9. Derrick
9
DERRICK
“M ove your butt, Rickie.”
I grumbled at the use of my childhood nickname and shifted to the side as Valeria, the youngest of my six sisters, strutted ahead of me toward our lane. We were nearly twenty years apart, but I was the closest to her out of all my sisters, and once a month I brought her to the NYPD shooting range in Brooklyn.
It smelled of gunpowder and paint, and a steady stream of pops from shots being fired at targets sounded all around us. The range had recently had a makeover, and the black metal barriers which separated each lane had been replaced by glass.
“How’s that employee of yours?” Valeria asked as I checked my phone for a message from Rachel.
“Still nothing,” I said, and I moved one side of my ear protection to hear better.
Rachel’s appointment had been three days ago, and I hadn’t heard a word from her about the imaging results. She never promised to tell me the results—it was her business—but depending on what the images showed, she might have to go in for a biopsy.
Coming here today was a distraction from thinking about all that. Joining Rachel for something so personal had been awkward, but it wasn’t right for her to go to that appointment alone, and I never expected to be at her side for the actual visit and tests.
“Is she a friend?” Valeria asked, gathering her blonde hair into a ponytail. “You don’t normally accompany your employees to their doctor appointments.”
“Not exactly,” I said, sliding my phone back into my pocket.
“Is she more than a friend?” Valeria wiggled her eyebrows suggestively.
“God no. She’s barely older than you.”
“I’ve dated women your age,” Valeria said. “There ain’t nothing wrong with it.”
“Has owning this helped calm your anxiety?” I asked, indicating the Glock 34 I held, moving on from this stupid conversation.
“Look, I’ll drop my inquest, but be careful. You have a wounded bird thing.”
“A what?” I looked up from checking the barrel.
“You love to help a woman in distress. My God, you made a whole career out of it as a cop and then starting Missing Girls when you retired from the force. Even this, right here, taking me shooting every week. I’ll probably never need that thing. But it makes you feel better to know I have it.”
A year ago, Valeria had moved upstate into an old farmhouse on twenty acres, which sounded idyllic, but her panic attacks had started up again.
I had outfitted her home with a top-of-the-line security system, but she was still worried. That’s when I suggested she buy a gun, and I started taking her to the range to teach her gun safety.
Any idiot could own a gun, but if you were gonna carry that responsibility, you better damn well know how to use it and when to use it.
Valeria had good reason to be worried. She was the reason I got into law enforcement. When she was a toddler, a stranger tried to abduct her in front of our home. Valeria, to the shock of the perp, had fought back. She had a metal baton in her hand, and she whacked him with it, screeching, until he dropped her and ran. She broke her arm from the fall and still had the scar, but she got away. The detectives found the perp a few days later and arrested him.
When it happened, I had been in my senior year at community college, and it changed the trajectory of my life. That’s when I decided to become a cop.
“How are the parents?” I asked, dimming the lights in Valeria’s shooting lane to emulate dusk. She took the train into the city once a week to visit our parents and see our nieces and nephews.
“They were in the middle of the lunch rush. Even with the new hires, they’re still struggling to keep up with the demand.”
We had grown up in a crowded row house in Bedford Stuyvesant when it was a neighborhood full of immigrants instead of hipsters. My dad had opened his Italian-Dominican deli, Jaq’s Gourmet, right after I was born, and it had done so well, my mom quit her job to help out. They had recently expanded it into a small restaurant.
Valeria handed me a pair of the protective eye wear and then donned her own.
“I still can’t believe it’s the hot spot for lunch in their little neighborhood.” Valeria slid open the barrel and checked the magazine.
“New Yorkers love discovering hidden gems. It’s like being in on a secret,” I said.
“It’s about to get another boost. There was a food reporter at the deli the other day who’s going to write up a profile in some food magazine.” Valeria giggled. “She was asking why Dad has a Hispanic last name if he’s Italian.”
“That’s perceptive. Did you tell them?” I asked.
“Yeah. Dad said it was fine. The reporter loved it.”
Dad’s family name was Buttso, which caused a lot of playground bullying for him and his siblings growing up. When Mom and he got married, he decided to take her last name to save us kids from a similar fate.
“I keep telling Mama and Dad to sell it now while it’s hot,” Valeria said. “They’ll make a killing and retire early. But Dad shut me down. They like working. It’s the immigrant mentality.”
“Immigrants get the job done, as they say in Hamilton .”
Valeria held up her pistol, widened her stance, took aim, and fired at the circular target. She hit the bullseye with each shot.
“Still the best shot in the family.” I smiled.
Being the baby in the family, Valeria basically had to fend for herself while growing up. Hence, why she had been outside alone playing as a toddler.
I had been a homebody and hadn’t moved out of the house until I finished my field training and had my first posting. Valeria left the day after high school graduation and worked as a waitress while she went to Brooklyn College, studying business administration.
“Hopefully, I’ll never have to test my skills,” Valeria said, reloading the magazine.
“Relax your shoulders,” I instructed, more to feel like I was adding value, but she didn’t need my instruction.
I moved to the lane next to her and placed my gun on the small shelf. It was a Glock 19, my old service weapon.
I moved my ear protection back in place and shot until the magazine was empty. I popped the magazine out and reloaded. I practiced this drill several times before I replaced the target with a fresh one.
“You still got it,” Valeria said, coming into my lane, the shell casings and used targets in one hand, ready to go.
I unloaded the remaining bullets and held them in my hand. My phone buzzed, and I snatched it out of my pocket, fumbling when I saw Rachel’s name. The bullets dropped, metal tinging against the concrete floor as they bounced and rolled.
“Shit.”
“I got it.” Valeria bent down and gathered them.
It was a group text. The only other number I recognized was Eva’s. My hand tensed around the phone as I read.
Image shows a liquid filled cyst.
“What is it? What’s wrong?” Valeria stood and looked at the phone.
“Thank God.” I exhaled, my muscles relaxing for the first time in three days.
Another text pinged.
I’m cancer-free bitches. The bad news...my stalker is back. FML.
“What? What does that mean?” Valeria strained to see over my shoulder.
I’m six five and she’s barely five four. It’s the same height difference as our parents.
“I need to go,” I said, disposing of the used shell casings and targets in the receptacle and rushing toward the men’s locker room. “Tell Mama and Dad I’ll come by this weekend.”
“Be careful, Rickie,” Valeria called after me. “You can’t save everyone.”