I was back at Charlie's single-wide mobile home. Or, rather, standing just outside it.
It was evening and the mobile home park was mostly quiet. I could smell fish frying and meats baking. TV sets glowed in many of the mobile homes. Outside the window in question, where the blinds were a little too narrow and the curtains were a little too thin, I paused and took in the scene.
The area between Charlie's home and the home next to his was covered in white gravel and seemed to serve as a small parking lot. There was also a path that led between the two homes. The path seemed to connect one side of the park to the other. The path led just outside the window in question.
Amazingly, there were no flood lights here, and the whole space was blanketed in darkness. It would have been easy enough for someone to pause outside the window and watch Charlie with his safe.
A narrow road curved through the mobile home park, which cars occasionally sped along, heedless of children, pets, Santa's reindeer or vampires.
The question was: who had been watching Charlie?
Still standing next to Charlie's mobile home, listening to a cacophony of "It's a Holly, Jolly Christmas," TV news anchormen, video game explosions and the clanking of dishes, I closed my eyes and expanded my consciousness out through the park. A trick I had learned a few months ago. In my mind's eye, I saw glimpses of men in Christmas tree print boxers, women in tubs of vanilla bubbles, most of them shaving their legs, and even an older couple getting frisky under the covers. I saw teens playing Xbox and even grown men playing Xbox. I saw men and women talking excitedly, passionately, agitatedly. I saw children crying and playing, but mostly crying and being warned that Santa was still making his list of naughty and nice children. I saw sumptuous dinners being eaten in front of TVs tuned into Donna Reed and Jimmy Stewart but rarely at dinner tables. Gather round the TV, all ye faithful.
I also saw four young men sitting together in the living room of one of the nearby double wide mobile homes. The young men were sitting around bags of weed and the occasional bag of crack cocaine. I saw guns in waistbands and a lot of bad attitudes. There was no sign of Christmas in their house, nor Hanukkah, nor Kwanzaa. A dead giveaway, for sure. No holiday cheer or spirit at all. Of any sort.
My consciousness snapped back, leaving me briefly discombobulated. What I hadn't seen was the stolen safe, but I figured the drug dealers' home was as good a place to start as any.
Chapter Twelve
I knocked on the drug dealers' front door.
I listened with a small grin to the frantic sounds of weed and crack being hidden in everything from toilets to cookie jars, to no doubt deep inside boxers and briefs. I heard a chair fall over. I heard someone curse under his breath. I heard the sounds of shushing and the running of footsteps.
I was tempted to yell, "Police" and really listen to the fireworks within. I might even hear a window crash as one of them makes a run for it.
Instead, I waited, rocking gently back and forth, hands behind my back, just a five foot, three-inch mother of two confronting your neighborhood drug dealers.
My alarm system was jangling, but I mostly ignored it. I knew, after all, what I was walking into.
Finally, I heard footsteps cautiously approach the door.
An acne-covered Caucasian face peered at me through the door's dirty curtain. The face frowned, and then looked almost comically left and right before he partially opened the door.
"Excuse me," I said. "But my car broke down and I was wondering if I could borrow your phone?"
"My phone? Yo, fuck off, bitch. This ain't no Triple Fucking A." And he promptly slammed the door in my face.
Or tried to.
I stuck out my hand, and the door rebounded off it so hard that it slammed back into the drug dealer's face. I followed the swinging door in, pushing harder. The young punk reached for his nose and for something under his shirt. And since I didn't feel like getting shot tonight, I caught his hand in mid-reach, twisted until he dropped to both knees, and grabbed what he'd been reaching for under his shirt.
I came away with a Smith & Wesson revolver.
I swung the gun around and pointed it at the others, who were all reaching inside their own pants. Apparently, this was the official greeting of drug dealers everywhere.
"Hello, boys," I said. "Hands where I can see them."
"Fuck this shit," said a tall black kid who couldn't have been more than eighteen. He pulled up his shirt, revealing the gleaming walnut handle of an expensive revolver, and before his hand got very far beyond that, I fired the weapon. A bullet hole appeared in the kitchen linoleum next to his foot, perhaps just inches away.
He jumped maybe three feet, screaming like a girl. "Holy sweet Jesus! The bitch is crazy!"
I held the gun steady on the trio who were standing around the kitchen table. All three were in their late teens or early twenties. Hardly drug lords.
I said, "Next one who calls me a bitch gets a bullet in their big toe. Got it?"
No one moved or said anything. The guy next to me whimpered a little, and I realized I was still twisting his arm. I let him go and threw him a little at the same time. He skidded across the kitchen floor. Okay, I might have thrown him a lot.
I next had them drop their guns and kick them over to me. Once done, I gathered the weapons and emptied them of their bullets. I dropped the bullets in one of my jacket pockets. Next, I had the four hoodlums sit around the kitchen table like good little boys.