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fanofthegenre
Mar. 17th, 2009 07:13 pmThe shooting range was not at all how Castle had pictured it. In his mind, hardened beat cops with bristle mustaches stood around in pairs, comparing their pieces with one another while watching other members of their tribe blast the crap out of tin cans on a fence. He had a whole scene hashed out in his head before he even got to the range: Nikki Heat in Kevlar and a pair of pumps, having an arm-wrestling contest with some cop named O'Reilly -- no, Connor ... no, Espisito -- and then going out to the range with her Glock to sharpshoot a couple of pigeons. Castle had it planned down to the detail on Espisito's badge when he pulled into the parking lot of a squat gray structure. He snorted. It looked more like a bunker than the place where New York's Finest trained their itchy trigger fingers.
Beckett had insisted that they drove separately. That was fine with Castle. He had a GPS and a turbo engine and an overall jonesin' to see both pushed to their peak usages. The car was an incentive for him to finish his latest opus. Of course, the car had come before he'd axed his main character and once he turned in the final draft, he'd worried for two nights that his publisher would come around to his apartment, asking for the car keys.
Castle swung out of the driver's seat and adjusted the sunglasses perched on the end of his nose. A pair of plainclothes cops (you knew them by their walk) came up the walk past him. Their holsters were empty. Castle felt cheated. Here he was, on Beckett's good graces, willing to play along for once. The least she could do was rig up a couple of her boys in blue with some sub-machine guns. A writer had to have inspiration, after all.
He spotted the turned back of Detective Kate Beckett standing across the parking lot, her mahogany-coloured hair reflecting dizzying fractals of sunlight. She had her hands on her hips (he was used to that pose) and she was looking upwind, toward the peak of the parking lot. He was too far away to tell, but Castle just knew that she was tapping her toe inside of one of those pricey shoes.
His smile erupted into a billion watts. "Hello there," he said, trundling the loose gravel beneath his feet as he descended from on high to meet her, "I've changed my mind. I'm not interested in guns anymore. Does this place do C4? I kind of feel like busting prairie dogs the old fashioned way."
Beckett had insisted that they drove separately. That was fine with Castle. He had a GPS and a turbo engine and an overall jonesin' to see both pushed to their peak usages. The car was an incentive for him to finish his latest opus. Of course, the car had come before he'd axed his main character and once he turned in the final draft, he'd worried for two nights that his publisher would come around to his apartment, asking for the car keys.
Castle swung out of the driver's seat and adjusted the sunglasses perched on the end of his nose. A pair of plainclothes cops (you knew them by their walk) came up the walk past him. Their holsters were empty. Castle felt cheated. Here he was, on Beckett's good graces, willing to play along for once. The least she could do was rig up a couple of her boys in blue with some sub-machine guns. A writer had to have inspiration, after all.
He spotted the turned back of Detective Kate Beckett standing across the parking lot, her mahogany-coloured hair reflecting dizzying fractals of sunlight. She had her hands on her hips (he was used to that pose) and she was looking upwind, toward the peak of the parking lot. He was too far away to tell, but Castle just knew that she was tapping her toe inside of one of those pricey shoes.
His smile erupted into a billion watts. "Hello there," he said, trundling the loose gravel beneath his feet as he descended from on high to meet her, "I've changed my mind. I'm not interested in guns anymore. Does this place do C4? I kind of feel like busting prairie dogs the old fashioned way."
