Home on the Range

by ashatanii

So where did the idea come from, to return to work? Set between rehab and the legal fight Jim seeks a way to alieviate boredom.

Home on the range.

"Hey, Christie, my Polaroid's missing from my drawer. You know where it is?"

"No idea, Jim. I have to go."

"You never tossed it in one of your cleanups or something?"

"No. Well, maybe – look in the box in the closet. I haven't had a chance to take it to the charity shop yet."

"Christie, I wish you wouldn't do that."

"It's not like you'll need it again, Jim. I'll be back in an hour."

Her pronouncement hit him like a slap. It's not like you'll need it again. The words echoed around his head. But, that was Christie, sweet and clingy one minute, pushing harsh realities in his face the next and then wondering why he was "so touchy".

Jim sighed, maybe it was true that he'd never need it again, but shouldn't he be the one to decide? There, he had the box in the closet, and yes, there was his Polaroid. He placed it back in his drawer. It hadn't been used since the day of the shooting and he had assumed it was safe from prying eyes. He had a rule about Christie and his gun drawer. Clearly she thought the rules no longer applied.

She'd done a lot of clearing out while he'd been in hospital and then again while he was in rehab. That must be when the camera went. She said it was to make things easier for him, less stuff for him to trip over. He shook his head. It wasn't likely he'd trip over a camera that sat in a drawer but she'd find something to justify it though. Perhaps, "Don't want to remind you of things that might upset you." That was her latest one.

Jim shook his head and stretched his neck. It was a relief to be home alone. He'd have a couple of hours, knowing no one was looking at him. Sometimes he'd move suddenly and he'd hear footsteps walking away, or he'd feel her eyes on him and ask, "Christie? Are you there?" Usually there'd be no answer. Maybe she hadn't been watching, but, Jim shook his head, sometimes, he was sure he could hear her tip-toeing away. When he had told her, she said it was his over active imagination. That he was paranoid. And reminded him that the rehab people said that would happen.

He hated the way she just accepted things. Not the blindness, but other peoples' word on things. The people at rehab said others who went blind got paranoid, so Christie now assumed Jim would. Full stop, no possibility that he would be one of the one's who didn't. Sometimes he wondered if she'd forgotten whose side she was supposed to be on.

Often when he jumped at something unexpected, she'd comment, "Don't worry it's only, me or it's only a car horn, or whatever." Didn't she realize it wasn't the noise itself, but the unexpectedness? The worst was her sneaking up on him. He'd have a couple of hours alone and then suddenly she'd be there. If he didn't hear the door open, if he was listening to music or the TV or something, she'd suddenly appear, offering him coffee or touching him and giving him a reason to be paranoid. Couldn't she get it? Just let him know when she walked into a room. It couldn't be that hard. The number of shocks he got that sent his heart racing had to be shortening his life.

He laughed at himself. Jim Dunbar, the big homicide cop, having his adrenaline set off when he missed a step and his stomach jumped into this mouth, or an unexpected offer of coffee in his ear when he thought he was alone, or even just a touch on the shoulder when he thought she was a few feet away. Jim's face fell. Big homicide cop.

Jim opened the top drawer of his desk again and found his badge. He stood there, holding it. Wading through memories of being strong, confident, unafraid. It was why Christie said she had been attracted to him. He was unafraid. She said everyone else she knew was afraid of something: stock market crashes, bosses, changes in business, clients. But not him, not her man with the gun.

And now, here he was, trapped in his apartment, waiting. Waiting for her to say she'd go out with him, waiting to be good enough with that damn cane to make a trip on his own, waiting for the guide dog people to approve him for a more effective mobility aid.

It had been weeks since he had returned home from hospital. It seemed he had spent more time with Christie in the last few weeks than in all their years together. It brought the romantic out in him, her constant presence, her smell, and the silkiness of her skin, which he was constantly seeking these days. A mere brush past could trigger images of her body in his mind. He'd see it clear as day, her waist, her neck, her wrist - and with nothing to replace it, distracting him away, he found himself constantly wanting her. She hadn't responded to any of his advances, instead she'd murmured quietly, "It's too soon." For him? For her?

Jimmy Dunbar wanted to ask her about it. But he hadn't figured out what words to use. So instead he began listening for her movement and trying to avoid the accidental touch.

But he didn't always hear her and she had a habit of touching him to get his attention when he was concentrating elsewhere. Each time she startled him and he knew the fear was printed on his features, he'd turn away, hoping that she hadn't seen. And become gruff, hard, uncompromising. So they didn't talk, he gave up on making advances and he hid his fear. And he was afraid, deep down inside, he was afraid that this was the end of their marriage. A marriage that his infidelity hadn't managed to break, but maybe his blindness would. Maybe she just didn't find him attractive anymore.

Well, he wouldn't mope. No matter what they said at the hospital, at the rehab centre. No matter that Christie expected him to enter a period of depression. He would not do it. Jim Dunbar had never been a man to indulge in self-pity, and he would not start now. If she didn't want him, so be it.

He moved his fingers slowly over the gold shield, the image of it clear and strong in his mind's eye. Jim replaced the badge in the drawer, tucked it away where she couldn't come across it. His hand brushed his revolver and he sighed, feeling the cold metal against the back of his hand. He'd been so proud the day he got his first service revolver. How proud he had been, how confident, knowing no matter what came at him he could handle it. Pretty quickly it became another part of him, an extension of his hand. He'd been the best shot in his division for years. Always putting in time at the range, always improving. Jim smiled, what the hell. He pulled the gun from the drawer and attached it to his belt.

Moving toward the middle of the room, he found the kissing pole and stood with it squarely at his back. He planted his feet and drew his gun. "Freeze." He held the weapon straight, two hands, no shake. Solid. He wondered what it would take to shoot it? Could he find a target by sound alone? He re-holstered and pulled for a shot at the clock ticking on the mantle. Then he walked carefully over, one hand directly out in front to see what he would find. The clock. Hmm. Probably would have got it. Jim tried a few more, there were more sounds in the apartment than he would have thought possible, he had found them all over the last few weeks. Now they became targets in a shooting gallery. Safety on, he selected and shot, walked and checked. Serious, like a kid practicing cowboys, like he used to practice when he was a kid. Like a rookie at the range.

Jim's brow furrowed. Could he? He needed to do something, anything to keep from dying of boredom. He couldn't go to the police range, but perhaps a private one? Where was the phone? He turned quickly and wham! Hit the kissing pole. Unbalanced, he landed on his ass. The gun clutched in his hand and his breath coming fast. He waited while his heart slowed. Then got carefully to his feet, re-oriented on the pole, the couch and then took the gun back to the drawer.

A slight lump emerged on his head. Jim wondered if eagle eyes would spot it or if it was camouflaged by earlier bumps and bruises.

He stopped abruptly, realizing that he was walking to the bathroom to check in the mirror.

If someone had told him, before the shooting, that he would constantly forget he was blind, he might have believed them, if they had told him when it first happened, he would have said never. Now he found it did happen. Another thing that unnerved him and set his heart racing. Half way through an action Jim would recoil, remembering that he was blind.

The first time it had happened, Christie had been lying down with a terrible headache. When it finally got too bad and she asked her husband to go to the store for drugs, he had kissed her on the head, saying "back in a minute" as he had done a dozen times before. And then stood a full minute at the front door with the car keys still in his hand, his heart beating fast as if to help him run away from the dark, before replacing them in the bowl, getting his new white cane from next to the desk and walking out the door.

Driving, reading the mail, checking his teeth for broccoli, looking up a number in the directory or an address on a map. There were so many things that could make him re-live that moment when he first understood what the doctors meant when they said he was blind.

He guessed this was one of the things that set of depression in others, not for him. Jim knew he would take it on the chin, laugh when he could and move past it. Frankly, he'd rather get hurt running into walls like that than safe living in a cocoon. He found the phone instead of the mirror and started dialing information.

Several disappointing calls later the man he was talking to gave him a number. "We can't offer you anything. But call this number; they may be able to help you where we can't."

Jim dialed.

"Zamborgini's."

"I was given this number as a pistol range?"

"Minyetti give you this number?" The voice was of an older man, breathing heavy, asthmatic or emphesymic.

"Yeah, sure."

There was a long pause. "Why you not using a regular range?" the man finally wheezed.

Jim thought for a minute, this was definitely a range in the shade, a place where hoods went to practice killing good guys. They had sprung up allover the place when the police had begun using the ranges as a way to track gun users.

There had been a time when Jim was a kid, he and his friends skirted and broke the law in youthful exuberance. One particular day they had been joyriding and the police had swooped down, Jimmy and two friends managed to hightail it out and watched from a nearby building while the driver was questioned and taken away by the police. He'd made a decision then, on which side of that particular fight he would stand. This range stood on the other side of his fence.

But although running these private ranges was frowned on and the police did all they could to harass them and shut them down, they were not exactly illegal. Jim swallowed, the chance to use a regular range was out of the question, his few calls so far had made that perfectly clear. "Perhaps I'm not too welcome in some of those."

The man on the phone grunted. He gave him an address. "Bring cash."

Jim found his heart beating strongly, this time with anticipation. But adrenaline from taking a proactive step was a hundred times better than adrenaline from being startled. He almost laughed. Okay, so finding the place was going to be an adventure, but that's what cabs were for. He dialed again.

Waiting at the door to the apartment building, Jim was getting antsy. He jingled the electronic button in his pocket; a transistor as small as an LED light, that beeped when it was set off by the transmitter in his other pocket. One of his COs in the infantry had used these to train the men for night tours; to bring up their skills on listening for targets. So now, it would be his method. If he could locate the sound accurately and knew the distance from the bottom of the sheet where he placed his transistor, to the bull's eye, he should have a chance.

The wait for the cabbie was going on too long. If Christie arrived and found him standing here he'd have a fight on his hands. The cab said ten minutes but it was twenty already. He resisted the urge to check his watch again. The phone rang in his pocket. "Detective Dunbar?"

"Yes."

"I'm your cab and I'm wondering when you'll be down?"

"Where are you?"

"Right outside your building."

"Right." He had forgotten to mention he was blind, that he would need the cabbie to call out to him. Shit. "OK, can you see a guy standing next to the apartment door? Blonde, 6' or so?

"Yeah?"

"That's me, I'm moving forward… with the cane?"

"Oh yeah I see you. Oh, shit," the cabbie laughed, "sorry mate, I didn't realize. I'm about ten feet in front of you at 11 o'clock."

"Thanks." By the time the conversation had ended Jim found himself at the cab, a hand on his arm and the door opened in front of him. "Thanks. Hey, can I sit in front with you?"

"Sure." The door slammed and the next opened, Jim reached out, ran his hand along the roof and found the opening, he folded his cane, took a seat.

"I'm sorry I forgot to mention…."

"No, it's alright, I got a friend who's blind and no matter how many times I tell him to tell the cabbie, he always forgets, too. With him it's ego. But with you I'd say you actually forgot."

Jim laughed. "Oh, why would you say that?"

Quiet. "Ahh, I don't want to be rude…"

"No, go ahead, I'd appreciate a little candid conversation, believe me."

"Well, you look like you could still forget you're blind, like it's new I guess. Am I right?"

"What makes you say that?"

"Well, let's see, you're turning around to look at me when I talk right now. And back there, on the sidewalk, I could swear you looked at the phone to see who was calling before you answered it."

Jim nodded, this guy was good, checking the phone for caller ID was one of those things that jolted him sometimes. "You ever thought about becoming a detective?"

The cabbie laughed, "Detective, I wish. When I failed my written test for the police force for the second time I decided I liked driving cabs. Now where are we off to?"

Jim gave him the address and settled back. It was quite a distance.

"You want a quiet ride or to talk?"

"Talk." Jim turned to the driver. "Talk would be good." He gave a self-conscious laugh. "I'm doing it again. Looking at you…"

"It's a good thing. You know people who are born blind have to learn that."

"I guess they would. So how do you know so much?"

"Well, like I said, I have a buddy who's blind. And I'm naturally curious. Where we going?

"A shooting range."

"You going to the rifle range to shoot?"

"Pistol, but yeah, I hope so." Jim gave him a potted version of the story.

"So how long you been off work?"

"Couple of months."

The cabbie whistled. "Eight weeks? And you're off to the range. That's balls man. I reckon a normal guy would still be falling on his ass, not figuring ways to sneak into a shooting range."

Jim laughed again. "Don't worry, I am. But I can't just sit around and do nothing."

"I always thought rehab was a lot of work?"

Boy, this guy knew how to talk and didn't seem to do any of the usual pussyfooting around. Refreshing really. Jim shrugged. "Yeah, but you know, there's only so many ways to cross a street. Even that gets boring."

"Hey you're talking to a cab driver here; I wish more people would get shot so they had to take the kind of lessons they give in rehab for crossing streets!" The cabbie smiled to take the sting out of his words. "Hey, I didn't mean-"

Jim cut him off with a wave of his hand. "Pedestrians really a problem?"

"You're kidding right?" When Jim shook his head the driver continued, "You know that game, where you get points for hitting the grannies, the geeks, and the "challenged" with your car?"

Jim nodded.

"Yeah, well, us cabbies know, the reason the blind ones give the most points is not because it's the most taboo – it's because they think about how to cross a street so they're harder to hit. Truth be told, if I played that game in real life instead of in my head, I'd do a hundred points a day with the number of people who throw themselves at my cab. And none from blind guys."

"I never knew. So, you reckon all those cabbies were innocent – the ones I've collared for manslaughter?" Jim could feel the other man's gaze and kept a straight face. After a while he wondered if he'd just alienated the man.

"Ah, you're kidding. You had me there for a while but I can see it, you've got a smile hiding under there."

Jim lost his fight not to smile let his grin loose. "Gotcha."

They laughed and continued in companionable silence for a while. At the next red light, as the cabbie pulled up Jim held his hand out. "Jim Dunbar."

The cabbie grabbed his in a strong grip. "Gary Garner. My friends call me Garner. Do you think you'll have any trouble getting them to let you on the range?"

"Well, they sound pretty dodgy. And I didn't tell them about this." He waved his hand in front of his eyes.

Garner made a sound like coffee going up his nose. "And how much can you see?"

Jim took a deep breath. "Nothing."

Another very strange sound came from the driver's seat. Garner attempting to hold in a major laugh. "You're shitting me?"

"No."

"Um, some advice?"

"Not if you're going to tell me to give up."

"No, I wouldn't dare. You'd probably pull out a gun and make me drive you there."

Jim relaxed, hearing the laughter in Garner's voice.

"Okay, give me your advice."

Garner took on a conspiratorial tone. "You want to have them thinking you've got at least some vision. So it's not such a leap for them to let you in. Then once you get on the range, you'll be able to show them you're cool."

"Hmm, and do you have any ideas on how I do that?"

"Well, you can't be uncertain when you walk in there. You gotta look like you know where you're heading."

Jim started to feel a little deflated; Garner was right. He gripped his cane a little harder.

Garner watched Jim, head tilted, staring out the side window, worrying at his lip. Probably wondering if he'd even manage to get in. "Tell you what, my shift's about over, why don't I do a recon for you, give you the layout and stuff, it might help?"

"You'd do that for me?"

Garner laughed. "You kidding? Doing recon for a detective, this would be the highlight of my day."

They hatched their plan.

Garner got back into the cab. "Okay, this place is a gym on the outside. I'll drive up so that you're directly in front of the door, 12 o'clock about 14 feet. The door pushes inward. Once you're in, the reception desk is about 20 feet, sorry, didn't dare walk it, I would have looked suspicious, and it's to your left at about 10:30. There's a fridge behind it – maybe you can hear that – I couldn't but Jed tells me he can hear fridges.

"Don't walk more than 5 feet into the place, there's a brick wall directly in front of the door – a dead giveaway if you walk into that.

Jim nodded, it sounded easy so far.

"You go and do your sweet talking and then when you're ready you press redial on your phone and I'll come in. After than we're on improv."

"Improv?"

"Improvisation – I took some acting lessons a while back."

Jim smiled. "You really are enjoying this aren't you?"

"You betcha. – and I expect a good word from you when I apply next."

"If we're successful here, and I actually make it onto the range, I'll write you a recommendation myself."

Jim stepped out, squared off and, holding the cane confidently in his hand, moved into play.

He traversed the sidewalk, the doors showed up on cue and Jim pushed them open, stepped in and nearly gagged. The stench was unexpected. The police range was run by an old army sergeant and the only smells there were gun related. The smells here were an unreadable mix but definitely a heavy component of sweat, alcohol, perhaps even some weed. He turned to the left, he couldn't hear anything over there, no fridge sound, no person.

18 feet and his cane hit something, solid, yes the reception desk. He reached it and folded his cane. If someone was there they'd be sure to notice him in a second and he'd rather look busy than blind.

A door closed in front of him and a young man spoke up. "We're full."

"I called earlier and was told I could get onto a range here."

Quiet.

"I spoke to an older man."

The door slammed in front of him again. Jim squared his shoulders and waited.

The door opened and he could hear the labored breathing of a very unhealthy man in front of him. "You bring cash?"

"I brought cash."

"Register." Something landed heavily on the counter in front of him. Jim's mouth tightened into a line. He hadn't thought of this, he reached into his pocket for his cell when he heard the door open behind him.

"Jim, there you are, sorry, I had to park." Garner's voice came from the door. "Here, let me get that." Garner slid the heavy book over, "You got a pen?"

The older man wheezed again, "You got pieces? I got one laser, it's an extra twenny."

"We'll take it."

The old man turned several keys in a cupboard under the desk and rummaged through. Jim turned around to take cash from his wallet, quickly unfolding the money and smoothing it before turning back. When the man was standing again he held it out and was given a heavy parcel and a key on a ring with something soft and disgusting dangling on the end. He held it out to Garner.

"Put the laser and the keys in this slot when you are done. Your alley is through the door that says sauna. You sign out now as well as signing in." And the man was gone, the door slamming behind him.

Garner laughed again, Jim couldn't help grinning. This place might be a hole, a dump and violating several city ordnances, but he was here and it seemed they were going to have some fun, no matter what. The sound of Garner's laughter now competed with the sound of a movie playing full blast behind the door back of the counter. Jim couldn't tell if it was a western or porn.

"Where's this register?"

"Here, I'm signing in as Super Duck. Who do you want to be?"

"Super Duck?"

"Well, Mickey Mouse and Daffy are both taken."

"You're joking right?"

"Nope. The last four registrations in and out are Mickey Mouse, Hitler, Daffy Duck and Marilyn Munroe."

Garner pushed a pen into Jim's hand. "Who you going to be? DareDevil?"

"Okay." Jim felt as Garner moved his hand to the right spot and Jim signed. DareDevil. "Garner, you have to stop laughing, I mean, the guy will hear you."

"No need to worry, Jim, you should see him, I reckon as long as you pay the cash, he'd let you on if you were blind, deaf and paralyzed."

Garner began opening the parcel. "This is cool. You used one of these before?"

Jim put his hand over Garner's. "Better not open that until we're inside. Let's go, it'll be soundproof so we can talk in there."

"Got it. This way."

Through the door labeled sauna was a long thin room, weak fluorescent lighting flickered annoyingly. Garner stopped, unsure of what to do next.

Jim turned. "Give me the keys." Garner dropped them in his open hand. "What is this thing?" Jim fingered the bobbing attachment to the keyring.

"It's a soft toy, you know, like girls have on their key rings, this one looks like it used to be Shrek or, maybe it's Scully." Garner looked at Jim's uncomprehending face. But Jim was busy locking the door from the inside.

"That a good idea?"

"Standard procedure, if you're using live rounds you don't want someone walking in unexpectedly. Now, can you walk me around the room? I need to know where everything is, then you can open that package and have a go."

"I get a go, too?"

"Sure, why not?" Jim smiled.

Garner took Jim around the room. He got the dimensions, made sure the alley was clear of spent ammunition and they found the supply cupboard where the targets, safety gear and cleanup materials were kept.

"Hey, you being a cop and all, this place looks kind of dodgy. Are we breaking the law?"

Jim spoke while he removed his coat and jacket, rolled up his sleeves and adjusted his holster. "Actually no, if we were underage, or if the proprietor had asked me any of the questions he was supposed to, like do I have a license, then yeah we would be. But, no, I can't see anything illegal around here."

Garner laughed again. "You have a way with words, you should be a comedian."

"So what do we do now?"

Jim attached the small beeper to the lower edge of the cardboard target. He ran his hands over the printed figure. "Tell me when my hand is on the face?"

"Now."

"So, this is the shoulder?" Jim moved his hand.

"A little to the right, you're at about heart level I reckon."

Jim worked the target up and down, side to side until he had a very clear picture in his mind's eye. The beeper was 16 inches from the centre.

"That wire we found before, the one that runs along the centre of the alley?

"Yes."

"Take me to it, there should be a clip to hang this on."

Jim positioned the target along the wire running deep into the alley. He set it close, about 15 feet from the shooting line.

"You need to stand behind me, here. No moving under any circumstances."

"Hey, I don't want to get shot."

"There should be some ear protectors around?"

"Here." Garner held out a pair of battered protectors that looked like someone's old headphones.

"Put 'em on."

"What about you?"

Jim cocked his head. "And how would I hear the target if I wore those?"

"You got a point."

With Garner safely behind him, Jim loaded his gun, pressed the remote and the small beeps began chirping from the button on the target. He steadied. Breathed. Closed his eyes and held an image of the target in his head. He moved his head slightly side to side, finding the exact position of the beeper. Stepping forward on his left foot he brought his hands up, opened his eyes, removed the safety and fired. The recoil from his small handgun was like a lover's kiss, long gone but not forgotten. He welcomed it back. Pressed the transmitter in his pocket and listened, aimed, and fired. Once, twice, three times, four times, five and six. With every bullet Jim felt like he was releasing days of built up tension. In silence he reloaded his gun three times.

By the time the first target sheet sheared across the middle and the transistor fell to the ground he had heard the paper snap over a dozen times. A dozen hits in a two foot square out of 28 bullets was not going to win him any competitions, but it was a hell of a lot better than anyone would expect of a blind man. Jim knew he needed to work hard if he were to get back to anything close to effective.

He put the safety on and holstered his gun.

Garner took off his ear protectors. "I'm gonna go get it, alright, no shooting me?"

"Go." Jim stood calmly, his breathing deep. He felt relaxed for the first time in a long time. His ears were ringing, he could feel a burn in his arm and a warm feeling deep inside. It didn't quite reach his face, he wanted to know his results.

"Fucking hell, Jim, you tore it in half." Garner's voice rose with excitement. Jim held out his hand and took the target. There were several hits on each the edge of the board, but the majority were within the inner half. Many were low, or high. Only about four had been killing shots.

"Can you see the holes when the target's down the alley?"

"Sure."

"Good. This time, I'm going to stop between shots and you tell me where I hit."

Garner reattached the beeper and took the target to the same spot. Jim reloaded, made sure Garner was behind him in the oversized muffs, and fired.

"Right shoulder, here." Garner touched Jim's right shoulder.

"His right or my right?"

"His right, your left."

"Got it." Jim readied himself, listened for the beep, held the image and fired.

"Dead centre."

Over and over again they repeated the procedure. Finally, after verifying he had made five holes in the sheet and four in the target Jim turned to Garner. "I'm done for today, you want a go?"

"Me? Do I ever."

"Get the laser, and the other targets we found in the storage cupboard. You right or left handed?"

"Right." Jim had Garner set up the target at about 15 feet.

With Garner holding the laser gun Jim gave him the basics. "When you press the trigger here, it opens the window and the laser is released and re-shuttered. These targets are photo sensitive and your shot will show up as a shiny black spot." Jim showed him how to hold the gun, the safety and the trigger. "First rule, you need to think of this just like a gun. Never point this at anyone. The laser is strong and can ruin someone's eyes. Especially don't point it at me, I won't know and won't move to avoid it."

"Got it, not a toy."

Jim nodded. "Second rule, you need to be balanced so that your hands don't move when you pull the trigger. Use your left hand to steady your right, like this." Jim demonstrated and then checked Garner's positioning.

"Alright. I'll stand behind you, always good policy. You shoot at will. Then we'll see how you went."

Garner missed the target completely in the first half a dozen attempts. Patiently, Jim questioned him on what was happening. Finally, unable to figure out why Garner was missing he put his hand on Garner's shoulder while he fired.

"Your arm is lifting every time you pull the trigger. You're shooting above the target." This time Jim held his hand over Garner's arm and they both felt the rise.

This made all the difference and soon Garner was putting black spots on the target like jelly on toast. All over. Jim smiled as he ran his hands lightly over the surface. The laser spot was smoother than the rest of the cardboard. Swiss cheese. Garner was very happy with his results.

"Not bad for a rookie. You sure you don't need glasses?" Jim carefully rolled his targets and placed them in his deep Burberry pocket.

"No." Garner sounded aggrieved.

"Good, then go collect all the spent bullets. If you don't need glasses you won't miss any."

"Why do that?" Garner began picking up spent bullets from the back of the alley.

"When a bullet is fired it picks up scratches which act like an identification tag. One way we locate criminals is by identifying which gun shot which bullet. Forensics could identify any of these bullets as having come from my gun. So I don't like them floating around."

"Here." Garner dropped the used ammunition into the bag Jim held out.

Jim counted them. "Excellent." He pulled out his cane and headed to the door.

"Maybe we should do without that. You know, not rub their noses in it? You want to come back again right?"

"Absolutely. What do you suggest?"

"I'll just keep talking, you stay a step behind. You hang at the sauna door and when I'm at the outside door you can join me."

The idea was solid, apart from the vending machine placed between the sauna door and the main entrance that Garner had forgotten.

Jim settled into the cab with a huge smile on his face. Garner was still talking, "Detective Dunbar, you were so good you should go ask for your job back! Did you see his face when you walked into that vending machine!" The biggest smile was plastered on Jim's face. It had been a long time since he had had so much fun.

Jim waited happily until Garner had finished laughing. He enjoyed the sound of the young man's laugh. It felt like a long time since he had laughed with the guys. Traded insults and jokes. Now Jim landed his end of the joke. "No, Garner, I must have missed that one."

"Oh, shit, you should have seen it, man. It was perfect. His mouth hung open, his eyes bulged and his face turned blue 'cause he forgot to breathe! He looked at you like you'd grown horns and sprouted a tail. But then there you were sweet talking, about your buddies looking for a new place to hang out, doing a little dance on how good his range was! You saved it, baby you saved it." A playful punch landed on his shoulder and Jim felt a warm glow of affection.

"Man, you should go get your job back. I mean you hit at least half the targets."

Jim shook his head. "No, Garner, detectives rarely even get to pull out their guns, and shoot them. You can go for years as a detective and never have to draw your gun. Being a detective is more about assessing the significance of evidence, tracing clues. Cases get closed by putting the pieces of the puzzle together in here." He tapped his head.

"Sounds like maybe you could still do it then, even like that. In New York detectives always have a partner right? So find a dumb one with good eyes. Like me."

Jim waved the suggestion away. "Come on, Garner, talking about fairy stories - I gotta get home, my angel wife is going to be growing horns and tail."

"What, you didn't leave her a note?"

"Nah."

Garner turned a corner and got back into the ribbing. "And you even hit the paper once or twice."

"Once or twice?"

"Okay, so you hit it more often than me, big deal – you're supposed to, you're a cop."

Jim felt the wad of rolled targets in his pocket and smiled to himself. He was a cop. And today, it had been like being undercover. He had gone in there, picked up what he needed on the way, and made it. And being a detective was not about how good you could shoot. Ten years as a gold shield and Jim knew that for a fact.

Back on the job, not at a desk, not retired but back on the job. It was something to think about.

"Bye, Honey." Christie stroked his hair and kissed him on the side of his face. He hadn't jumped, even though he had thought she was already at the door, maybe he was getting better at this, less antsy. "You won't get bored? You sure you don't want to come with me?"

"No, you go have fun. I'll get some practice in with the cane. So if I'm out when you get back, don't worry. Call me if you need to." Truth was he couldn't wait for her to leave. He had his third booking at the range, and it was all he could to do to keep the anticipation off his face. She'd surely be suspicious if she noticed.

The door slammed behind her and he grabbed his phone. "Garner, we're on."