Page 16 of Hoofin’ It

My father’s idea of a good gun cabinet had a lot of drawers, each one dedicated to a single weapon. When I’d last accessed my parents’ firearm collection, they’d owned sixteen different handguns. The count had gone up to thirty-two, and they’d also added a rack for three hunting rifles.

True to form, they alternated rows, with Dad favoring guns with enough recoil to knock a regular human on their ass if they weren’t ready for it. Since Mom handled lighter weapons, I sorted through her collection in search of something a little tamer.

What in the hell was my mother doing with a purple leopard print Desert Eagle? I scratched my head, staring at the drawer with my mouth hanging open. Even her spare magazine was decorated in the horrendous pattern.

The Desert Eagle would punch me in the face if I let it, but I lifted the weapon out of its drawer and checked it over. Why did my mother have a custom Desert Eagle in purple leopard print? Why would she do such a thing to an otherwise manly gun?

Why? Why? Why? Why would anyone customize a Desert Eagle to have leopard print of any color?

Maybe a better question was why wasn’t I putting it back? I dug through the accessory drawer until I found a holster suitable for a left-handed draw and buckled it around my hips. When my parents got home, making Mom explain why she had defiled a perfectly good gun would be my first task. Then I’d spend at least an hour tormenting my father over my mother’s choice of weapons.

I’d have a great time. I looked forward to it.

Until then, I’d do my mother a favor, clean her disgustingly cute but deadly gun, and carry it around in case someone decided to take another stab at ridding the Earth of me.

What was it with my mother and pancakes? Why would she think it was acceptable to leave two half-cooked pancakes splattered on the ceiling? One day I would figure out how the damned things stayed up there, forcing me to stand on a chair to scrape them off.

Upon closer inspection, I realized the ceiling was mottled with pale stains marking at least ten other pancake incidents. The chore kept me busy, although I made my right shoulder sorer than I liked cleaning the kitchen ceiling and floor.

Realizing I couldn’t leave part of the kitchen spotless while the rest resembled a battlefield, I sighed, put on the dish gloves, and went to work. I began with the fridge.

The instant I opened the door, I acknowledged my mistake.

My parents needed an intervention, although I suspected the accident causing the loss of my eye was to blame for their behavior. No one liked cleaning out the fridge, but after a month of neglect, the disaster I faced made me want to throw up—and murder them. The pancakes made a lot more sense.

Pancake batter in a box only needed water, allowing them to dodge the horrors lurking within their refrigerator. Shuddering, I found a garbage bag and cursed them, cursed the asshole who’d shot me to steal Sally, and began throwing everything out, including several of my mother’s best pots and pans.

The dishwasher didn’t deserve to have such nasty things put into it, and I wasn’t sure it could kill whatever the hell was growing in the cookware. One of the roasting pans had turned a rather intriguing shade of green, tempting me to conduct science experiments in the sink.

Halfway through cleaning, with my stomach performing summersaults because of the smell, I wanted to haul the fridge outside and light it on fire. My phone ringing spared the appliance, and I ditched my gloves in the sink before answering, “Hello?”

“May I speak to Mr. Gibson, please?”

“Speaking.”

“This is Detective Steinburg from the NYPD. Would it be possible for you to come to the station to answer some questions?”

I had to work hard not to laugh. “Is there a problem?”

“We have some additional questions about the murder you witnessed.”

I blinked. “It’s been classified as a murder?”

“Yes, Mr. Gibson. The case has been reclassified as a murder investigation. We’re going to need you to come in for additional questioning.”

“I’m afraid that’s not possible, Detective Steinburg.”

“Why not?”

Sighing, I sat at the kitchen table. Since I’d already disregarded my doctor’s warning to avoid using my shoulder, I lifted my right hand and pinched the bridge of my nose. “Have you done a background check on me yet, Detective Steinburg?”

“No. You’re not a suspect in Mr. Maquire’s murder or the deaths of the two men in the vehicle, so the information you provided was sufficient.”

“All right. If you contact the Chicago police department, you’ll learn I was on the force until recently. I lost my eye pulling a family out of their vehicle during a rather bad traffic accident.”

“You’re a cop?” Something changed in Steinburg’s tone.

“Former. I don’t have a replacement eye rated for police work, so I’m retiring. If you need to see me for questioning, it will have to wait several days until I’m out of quarantine.” In reality, if I needed to go to New York City I could, but all things considered, I didn’t want to.