“Obviously,” Sullivan sneers with a side eye glance toward Chet as if to say, “Can you believe this hick?”He slips what looks to be an ID badge from his dress shirt pocket and swipes it across the red button beneath Parker’s rifle.Instantly, the button turns green, and music starts.
Chet and I share an impressed glance as old-timey western music, the kind you might hear in an old west saloon scene, springs to life.In due time, the bears start swinging, the plates start spinning, and targets appear, swooping through the air as I watch Parker squint, point, and take careful aim.Rifle sounds split through the air, surprisingly authentic as Chet and I marvel at the way Parker picks off plate after plate, bear after bear, fake “bullets” making zinging noises as they explode on impact.All is going well until Parker fires at a giant buzzing bee, hits it dead center, and the whole game just ...fizzles out.
Bears sag.Plates fall to the ground.And, until Sullivan quickly douses it with a few waves of his ID badge, the bee temporarily catches fire.Or, at the very least, starts to smoke ominously.
Sullivan seems unconcerned and, surprisingly?So does Chet.“Obviously, we still have some bugs to work out by Friday, gentlemen, but ...all will be sorted out by the time of the grand opening, rest assured.”
“Well,” Chet concedes as Parker and I share a cautious glance.“We’re cutting the ribbon out front, right?So the shooting gallery doesn’t necessarily have to be in peak operating condition for the photo ops and reporters, correct?”
“Now we’re talking.”Sullivan pats Chet on the shoulder.“By the time Dash rolls up in his limo, the windows will be cleaned, the lights will be on, the velvet ropes set up, and ...or wait?Will he be arriving on horseback?”
“Nash,” Chet corrects sternly.
“Beg your pardon?”Sullivan is still playing the part of the freewheeling host, guiding us away from the scene of the crime and on toward a whirling set of claw machines stocked with all manner of rubber guns, plastic cowboy hats, and neon pink boots.
“NashRemington.”Chet pauses in front of Sullivan so that he can’t quite fit through the narrow, neon-lit passage where the two stand at an impromptu standoff.“That’s the man’s name.You ...know that right?”
Sullivan makes a carefree raspberry with his thick, wet lips.“Dash?Nash?Does it really matter?”
Paker and I share an ominous “Ooh, howdy” glance and take an involuntary step back.“It matters,” Chet says evenly, inching up slightly on the balls of his heels to meet Sullivan’s beady little eyes.“It matters a great deal to the town of Pistol Creek, wouldn’t you say?”
“I mean,” Sullivan counters.“The connection’s tenuous at best, right?A second cousin?Twice removed?Pistol Creek High?Come on, Chet, this is all just smoke and mirrors anyway.”
“Town’s pretty excited,” Parker butts in with a low, steady growl.“Hell, I spent half the morning with the Editor in Chief of the Pistol CreekCourier,and he was all fired up.Has two of his best reporters set to attend, plus their crack photographer.”
“I finally heard back from WROC,” I interject, having had plenty of time to check my phone while Parker and Chet canoodled in the nice, spacious, comfortable, safe cab of the truck on our way to the Galleria.“Our local radio station?Gonna be broadcasting live for two straight hours that day, so...”
“Fine, yes, so some local yokel cowboy’s going to show up and cut some plastic ribbon, wave his hat at the crowd, and get right back in his limo.Do I need to see his birth certificate to bluff my way through some grand opening ceremony?”
“You’re the MC,” Chet reminds him.“Unless you want to look the proper fool with your shady new development here, you best know the man’s name and, while you’re at it?Put some respect on it when you introduce him.”
Sullivan gives him a guarded look, as if surprised by the sexy little shit’s gumption.He’s not alone.“Nothing shady about the Galloping Galleria, young man.”
“Says the man with nearly a dozen workplace violations to date,” Chet harumphs, waving his cell phone in Sullivan’s face as Parker gives out a low, approving whistle.“And those are only the ones I could find in the public record.No telling what I’d find if I turned my full attention to the matter.”
“And?”Sullivan huffs.
“And,” Chet bluffs.“I’m sayingWild West Studiosmight not want to associate themselves with someone who runs such a shoddy operation, that’s all.”
“Oh, like your Wild West Studios never deleted a little overtime from the books?”Sullivan huffs, wagging a pale finger at Chet.“Never heard from OSHA after some disgruntled employee complained about working conditions?Never fudged the time on a workman’s comp filing?Get real, Kid.It’s a grand opening, plain and simple.You don’t like it, take your penne ante cowboy, and I’ll have some quarterback from the high school football team show up in his stead.I doubt the crowd will mind, considering the Campfire Channel is stalling negotiations for Season four as we speak.”
Chet’s face shows only mild surprise as Sullivan waves his cell phone.“You’re not the only one who can do a little digging while waiting for this meeting to start, Kid.So ...how about you let me do my job, you do yours, and we’ll reconvene on Friday pretending none of this ever happened, ok?”
With that, Sullivan pockets his phone, sneers triumphantly, and takes an alternate route out through the glittering archway and back into the bowels of the Galleria.
Chet and I share an anxious look while Parker slaps us both on the back.“Well, that went well, huh, fellas?”When we chuckle nervously, perhaps even dutifully, he tugs us by the collars toward the front entrance.“Nothing to do after a meeting like that one but carb load down at theCracked Egg Café, am I right?”
For once?The old cowboy finally has the right idea...
