Page 13 of Sam to the Rescue

Me: Ping me when you get this

A gun-range-slash-pizza-parlor? She must be jerking my chain. Brooklyn has some strange ideas, but in any part of the planet, greasy gun triggers is a bad idea.

I’m dying to check up on her but I promised to stop being so over-protective. Hell, I need to calm the fuck down. My wife is a grown-ass woman, my partner, and the mother of my child. More than once she has reminded me of this simple fact. A few hours of her not responding to my texts is not a reason to put out an all-points bulletin.

My logic would be sound if she was a normal person.

By the time she calls back, I’m pacing a hole in the lush lawn of the congresswoman’s back yard.

“Where the hell you been?” Picturing the day she was kidnapped and brought to Dubai, I hold my breath. Is she in Russia? Iran? North Korea?

“What? I’m at home, in our apartment. I just finished putting Mikey down.” She sounds so damn insulted my brain explodes.

Steam hisses out my ears. “Why didn’t you text?”

“The cat ate my phone plug. I had to buy a new one.”

“Riiiigggght. That sounds an awful lot like the dog ate my homework. You know that, right?”

“Hey. It’s true. Catrina got mad because I stared at her too long.”

For fear of losing my ever-lovin’ mind, I don’t ask and stick to the subject at hand. “What the fuck is a pizza gun club?”

She snickers. “It’s what the locals call it. They don’t use pizzas as targets but wouldn’t it be cool if they did?”

Sometimes, I think, she’s learned way too much from me. She is now, officially, a brown belt in the art of rambling. “So, nothing of import happened at the shooting range?”

My heart stops at her long pause. “Umm… not exactly. You should see my score. My practice is paying off. Wait until I show you.”

“Saammm… What happened?” While speaking, I stroll over the thick green lawn to the front of the house.

“Nothing. I swear, except the guy at the desk was a real jerk. And… the building smelled like shit. Also, no one should change a kid’s party place into a shooting range and not redecorate. It’s disturbing.

She’s holding something back so I push. “Did you show them the picture of our missing octogenarian?”

“Yeah, but the proprietor said he never saw the guy without even looking. What a dick.” Her breath hitches. “Oh, I almost forgot, there was one weird thing, but nothing to do with our case…”

Ah yes. Here it comes; the reason I was going out of my mind with worry.

“Okay, so don’t get mad.” Pans clink in the background as she empties the dishwasher.

“What did you do?”

“I simply had to pee.”

My God, only my wife can find trouble in a restroom. “And?”

“The door was locked and I promise, I was going to use the mens room but there was a grunter in there taking his time and I really, really had to go.”

“So, you picked the lock of the ladies room.”

“Actually, I slid in a credit card. So, here I am, minding my own business and washing my hands when I see these three barrels marked cleaning fluids which made no sense.” As she runs water in our kitchen, a feeling of unease starts at my spine, runs down my right leg, and makes my little toe go numb.

“Sam. They should’ve been marked with a chemical name.”

The refrigerator door shuts and she talks with her mouth full. “Huh. Good point but not what made me suspicious. It was more like… the place hasn’t been washed for over a decade. One drum would’ve been plenty? Right? Anyhow, I took a sample of white pellets and put them in my pocket. I’ll send it to the Feds in the morning.”

Good. I’ll be home by then.