“Get out,” Hooker said.
Rodriguez looked at Hooker, and then he looked at the gun.
“No,” Rodriguez said.
“What do you mean, no?”
“I’m not getting out.”
“If you don’t get out, I’ll shoot you.”
Rodriguez stared Hooker down. “I don’t think so. You’re not a shooter. I bet you never shot anything.”
“I hunt,” Hooker said.
“Oh yeah? What do you hunt, bunnies?”
“Sometimes.”
I tried not to grimace. “That’s disgusting.”
“Women don’t understand about hunting,” Rodriguez said to Hooker. “You gotta have cojones to hunt.”
I did an eye roll. “Now that you two big-game hunters have bonded, how about getting out of the car.”
“Forget it,” Rodriguez said.
“Okay,” I said to Hooker. “Shoot him.”
Hooker’s eyes opened wide. “Now? Here?”
“Now! Just friggin’ shoot him.”
Hooker looked around the lot. “There are people…”
“For crying out loud,” I said. “Give me the gun.”
“No!” Rodriguez said. “Don’t give her the gun. I’ll get out. Christ, she almost killed Lucca with that six-pack.”
Hooker and I took a step back and Rodriguez got out.
“Hands on the car,” Hooker said.
Rodriguez turned and put his hands on the car, and I did a pat down. I took a gun from a side holster and a gun from an ankle holster and his cell phone.
Hooker’s phone rang. “Yeah?” Hooker said. “Uh-huh, uh-huh, uh-huh.” He shifted from side to side. “Uh-huh. Uh-huh. No problem. I’ll be there. I’m ready to get on the plane.”
“Who was that?” I asked Hooker when he disconnected.
“Skippy. He wanted to make sure I remembered about the banquet. He said murder charges wouldn’t exempt me.”
It was Sunday, and Skippy was probably already in New York preparing for an entire week of NASCAR promotion with the top-ten winning drivers. And he was justifiably worried that he’d have only nine guys safely tucked away in their rooms at the Waldorf. Probably at this very moment his thumbs were flying over his BlackBerry, composing a damage-control article on Hooker and me that could be shipped out to the media at a moment’s notice.
Hooker reached into the car and popped the trunk. “Get in,” he said to Rodriguez.
Rodriguez paled. “You’re kidding.”
Rodriguez was thinking about Bernie Miller. Thinking about how easy it was to shoot a guy in a trunk. And I was thinking I liked seeing Rodriguez coming to terms with it. This wasn’t the movies. This was real life. And shooting people in real life wasn’t nice. Especially when you were the guy getting shot.