J. Bertrand - Nothing to Hide

She rolls her eyes. “ The Song of Roland . Don’t get me started. That was the first one we had to read. If that’s chivalry, then you can have it. That book infuriates me.”

“Really.” I flip through the pages, many of which are underscored. I’m familiar with the story, of course, though I can’t recall having actually read the poem. In fact, before now I’m not sure I realized it was a poem, with all the stanzas and verses. “He’s supposed to blow the horn to signal the ambush, is that it?”

“He’s supposed to blow it if they need help. Only Roland’s too proud for that, so he waits and waits until everybody’s basically dead. Does that sound like heroism to you?”

“Actually, it kind of does.”

She snatches the book in mock outrage. “It’s not bravery, though. It’s stupidity.”

“Don’t let your professor hear you. That book’s a classic.”

“It’s all right,” she says. “We’re allowed not to like them. It’s even encouraged.”

I could sit and argue about books I haven’t read for hours. I want to stick up for my namesake, for the whole tradition of chivalry, for the stupid pride that would lead a man not to give his enemies the satisfaction of blowing the horn. At the back of my mind, some history stirs, something I saw on television or maybe read years ago in college.

“Sir Francis Drake,” I tell her, “when he was sailing into some Spanish port or other, and all their cannon started firing at his ship-or maybe it’s Walter Raleigh I’m thinking of. Anyway, when the Spanish artillery opened up, instead of shooting back, he got his trumpeters on deck and had them blow a note.”

“What?”

“That was his reply. His way of putting them in their place.”

“That sounds stupid, too.” She shakes her head at the ways of men. “If he was smart, he should have fired his guns at them. Unless those were really nasty trumpeters or something.”

“It was like he was saying, Your efforts are beneath my contempt. He was insulting them.”

She gives me an indulgent smile.

“Hey, I’m just saying, that stuff speaks to me. Don’t dismiss Sir Roland out of hand. You weren’t there.”

“Okay,” she says. “Just promise me you’re not going to follow his example.”

“You sound like Charlotte.”

“I’ll take that as a compliment.”

“It is a compliment, kid.”

After the last of the gear is packed, the photographer leans down to touch Gina on the tummy and kiss her cheek. “New life,” she says under her breath. Gina beams up at her, a bookish, impish, argumentative and glowing earth mother at the height of her charms.

The uncle who raised me, after leaving the Houston Police Department on disability when a stray truck jackknifed his cruiser during a pursuit, used some settlement money to buy himself a modest gun shop on Richmond. He’d give his former colleagues deep discounts on their purchases, which ensured the place was always filled with cops. When I was a teen, I used to work with him behind the counter, learning everything there is to know about firearms. And every time a tropical storm blew through, dumping so much rain into the parking lot that we and the little jewelry shop next door would end up with an inch of standing water on the floor, it was me who mopped up the mess.

The Shooter’s Paradise on I-10 couldn’t be more different than my uncle’s establishment. Vast and brightly lit by shining fluorescents, its spotless glass cases are packed with an endless variety of pistols and revolvers, from entry-level Glocks and SIGs to exotic race guns with fancy anodized frames. If longarms are your preference, they have those, too, along with a selection of custom leather holsters that would normally require months of waiting to obtain. As I know too well. Every surface gleams, every item is displayed with the care of a museum exhibit. It’s a pistoleer’s boutique, a lifelong NRA member’s idea of what heaven will be like.

But the attraction for me is in back.

One of the managers recognizes me from behind the counter, motioning toward the double doors at the rear of the shop.

“They’ve already started,” he says, “so you better get moving.”

I nod my thanks.

An acquaintance on the SWAT team first tipped me off to the league, suggesting I might want to brush up my skills. The Shooter’s Paradise, in addition to the showroom, boasts a state-of-the-art pistol range with twenty lanes, excellent ventilation, and even a soundproof observation gallery so you can watch the action without having to wear ear protection. On Thursdays, a loosely organized club gets together, arranging a series of tactical targets and running one member after another through the course. At the end of the night, the shooters compare rankings and head over to the taquería next door.

In the vestibule I run into a couple of latecomers.

“Hey, Roland, how’s it hanging? We thought you were bailing on us this time.”

We shoot the breeze as we strap on our gear. Meaningless small talk. There are a couple of law enforcement types in the club, but no one who knows me. I keep pretty much to myself. I’m here to blow off steam, not make new buddies. Still, there’s a charm to it all-the macho camaraderie, the obsessive focus on performance, the specialized vocabulary. Egregious rule-breakers, when they’re penalized, are charged with a “failure to do right.” I like the term. What is a homicide detective if not the living embodiment of such a charge. Do right and you’ll never tangle with me. Fail to do right, and there I am.

“I see you dropped some dollars on a new rig,” one of the guys says.

I pause in the midst of adjusting my new holster, the new matte-silver Browning inside. “I didn’t plan it. You just get sucked in, you know?”

When I started the league, I was shooting with my off-duty piece, a.40 caliber Kahr with all the sharp edges melted away. Long ago, the Kahr went to Teddy Jacobson for some work, coming back with an action slicker than glass. It’s a flat, short-barreled hideaway pistol, but I can hit targets with accuracy much farther out than you’d expect.

But after a couple of weeks, all the club’s magazine changes and malfunction drills had me yearning for a full-size pistol. Instead of bringing my duty gun or springing for one of the usual plastic-framed, high-capacity numbers, I’d toured the glass cases at Shooter’s Paradise and gone a little crazy, ending up with a custom Novak Browning Hi-Power. Compact for its punch, slender, and all metal, with a crisp single-action trigger pull. It’s also a natural pointer, which I appreciate.

In addition to the standard thirteen-round mags, I’d bought a bunch of hi-cap South African magazines, bringing the total up to eighteen with one in the spout. And I’d picked up a couple hundred dollars’ worth of saddle-tan holsters and mag carriers, keeping it all in the new gym bag ready to go.

I feel a little guilty at all the expenditure. When Charlotte lays out money like this, I can’t help giving her a lecture. But she’s not here to return the favor.

Out on the range I add my name to the sign-up sheet, then file to the back of the line. Already the air smells of gun smoke. I put my things in an empty lane, locking the Hi-Power’s slide back and slipping it into my belt holster, one of the club’s safety requirements.

“Hey, man, how’s it hanging?”

I turn to find Jeff, another new guy, unloading his gear next to me. He wears jeans and a tight-fitting linen safari shirt with epaulets and button tabs securing the rolled-up sleeves. The look is more fashion than function, but he’s the only shooter here I’ve really warmed up to. Maybe because, unlike most people here, we both know what it’s like to be shot at.