Post by Dreamfire on Aug 29, 2006 0:50:45 GMT -5
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 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 the market, 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. She hadn’t responded to any of his advances, instead she’d murmured quietly, “It’s too soon.” For him? For her? 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.
Jimmy Dunbar wanted to ask her about it. But he hadn’t figured out what words to use. Instead, 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.
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 rubbed his hands over his badge, the image of it clear and strong in his mind’s eye.
Jim replaced the badge. 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. 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 keep running into walls like that than keep calm and relaxed by 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’re not allowed to take you if you’re on medical leave. 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.
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 open door, he folded his cane, took a seat, and closed the door.
“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. Talk would be good.” Jim turned to the driver and then 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. When they stopped at a red light, 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.