Sophie Littlefield - A Bad Day for Sorry

Stella prayed that was true.

Thought of Goat, of his broad shoulders and strong arms and determined jaw and—she couldn’t help it—of that heavy belt with his service revolver and cuffs, and was sorely tempted to call him. But Goat couldn’t go in the way they needed to, which was to say, sneaky and immediate.

“Honey,” Stella said. “We’re going to use whatever tricks we need to until we find Tucker. Even, you know, unlawful-type tricks.”

“Yeah, I know.”

“I just didn’t want you to think that I was worried about getting caught or something. I don’t mind that. I mean, I’d mind, I guess, going to jail and all that, but Tucker comes first.”

That made Chrissy smile. “Yeah, right. You’d probably love getting arrested. ’Cause then Sheriff Jones would have to frisk you and all. Prob’ly strip-search you.”

“Chrissy!” Stella exclaimed, shocked.

“Well, come on, you’re all googly when he’s around. It’s, like, obvious.”

“I am no such thing!” Stella could feel the blush creeping up her face.

“Oh, please, Stella, when he’s around your voice goes up and you twist your hair and all that. You might as well hang a sign around your neck says ‘do me now.’ Hey, it ain’t a bad thing, is it? I mean, you got to signal to the man you’re interested somehow, don’t you? I guess you could come right out and ask him out, but you probably want him to ask you first or something like that, right?”

“I can’t—I wouldn’t—Chrissy, he’s a law man, for crying out loud. I’m… not.”

“My ma’s a Baptist and my dad won’t go in a church,” Chrissy said. “She likes spicy food and he don’t. She’s itching to go on one of those RV trips and he wants to go to Branson. But they get on good. Conflict’s like the center of every good relationship, you know?”

“I’m not talking about conflict here, I’m—listen, can we drop this subject? We got to get ready, don’t we?”

Chrissy shrugged and gathered up the plates and glasses, but she had a smirky little expression that didn’t fade even as they worked side by side in the kitchen cleaning up.

Stella retired to her room to prepare for the rest of the evening. The stitches in her face itched fiercely, and any lingering effects of the pain medication had long since dissipated. She dabbed around the edges with the Betadine swabs they gave her at the hospital, and smoothed on a little antibiotic ointment. At first she tried to apply it just to the worst spots, but eventually she gave up, squeezed out a glob and rubbed it all over her face, then frowned at the result: now she was puffy, bruised, scabbed, and cursed with excess shine. She considered dabbing on a little concealer and then realized how ridiculous the idea was: pretty didn’t really play into her agenda.

Which led her to go over the plan. Essentially, there wasn’t one, other than to get close enough to Benning and Funzi and the others to find out what they were up to. Yeah. Maybe they’d be sitting in a kiddie pool unarmed, drinking root beer and talking about where they’d stashed Tucker and the best way for someone to sneak up and take him back.

Stella snorted with disgust as she pulled her hair back and secured it in a short ponytail with an elastic. It was far more likely that she and Chrissy were going to have to beat the information out of one of them. With any luck they’d be able to separate one of the losers from the rest, and somehow make him tell them everything, all without causing the others to wonder where their friend had got off to.

And that’s if Funzi and his associates were even at Benning’s. Maybe it was bowling night, or maybe they’d got tired of the local color and gone back up to Kansas City. They could try to get something out of Benning and his skinny-ass girlfriend, if that was the case, but if Roy Dean had somehow ended up bringing Tucker into the mess, and now the goons were gone, Tucker was probably gone with them. Stella didn’t like thinking about that one bit.

No, it would be better if it was another boys’ night at the play house.

She pulled on the pair of loose camo pants and black T-shirt they’d bought at the Wal-Mart, and laced up her hiking boots. She surveyed herself in the mirror: with her hair up and her mangled face, she looked like a kid who couldn’t decide what to be for Halloween, Rambo or Frankenstein.

Disgusted, she went to the garage and loaded up her backpack with supplies. In addition to a pair of powerful LED flashlights she packed a coil of nylon rope, a utility knife, a compact set of bolt cutters, pliers, her cell phone, and bottled water.

Chrissy was in the kitchen with the box she’d brought from home, strapping a shoulder holster over her own black T-shirt. It crossed in the back and bisected her generous bosom in the front. She picked up the Makarov, gave it a fond little dusting with her fingertips, and slipped it in the leather holder.

She’d tucked her camo pant legs into pink high-top Converse sneakers. Stella couldn’t help grinning at the sight of her; with her ample curves and blond ringlets spilling from her baseball hat, she looked like a demolition cherub.

Stella put on her own abdomen holster and patted the Ruger. After shooting it earlier, it had become comfortable in her hands, and she liked the feel of it close by.

“You take the big knife,” she told Chrissy, rummaging in the box for an ankle holster. She found one, a Velcro and nylon model that fit the knife as though it had been made for it.

“What about you?”

Stella thought for a moment. The other knives that Chrissy brought were small and wouldn’t have much stopping power, and there didn’t seem to be much point to bringing them, especially as she’d packed her utility knife.

Stella had a sudden thought and went to Noelle’s old room, where she stored all her sewing supplies. Since she started her second business, her sewing machine had been gathering dust, but her best Gingher scissors were in the tool caddy where she left them. They were weighty in her hand, a good pair of nine-inch trimmers.

On a whim she grabbed her rotary cutter, too. She made sure the safety was on and slipped it into her pocket.

Back in the kitchen, she found another ankle holster, an old leather one with buckles, which she fitted carefully to her leg. The scissors fit well in the sheath, their handles sticking up in easy reach.

Stella got a couple of Advil, considered them for a moment, and added two more, gulping them down with a glass of ginger ale.

“Bad?” Chrissy asked, watching her.

Stella shrugged. “I don’t feel the best I ever have,” she admitted, “but the smartin’s gone down, mostly.”

“You look good,” Chrissy said.

“You got to be kidding.”

“No. I ain’t. You look like trouble with a capital T.”

Stella wiped her mouth on her arm and burped. “Well then, I guess I can’t ask for much more, right? Let’s get this show on the road.”

She was reaching for her backpack when the doorbell sounded. Stella froze and glanced at Chrissy, who was smoothing down her T-shirt under the cross-body holster.

“Shit,” she said. “Who the hell—”

“You got to answer it, Stella,” Chrissy said urgently. “You don’t want folks wondering where you are. Plus, it could be the sheriff.”

Stella grabbed an apron off a hook on the wall and tossed it to Chrissy. It read “Your Opinion Wasn’t in the Recipe” and had been a gift from a client who’d bought herself a matching one once her husband had learned the hard way not to criticize.

As Chrissy hastily tied on the bright red apron, Stella tugged her pants legs over her ankle holster as well as she could and yanked her T-shirt low to cover the bulge across her stomach. They looked each other over and Chrissy gave Stella a thumbs-up.