Free Beating the Babushka by Tim Maleeny

visibly relaxed. He took a step back from the counter.
    “That was a trick question, wasn’t it?” asked Cape.
    “Ain’t no moose ’round here,” said Bill conspiratorially. “What kinda firearm you want?” He swept his arm across the glass counter.
    Every kind of handgun imaginable sat beneath the glass, arranged by manufacturer. Behind him, racks holding rifles and shotguns three and four deep ran the length of the thirty-foot wall of the store. Mounted directly behind Bill, just above the gun racks, was a plaque reading Remember the Alamo. This struck Cape as somewhat out of place in California. He looked around the store and decided that Davy Crockett would still be alive today if he’d had this many guns.
    “Actually, I’m all set in the firearms department,” said Cape. “I’m looking for more of a deterrent.”
    Bill’s disappointment showed. “Deterrent?” He made a face that suggested the word tasted bad.
    “Yeah, I understand the Department of Fish and Game doesn’t want you to shoot a bear unless you absolutely have to. You know, only in self-defense, like if the bear comes at you suddenly while you’re stalking the moose. They’d rather you scared it away.”
    Bill nodded sullenly, obviously displeased that a supposedly pro-hunting group like Fish and Game would discourage anyone from shooting anything. He squatted suddenly, disappearing for a moment behind the counter. When he emerged, he held a narrow canister in his right hand that looked like shaving cream.
    “Wear this on your belt.” He held it for Cape to examine.
    Cape read the label out loud. “Bear Be Gone. Effective to almost thirty feet. One-time use only.” He looked up at Bill. “What is it?”
    “Concentrated pepper spray,” said Bill. “Same as the police use, only in a bigger dose. Only get one shot, though.”
    “I’m hoping I won’t need one,” said Cape. “But I’ll take it, just in case.”
    Bill leaned over the counter and dropped his voice. “You want my advice, you shoot that bear. Put him down.”
    Cape nodded solemnly as he took the canister. “Remember the Alamo.”
    “Fuckin-A.”
    Cape’s phone started ringing as he walked back to his car. The theme song from
The Good, the Bad, and the Ugly
played itself out in high-pitched electronic tones until he thumbed the right button. The phone had come preloaded with the ringtone and he kind of liked it, though he wasn’t crazy about cell phones. Though he had to admit it was useful, carrying the phone sometimes made him feel like he was on a leash. He’d only given his number to four people. Beau was one of them.
    Ten minutes later he was driving across the Oakland Bay Bridge, wishing he’d pulled the top down. High taxes and restrictive city ordinances had chased all the gun shops out of San Francisco, which forced Cape to drive to San Leandro, where it was hot as hell, and the air conditioning in his car hadn’t worked in years. But as he passed the sign reading “Welcome to San Francisco” at the midpoint of the bridge, Cape felt the vestige of the morning fog and a chill from across the water.
    He pulled onto the first exit ramp and headed downtown, contemplating what Beau had told him and wondering how to tell his client something that she didn’t want to hear.

Chapter Fifteen
    “He’s here.”
    The Major nodded in acknowledgement after a moment’s hesitation. He’d also heard the door chimes but took an extra beat to process what Ursa had said. Though Ursa spoke only Russian, his ruined nose and throat made his voice a guttural rumble that even the NSA couldn’t decipher.
    “Get him,” said the Major.
    Ursa shambled through the door of the back office into the front of the store. “Medical Supplies” was stenciled neatly across the plate glass window, partially obscured by the silhouette of a man holding a box. Ursa made his way past an obstacle course of wheelchairs, canes, and metal walkers, ignoring their guest until he’d