Free Shoot to Thrill by P.J. Tracy Page A

sloppy sentiment written on the brown icing, and wrapped presents around it with curlicue ribbons.
    Marian’s face had weathered and hardened into a mask that no man would want; her knees were bad and her hips were shot, and most of the time she couldn’t feel her fingers from all those years carrying the heavy trays; and still she figured she was the luckiest woman in the world.
    Dew sparkled on the windshield of the old Ford Tempo, lighting her way, and made Christmas in July on the spruce that towered around the slab of tar cut into the forest. ‘How lucky are you?’ she whispered to herself, key out to unlock the door, heart open to the blessings of her life, and even when she saw the tripod with its mounted camera, and felt the hand on her shoulder and the cold knife on her throat, she couldn’t imagine that this could be anything bad.

Gino had the passenger seat of the Cadillac on full recline, but his eyes were wide open. Magozzi kept glancing over to make sure he blinked.
    ‘Close your eyes, for God’s sake. You look like you’re dead.’
    ‘I am dead, or might as well be, and I am never going out with you after dark again. First you take me to a drag club, then to some poor dead sap’s apartment so I can see the sorry remains of his sorry life, then to the county jail. Christ. I had a better time at my vasectomy. What time did you drop me off?’
    ‘Four a.m.’
    ‘And what time did you pick me up?’
    ‘Seven-thirty, just like always. Jeez, Gino, you got three hours. What are you complaining about?’
    ‘No, I did not get three hours, because the little man toddled into our bedroom at a quarter after five and hurled all over me. Why do little kids get the flu all the time? It’s not even flu season. It pisses me off. And why do we have to get up and work our regular shift when we worked all night? They don’t let pilots do that. So many hours in the air, you gotta take so many hours off. Shit. Even truck drivers have rules like that. But cops? Nah. No sleep? No problem. Load your weapon and get out there. I’m an armed
    Magozzi yawned. ‘Tell you what. I got three hours’ sleep. Ask me before you shoot somebody.’
    ‘Okay.’
    Magozzi pulled onto Summit Avenue, and a few blocks later through the open wrought-iron gate of Harley’s driveway. ‘Up and at ’em, partner. Time for our play date with the Feeb.’
    ‘You’re not going to go off on this guy and get us thrown in the pen, are you?’
    ‘You want me to make nice with a Fed? Your onions fall off in the shower or what?’
    ‘This is a little Fed. A hapless soldier. He didn’t make the decision not to pull cops in earlier. Besides, I’m too weak to referee one of your pissing matches.’ He got out of the car and stretched, looking around. ‘Man, I keep forgetting to get the name of Harley’s gardener. Look at those peonies. They’re just about enough to break your heart. You know what I think of when I see peonies? Cheerleaders. Don’t ask me why.’
    ‘I will not. I promise.’
    Gino veered to the right of the walk and tromped across Harley’s perfect lawn to the koi pond, his favorite feature of the house. He pulled a bag of miniature marshmallows out of his pocket and tossed a few in the water, then started humming the
Jaws
theme music while he waited for the feeding frenzy. After a few seconds he called over his shoulder. ‘Hey, Leo. These guys aren’t moving today.’
    Magozzi sighed and joined him at the pond’s edge. ‘Of
    ‘Aw, shit. I loved those big guys. What do you suppose killed them?’
    ‘Marshmallows.’
    ‘Now that was just plain mean.’
    As far as Gino was concerned, the really cool thing about coming to Harley’s mansion in the morning was that it always smelled like his grandmother’s house. Which meant that it smelled like animal fat. This was not permissible breakfast food in the home he loved so much, because Angela wanted him to live forever instead of letting him die young, fat, and happy.