The talk with my client went
better than I'd hoped. Yeah, at first she was pissed off to find out she'd been
right. "Only six months he's been here and already he takes what isn't
his." Then, when I told her why, and got her to admit he had only been
taking items that were past their sell date, she calmed down.
"Maybe," she said
thoughtfully, "I've been too interested in wringing every penny out of my
business, although God only knows I need to. But still, what could it hurt to
let Danny take some of the older stuff to the foodbank." She smiled to
herself. "It could earn me a few points in heaven even."
"Probably more than a
few," I agreed, chuckling.
"Then I'll do it. But
he'll have to let me choose what, and tell the people at that place that he has
my permission. I don't want them thinking bad of me anymore."
With that settled, Ricky and
I headed on to a deserted farm on the edge of town that I used on occasion for
some practice shooting, when I felt my skills were getting rusty. It was
private, and beat the hell out of paying to go to a shooting range. While he'd
never end up being sniper material, by the time we finished he could at least
hit within the body I'd chalked out on the side of the old barn.
"That you can hit it at
all is what counts," I told him when he sounded disappointed he hadn't hit
the chest every time. "You just have to stop someone long enough to get
away from them."
"If they don't shoot
back," he pointed out.
"There is that, but now
you stand a fighting chance of escaping."
"Speaking of
fighting…"
So I taught him a few moves
to defend against a knife attack. They mainly involved grabbing the wrist of
the hand holding the knife and turning it away then---if he couldn't get the
knife out of the attacker's hand---where to punch and how to headbutt and sweep
his attacker's legs out from under him. Again, Ricky would never win a medal
for his skills, but at least he got the hang of it.
"I feel…safer
now," he said, panting a bit from all the physical exertion.
"The main thing is to
try to avoid a confrontation in the first place," I pointed out. "But
when faced with it, the next best thing it to stay alive. Wounds heal. Death is
permanent and I do not want to be
going to your funeral."
He smiled weakly. "Had
to say that, didn't you."
"Yep. Because it's the
truth. Now, how about a late lunch on me. You've earned it."
"On you?" He
grinned wickedly.
"Not how I meant it,
and you know it," I grumbled.
"Well damn," he
replied, snapping his fingers. "Oh well, I'll still take you up on the
lunch offer. At Georgio's?"
"You bet."
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