Shot Girl

by J. A. Konrath

  The circular layout of the village, and the similarity of the buildings, made it confusing to navigate. Especially since the residents were sixty-five or older. To compensate for this, the buildings were all clearly marked with their respective letters, and signage abounded.

  Besides the apartments, the six resident buildings each had a smaller recreational room with tables and chairs, a vending area on each floor, and a center lobby with sofas, chairs, tables, and a television, usually used for visiting with families.

  The seventh building in the complex, Building A, housed the cafeteria and kitchen, security office, gym, rehab facilities, medical clinic, laundry, and large community rooms for meetings, bingo, movies, etc.

  There was also an eighth building, called H, to the west of the others, reserved for residents with later stage dementia.

  Because this retirement village only housed the elderly, I couldn’t live here even if I wanted to. But they did allow some adults over fifty into their rehabilitation programs.

  I barely made the age cut-off. Yay me.

  I followed Mrs. Shadid down the hall, to the middle of the building, and we got into the elevator.

  “I thought you were in the rec room,” she said.

  “Gotta help my mother find her body armor.”

  I pressed 6.

  We didn’t speak as we went up. Not an icy silence, but not exactly friendly, either.

  When the door opened, Mrs. Shadid waited for me to roll out. I headed for B65. When I got to Mom’s door, I lifted my hand to knock, then instinctively looked back down the hall.

  Mrs. Shadid stood in front of B62, unmoving. Not going into her room.

  What was she waiting for?

  Odd.

  I rapped my knuckles, and Mom answered.

  From my peripheral vision, I caught Mrs. Shadid opening her door just as I rolled inside.

  “Morning, Mom.”

  My mother didn’t look too hot. “Morning, dear.”

  “You okay?”

  “Yeah. Tired. Looked everywhere. Can’t find the vest.”

  Something was off about her. Her voice, kind of slow. As she walked away from me, her gait wobbled just a bit.

  I didn’t press it, and took a look around my mother’s room. I knew some residents had large apartments with three bedrooms, and others had just a studio. Mom had two bedrooms, one of them set up for Sam when she stayed overnight.

  Like hotels, the Darling Center had maid service, room service, and laundry service. Unlike hotels, it also had doctor service, nurse service, and orderly service. Every room had several panic button intercoms that would immediately summon help in case of a fall or medical emergency, and the bathrooms had railings and raised toilets. The bedrooms were also set up to accommodate medical or hospice care, with extra electrical outlets, wall IV hooks, and adjustable beds that could be fitted with railings.

  This was my mother’s third or fourth retirement home. She moved here expressly because I’d been shot, and their rehab program was one of the best in Florida.

  She also liked the bars here. A lot. And the Darling Center slung booze like a typical Florida resort; frequent and cheap and full service. It had a tiki bar, a night club, a music lounge, and drink carts, beer runners, and shot girls who prowled the pool area. Mom even played shot girl for a Caribbean party a few weeks ago, wearing coconut halves for a top and delivering Jamaican rum shots to every senior waving five bucks.

  Sizing up Mom, I wondered if maybe she’d been hitting the rum early.

  Or, in her case, late. Her bedroom door was closed, but I could clearly hear someone snoring from inside.

  “Mr. Camerotti?” I asked.

  “Mr. Camerotti dislocated a hip. That’s Mr. Feinstein. His Viagra wouldn’t wear off so he kept me up all night.”

  Maybe that’s why she was walking funny.

  I didn’t like to question my mother about her sex life for three main reasons; it was none of my business, she went into way too much detail, and I envied the fact that her love life was so much better than mine. So I stayed mum.

  “Did you check the bedroom for the vest?”

  “I did. I think it’s in one of the closets.”

  I rolled to the nearest closet, opened the door, and frowned.

  It was crammed full, every shelf overflowing, stuff practically spilling out.

  “Is your other closet this organized?”

  “It’s worse. This place is smaller than my last one, and I don’t have enough room.”

  I eyed some of the items jam-packed in there. “I see you have two typewriters. Planning on writing a book?”

  “Typewriters are coming back. Don’t judge.”

  “And several dozen VHS tapes of Columbo.”

  “You bought those for me, twenty years ago. That club where you got one tape a month in the mail. Haven’t gotten around to watching them yet.”

  “You can probably get the whole series on Blu-ray, and it would take up a lot less space. Do you even have a VCR?”

  “It’s in there somewhere. I think in the box with all the old Life magazines.”

  “Should I worry that you’ve become a hoarder?”

  “I’m not getting new stuff. I just don’t like parting with the old stuff. If you’re talking about hoarders, there’s a rumor we have one on this floor. I heard two maids talking. Stuff stacked to the ceiling, they said.”

  Retirement home gossip was another thing I never questioned Mom about, because she could go on and on and on, yakking about people I didn’t know and never would.

  It reminded me of high school. Except with more sex.

  I decided finding the vest wasn’t worth digging through all of her crap, and I closed the door, having to push on it because; jam-packed.

  “I’ll look for it later. I can fill the time with active shooting info.” I made a face. “If there is anyone even here, in this weather. Why am I bothering? Even with a full class, more than half of them don’t care.”

  My mom looked at me funny.

  “What?” I asked.

  “You think you’re doing this for them?”

  “Who else am I doing it for?”

  She continued to stare, and reality sunk in.

  “You didn’t get me to teach this class because you wanted your friends to know about firearms. You did it to get me to do something.”

  “Everyone needs to feel useful, Jacqueline. Especially when they feel the most useless.”

  “There’s a word for sneaky women who do things like that. It rhymes with hunt.”

  “We need to reclaim that word. And pussy, too. Why is calling someone a pussy equal to calling them weak? Pussies can take any penis you throw at them, pump out babies, and last a lifetime without needing erectile dysfunction pills. They’re tough and resilient and provide pleasure for those who own them and those who want to use them. We need to take pussy back. It should be a compliment. Someone is brave or strong, they should be called a pussy.”

  “No argument here.”

  “Women call each other sluts and bitches, don’t they? As a term of affection.”

  I nodded. “Yeah. And we’re late for my class, slut. Do you need to say goodbye to Mr. Feinstein before we go?”

  “I said goodbye to him earlier this morning.” Mom offered a lopsided smile. “That’s why he fell asleep again. Pussy power. Maybe I should get one of those pink hats.”

  “Maybe you’ve already got one, buried in the closet somewhere under a stack of LPs.”

  “LPs are also coming back. Seems like everything old and considered obsolete is coming back these days.”

  Sure.

  Everything but me.

  “I don’t have to be careful, I’ve got a gun.”

  MATT GROENING

  “Yes, people pull the trigger–but guns are the instrument of death. Gun control is necessary, and delay means more death and horror.”

  ELIOT SPITZER

  GAFF

  The stamp on my hand let
me back into the gun show, and I followed the XCQ bruh through the rows and rows of gun sellers until we got to a table that had a big sign with the word PAPER WEIGHTS on it.

  On the table were an assortment of brass knuckles, arranged on newspapers. The man standing behind the display was Asian, maybe ten years older than me, bare arms covered in tattoos.

  “Dude here just picked up an XCQ-TER9,” said the XCQ guy to the tattoo guy. “Looking for a paperweight.”

  “I got a perfect one right here for you.” Tattoo picked up one of the knuckle dusters. One that had spikes on two of the knuckles. “Two hundred.”

  Two hundred bucks for a cheap chunk of crap metal? Str8 trash.

  #HellsNo.

  I started to say something, and XCQ guy gave me a nudge. “Pay the man.”

  Total T-bagging.

  So WTF? Bounce?

  I tried to read the tattoo guy’s expression, but I was shit @ doing that. People all looked the same to me. So I pulled finesse.

  “Kinda high, bruh.”

  Tattoo guy smiled. “No negotiation. My shit is on brand. GOB brand, you know what I’m saying?”

  I didn’t know what he was saying. But XCQ nudged me. “This is what we were talking about.”

  Hol up.

  Paperweights.

  The giggle switch.

  K.

  I turned away, fished out two hundos, and handed them over. Tattoo guy squatted down, spent some time under the table cloth, then came up with a cheap box with a pic on it of the trash brass knuckles.

  I looked @ XCQ, and he smiled and nodded, so I took the box.

  Heavy. I gave it a shake, heard a metallic rattle.

  XCQ motioned for me to follow him.

  “It’s in the box with the knuckles. No install instructions, but you got the Internet, right?”

  I nodded.

  “Should be easy for a smart person like you. You also wanted extended mags, laser sights, and a compensator?”

  Hell yaaaas. “And ammo.”

  “Follow me, dude. We’re gonna pimp your nine out so hard it’ll crush. Pure GOAT.”

  He was trying too hard with the slang, but I got his point.

  I stuck the box in my pocket and let him lead me to the next booth.

  “If someone has a gun and is trying to kill you, it would be reasonable to shoot back with your own gun.”

  DALAI LAMA

  “We can protect the Second Amendment, we can protect our constitutional rights, and we can still do something about this public health crisis that is gun violence in our communities.”

  SETH MOULTON

  JACK

  The rec room wasn’t much bigger than my living room at home, boasting a few cheap tables, some folding chairs, a TV on the wall, a coffee machine with hotel-level accoutrements, and a wall-length window view of the swimming pool area, which had been closed by staff, all the lounge chairs and sun umbrellas put into storage, a cover stretched over the pool, and the outdoor bar shuttered. The palm trees in the courtyard shook like they were in a mosh pit. The sky was dark.

  There were five people waiting for us. Mr. Fincherello, from B41, wearing a green poplin suit over a blue Hawaiian shirt, leafing through a vintage copy of Mad Magazine with Jimmy Carter on the cover. At another table, Mrs. Garza and Mr. Shoop were engaged in an extremely public display of affection that seemed to center around passing the same pair of dentures from mouth to mouth. Mrs. Ramos sat across from them, oblivious, fully engaged in a po’ boy sandwich half-wrapped in foil. Mr. Traeger, from E33, wore a Darling Center bathrobe, and sipped coffee with an audible slurp.

  “I made coffee,” he said.

  I thanked him and beelined for the coffee cart, pouring myself a mug. The first sip brought me back to my cop days. It tasted like greasy dirt, with a hint of rust.

  Reminded me how much I missed my old partner, Herb Benedict.

  I checked my phone. Five after. Then I found my notes and looked at my bullet points on active shooter response.

  Heh. Bullet points. Maybe I should work that into the talk.

  “Good morning, everyone. Thanks for coming. We’re going to get started. A lot to cover today. Who can tell me what an active shooter is?”

  Mr. Fincherello spoke. “One of those wackos who comes in and tries to kill everybody. Like that guy in Pennsylvania who rented a hotel room and shot up that outdoor concert. Or those kids at Rathlin High School who murdered all those teachers and students. The Suburban Eliminators, I think they called themselves.”

  “Correct, Mr. Fincherello. Gregory Taylor Schneider and Tully Huffland. A dual shooter situation like that is actually pretty rare. It’s usually a lone wolf. The Department of Homeland Security defines an active shooter as an individual actively engaged in killing or attempting to kill people in a confined and populated area. They may have a single victim or group of victims in mind, like a school they attend or their place of employment. But what’s happening more often is the locations and victims are chosen at random. The only selection process is; who is nearest and easiest to shoot. Last year, the FBI identified 30 active shooting situations, claiming 90 deaths and over 200 wounded. This year, so far, is on track to double that number.”

  “You used to be a police officer, am I correct, Jill?”

  “Yes, Mr. Traeger. For over twenty years.”

  “Were you ever involved in an active shooter situation?”

  “Yes, I was. It began at a fast food restaurant, and then ended at a school.”

  “Was that the Burger Barn massacre in Chicago?”

  I swelled up with panic. The point of moving to Florida, anonymously, was so no one knew who I was. While I tried to think of what to say, the memories began to jab at me.

  The screaming.

  The blood.

  The children.

  The mangled body of Billy Martingale…

  “Jill and I were police officers in Milwaukee,” my mother said, covering my ass and sticking to the story we’d made up. “In the case she’s referring to, no one was killed.”

  Good lie, Mom. I took a deep breath, got myself centered, and reigned in the brief panic.

  “We got lucky and stopped him before things got out of control,” I furthered the lie, slipping back into my regular speech. “But relying on luck puts you at much higher risk than being prepared and having a plan in mind. Today, we’re going to talk about what you do when someone walks in and starts shooting.”

  There was a clunking sound. Everyone looked.

  Either Mrs. Garza, or Mr. Shoop, had dropped their dentures onto the floor.

  Mr. Shoop picked them up and examined them, so I assumed they were his.

  I sipped more awful coffee, then continued.

  “Your first defense is self-awareness. Whenever you’re indoors, know where your nearest exits are. Look for two, in case one is blocked. Pay attention to the people around you. Someone acting suspicious. How would you qualify suspicious behavior? Mr. Fincherello?”

  “When someone is holding a gun and shooting it at you.”

  Titters from the geriatrics. Mom also giggled. I gave her a look not to encourage them.

  “What else? Mrs. Garza?”

  “Someone alone who looks out of place or lost.”

  “That could be anyone from Building H,” Mr. Fincherello said.

  More laughs. I wondered how Mrs. Fincherello put up with him.

  “Fair enough. But to be serious for a moment, what would be the difference between someone in the dementia ward in Building H, or someone who might actually be an active shooter? Mr. Fincherello?”

  I braced myself for another joke.

  “Hands in his pockets,” he said. “Or a big coat.”

  I nodded. “Good. Bulky clothing can hide firearms. And someone wearing a coat in warm weather is definitely suspicious.”

  “Someone who looks nervous or angry,” added Mrs. Garza.

  “Good. And remember, most active shooters are loners. If you see someone a
lone, who doesn’t look like they have any particular purpose, like going to the bathroom, or buying a candy bar, or texting on their phone, you should pay more attention. I’m not saying that every kid loitering has a gun on him. But if you get that little feeling in your stomach that says, this guy makes me nervous, then listen to that feeling. That feeling is fifty thousand years of evolution warning you something is wrong.”

  “I always thought it was gas,” Mr. Fincherello said.

  Titters.

  Mom was wrong. Teaching this class wasn’t helping me feel useful at all. But I persevered.

  “Let’s say that someone does come rushing in with a gun, what’s the first thing you do?”

  “You beat the little punk down,” said Mr. Shoop.

  Mr. Shoop was a proud veteran, stationed in Cambodia during their civil war. Which may have been where he lost his teeth. He’d hinted at that once or twice.

  “Attacking the shooter is an option, Mr. Shoop. But only as a last resort. You don’t know how much firepower he has. You don’t know how good a shot he is. You don’t know if he’s alone. If you are in public, and someone is shooting, the first thing you should do is run.”

  “I can’t run,” Mr. Traeger said. “My top speed is shuffle.”

  I smiled at that. “I mean get away, as fast as you can. Immediately. Don’t wait for the change from your bar bill. Don’t search for your sandals and floppy hat. And don’t waste time trying to argue with others about how serious the situation is or isn’t. Get to the nearest exit, pronto.”

  “Shouldn’t we help others?”

  “Yes and no, Mrs. Garza. If someone is in a wheelchair and needs help, certainly you should help push. But don’t waste time trying to convince everyone they need to come along. And if someone next to you is shot and cannot get up, leave them there.”