by 7 P.M. The box that held my first pistol, my loaner from Honnett, was beside me on the passenger seat of the rental Trailblazer. I had looked at it at Wes’s guest house. It was pretty darn cool.
There were many reasons why I had never thought of owning a pistol before. I don’t come from gun people. My parents didn’t hunt or shoot. No one in my extended family did. My friends and I were not into guns and ammo. Before this, my weapon of choice had been my Cuisinart. But I had never doubted for a second that pulling a trigger and trying to hit a target might be fun. I have played my share of Tomb Raider. I enjoy games of precision, of cat-and-mouse intrigue, and to be truthful, a certain amount of animated destruction. I’m the first one to suggest we rent Terminator again. And in my present situation, I was certainly not immune to the lure of the power of a handgun. Hell, it was the very urgency of my situation, my powerlessness, that had propelled me to this northern section of Orange County in search of a shooting range and my appointment with Andy Abfel, my as-yet-unmet shooting instructor.
As he had promised, Honnett had brought the gun to Wesley’s house by six o’clock. I had already been on the phone with the Brea Indoor Shooting Range to book a private lesson. The range closed at ten, but I offered a bonus if my instructor could stay even later and show me everything I needed to know. This would present no problem at all, I was told. And I’d end up with a certificate that would satisfy the state of California. Excellent.
I eventually pulled off the 57 Freeway at Lambert Road, as I’d been advised, and headed west a mile and then turned right on Berry. The indoor shooting range was located among the complex of commercial buildings on the east side of Berry Avenue.
In the reception area, I got my first surprise. Andy turned out to be Andi. Her black hair was pulled into a ponytail that reached almost to her waist. She was about my height, but about ten years older than I am, if I had to guess. Her dark brows were full and expressive and her dark brown eyes gave me a kind look. She wasn’t as annoyed as I would have been to have her gender misguessed by a name. Just when you think there is no one on the planet more liberal-minded than you are, you get a wake-up call. Thanks, universe.
Andi asked to look at my handgun. I put the box on the counter and she opened it. Inside was a very clean, very shiny revolver. It was a .38-caliber Smith & Wesson Lady Smith with special custom engraving.
“This yours?” She couldn’t have sounded more skeptical.
I became nervous they wouldn’t teach me if I didn’t own the gun. “A friend gave it to me.” Which was, you know, technically true. “Why?”
“Must be a pretty good friend,” she said, checking me out. “You know how much a gun like this is worth?”
“No.”
She eyed me carefully.
“It must be a lot,” I said. “So why would I come here with an expensive custom gun and not know the first thing about shooting it? you’re wondering.”
“Well, that’s not a bad question,” Andi encouraged me. “Go on.”
“My friend is a cop. Lieutenant Chuck Honnett of the LAPD. He thinks I need to have something at home for protection. He just brought it over. I had no idea he would bring something valuable. Tell me about it.”
Andi relaxed at the mention of a friend in the department, and I relaxed when she relaxed. I might know nothing about guns, but I do know people. I run parties, I plan major events. I deal with people all day long. I know what buttons need to be pushed to smooth away resistance.
Andi lifted the gun out of the satin-lined case. “It’s beautiful,” she said. “This is the 65LS, a thirty-eight-caliber revolver. You know about guns at all?”
“No.”
“I didn’t think you did. Well, a revolver is a good choice for a beginner. They’re the simplest to clean and take care of. That what your cop uses?”
I had no idea what kind of gun Honnett carried. I was ashamed to realize I had never taken enough of an interest to find out. “I’m not sure.”
“Well, standard issue for LAPD are the Beretta 92 nine-millimeter, Kimber 1911-style forty-five, or Smith & Wesson in either forty caliber or nine-millimeter.”
“Oh.” I wondered if she could tell I hadn’t understood a word she had said.
“Let’s take it slowly,” she suggested kindly. “The caliber of the ammunition—like a police-issue forty-five?—describes the size of the bullet. The larger the caliber, say a forty-five versus a twenty-two, the more stopping power. Got it?”
I nodded. “So bigger is better.”
“Well, some folks think so. But then the bigger guns are heavier and bulkier to carry, right? And they have serious recoil.” She laughed. “They kick like hell. So there are always trade-offs. Everyone has a theory on what is best. But your cop friend’s duty gun is going to be a pretty large piece of equipment in a serious caliber.”
“So this isn’t like that,” I said, knowing I was a fool.
“Well, this is a Lady Smith. It’s marketed for us women.” She smirked. “But if that doesn’t offend your feminist sensibilities, it’s a fine gun
.”
“And thirty-eight caliber is…enough?”
“I’d say so. It’s a pretty popular size. You find a lot of folks take to them. Not as hard to handle as a forty-five, although I love my forty-five.”
I nodded, just like I knew what she was talking about.
Andi continued: “You should be very happy with it. This model is really an evolution of the famous Smith & Wesson Chief’s Special, a revolver that cops have carried for years. No wonder your friend bought it for you. And then, she’s a beauty. Look at that scrollwork. He must like you very much.” Andi touched the fanciful etching on the stainlesssteel barrel. And I had to admit, none of my girlfriends had ever before gauged the depth of my boyfriend’s affection by the coolness of the gun he’d given me. The life lessons I had yet to learn were staggering.
“It’s a revolver,” I said. “Is that good?”
“Revolvers are easy to use. The mechanics of this type of gun are simpler and it has fewer parts than a semiautomatic, making maintenance—even very minimal maintenance—easier. It is also less likely to have firing problems—you know, jams—because of its design. And, assuming a clean gun using the correct ammunition, most such problems can be fairly easily cleared by the owner. For this reason alone, revolvers are often recommended to new shooters.”
“Okay. That sounds fine.”
“Revolvers are also easier to load,” she continued, opening a box of ammunition as she instructed me on the gun. “The cartridges go into the cylinder, which is part of the gun. See? Like this. You put the rest in.”
I did as she had done. The weapon felt good in my hands, I had to admit. Weighty and smooth and cool.
“Very good,” she said, watching me. “Now unload the chambers. Like this.” I did. Pretty simple, really. I began to believe I could get all this down and relaxed a little.
Andi nodded approval. “Okay, with the ammo back in the box, the gun is now safe, got it?” She made eye contact to check that I was staying with her.
“You a former cop?” I asked.
“Ex-army,” she said softly. “My husband and I both.”
“I was expecting I’d get one of those modern-looking guns,” I told her, looking at a chart on the wall that showed a line of sleek black handguns. I read a bit of the ad copy. “A semiautomatic. Are they better?”
“Different,” she said. “Some folks like them better, but a semiautomatic has a separate magazine and they can be a little more finicky mechanically. If you don’t know about guns, you may not want to take on that learning curve right away.”
I was only the lowest-rank novice, and already I was having gun envy.
Andi smiled at me. “Frankly, lots of folks like their looks. High tech and all. More Matrix than Bat Masterson.”
I nodded. “But a revolver works. Right?”
“Yep. You’ve got a terrific handgun here. See, she’s large enough to give stability and that means much less recoil. You’ll get a chance to feel what I’m talking about in a few minutes.”
I smiled, reassured.
“Really, the main drawback to a revolver for home defense is capacity.”
“I beg your pardon?”
“Capacity. Most revolvers hold only six rounds. In many situations—one or even two attackers—this is plenty. In some situations, however, the gun owner might find herself in a fight that requires more than six shots.”
I swallowed. “More?”
“A home invasion that ranges over a wide area, with no one immediately incapacitated, for example. Or if a second or third attacker was revealed after the first few shots were fired…” Andi turned her hands up, showing just how lame that would make one feel with one’s revolver plum out of bullets.
Nice. Real nice. As if my nightmares hadn’t been graphic enough before.
“But you’ll be just fine,” she said, and went back to instructing. “She’s short-barreled, see? She comes with a pinned black-ramp front sight and fixed rear sight.” As she talked, she pointed out the features. “Well balanced with the help of a full-lug three-inch barrel, and this rosewood grip feels great in your hand. And I have to say, the engraving here is as fine as it gets. Look at the scrollwork on the cylinder and all over the side plates?”
“Yes. It’s pretty.” Did people say that about guns? I was so lost.
“Have you ever shot a gun before?”
I shook my head no.
“We’ll get you out in the range in just a few minutes. You’ll have some fun then.” Andi smiled.
Seven hours later I arrived back in Hancock Park, with enough training on handgun safety and cleaning and loading and aiming and squeezing the trigger to give me a little confidence. For one thing, I wasn’t too bad out on the range. Not bad at all. Give Nintendo credit. For another, Andi told me that most defensive home handgun situations do not require you to hit a tiny circle on a target twenty yards away. Closer and larger targets are easier to hit. I found that comforting. Somewhat. Considering I was limited to six shots.
When I got to my room in the guest house, I found Wes and Holly were still out. They’d been working a small dinner party in Calabasas. I undressed, and then brought my gun case with me to the bathroom as I took a quick, hot shower. I pinned up my hair, put some cream on my face, and put on a fresh tank top and boxers, then, carting my gun case with me, I turned down my covers. I thought it over and then knelt down and put my new gun, case and all, under my bed. I turned out all the lights and then slid between the cool white sheets.
The house was quiet and very, very dark. I was exhausted. And yet I heard the ticking of Wesley’s grandfather clock coming from the living room. Tick-tock-tick-tock. It was extraordinarily loud. And then I heard the creaking of footsteps, or maybe that was just wind in the floorboards?
I flicked on the light, climbed out of bed, and pulled the case with the revolver—my revolver—my Lady Smith .38—out from under the bed and opened it up.
I knelt at the bed and prepared to load the gun just the way Andi taught me to. The filigreed, engraved satin finish gleamed. I checked out the patterns, which covered the barrel and other metal parts. It was then, for the first time, I saw a variation in one of the scrolls. What I had taken for a flourish on one of the curlicues on one of the side plates was actually a fanciful letter. It was an L or possibly an S. I stared. It quite possibly could have been a Q. How intriguing. I opened the box of bullets and began placing them in the six chambers.
Andi had warned me that revolvers don’t have safeties. She had advised me to be extremely careful with a loaded weapon. But there were no children in this household. And a gun was no good to me if it wasn’t close and convenient and loaded.
I fought the strong urge to put the gun under my pillow. Instead, I placed it on top of the nightstand and again turned out the bedside lamp.
I tossed a bit under the covers. The night was still warm enough to require only a sheet. I kept imagining outrageous calamities. Wesley’s maid comes in early and tiptoes into my room and inadvertently jostles the nightstand and…Impossible. Or, an early A.M. earthquake, one strong enough to knock the gun off the nightstand, then it hits the floor and discharges. In which direction would the bullet go?
I reached for the lamp switch. I climbed out of bed. I opened the drawer of the nightstand and moved my tangle of little thong underwear to one side. I carefully rested the Lady Smith in the drawer. Worst-case scenario, I’d grab the gun and have a pair of panties hanging from my fist.
That done, lights out, sheet perfectly arranged, I found I was finally able to get a good night’s sleep.
“I Got It Bad (AND THAT AIN’T GOOD)”
It’s funny how a good night’s sleep can change everything. I got up early and, first thing, unloaded my gun and stored it in its case, which, like a responsible adult, I then tucked into the nightstand drawer. The forceful wave of the previous evening’s paranoia was now spent and gone. I pulled on a fresh pair of yoga shorts and a white sleeveless top, thinking the usua
l, normal things—like wondering when I might find time to do my laundry, rather than worrisome things—like why my life had become enmeshed in so many crimes.
I left Wesley a note. He had been out late the previous night, so instead of cooking myself breakfast in the smart little guest-house kitchen and maybe waking him, I decided to walk up to the old Farmers Market, only three miles away.
The early-morning air was fresh, cool. I pushed myself, moving fast, getting my heart pumping. I strode down Hudson until I came to the first major thoroughfare and then jogged west along Third, admiring the stately old mansions in the neighborhood: the gray mock French Normandy; the lilac Gothic Revival; the ubiquitous Mediterraneans in white or pink or tan, each with exquisite landscaping and perfectly trimmed trees. The majestic corner homes shared an edge of their upscale property with modern, car-clogged Third Street. City life. Say hello to the honking reality of L.A. real estate.
I stepped up my pace. In a little while, I was going to meet with Dilly Swinden and Zenya Knight to firm up our plans for the flower-arranging luncheon Dilly had bought at the Woodburn auction. I’d ask them about the menu and their choice of wine. We’d discuss decor and I’d offer a selection of invitations. They had settled on next Monday for their party, and since the event was to be held in just six days, we would construct the invitations ourselves; then a few of our regular staff would hand-deliver the them later this afternoon. I was to receive the final guest list at our meeting.
Maybe I might find out more about Zenya’s brother as well. Maybe she and I would discover a quiet moment to chat. A sister could be a wonderful resource. Wait. What was I thinking? What was with me? I wished I would stop all this adolescent mooning. Somehow, Dex had wormed himself into my brain. I was, like, Dexified. Disgusting. Even as I drove home from the shooting range last night, it was Dexter Wyatt who filled my thoughts. Last night, just before I drifted off to sleep, it was Dexter Wyatt. Man!
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