Tulsa city limits.”
“I see. Did you eat or drink anything in his apartment? Other than the rosé?”
“I don’t think so.”
“Okay. Jones, draft another motion. I want that rosé and the carafe tested.”
“Got it, Boss.”
“What else can you remember, Christina?”
“That’s about it. I watched TV awhile, drank, then conked out. I mean totally. And I had the weirdest dream. Really bizarro. Something about swimming and…Frosty the Snowman.”
“I beg your pardon?”
“You heard me. Frosty the Snowman. You know”—she began to sing—“with a corncob pipe and two eyes made out of coal.”
“You’re lucky I’m a lawyer, not a psychiatrist.”
“Yeah. Anyway, you know the rest. I woke up and poked around like an idiot. The FBI goons came in, roughed me up, and hauled me off to the slammer.”
“Got all that, Jones?”
Jones nodded.
“If you think of anything else, write it down immediately, or tell Jones or me.”
“Okay.”
“I need some hard evidence before the hearing on Friday. With any luck, we can shut down this dog-and-pony show before it goes to trial.”
“Sounds good to me,” Christina said. “What should I do in the meantime?”
Ben considered her question. “I think you should either fry them, or collect their eggs, depending on which they are. Jones will know. He’s a country boy.”
Ben held the small brown package about a foot away from him. Although it was somewhat heavy, he preferred not to brace the weight against his body. The further away, the better.
He walked next door to the B & J Pawn Shop and peered through the iron bars. Excellent. Burris was in.
He pushed open the door, ringing the cowbell. The proprietor, Burris Judd (he was both the B and the J), was standing behind the counter.
Burris looked up. His face seemed to contract; his eyes became narrow slits. “What do you want?” The hostility was unmistakable.
Ben plopped his package down on the counter. “You’ll never guess what I got in the mail today, Burris.”
Burris scratched his stubbled chin. “How the hell would I know what you got in the mail?”
“Like I said, you’ll never guess.” Ben started to open the box.
Burris’s eyes lit up. “Now wait just a cotton pickin’ minute. What do you think you’re doin’?”
“You don’t want me to open this in your shop, do you? Kind of odd, since you don’t know what’s in it.”
“I’ve got customers to attend to, shyster. If you’ll excuse me.”
Ben scanned the small, otherwise empty pawn shop. “Looks like it’s just you and me from where I’m standing, Burris.” He pointed at the box and whispered. “It’s a gopher.”
“That a fact.”
“Yup. What’s worse, it’s a dead gopher.”
“Do tell.”
“Yup. Somebody shot it dead. With a Smith and Wesson .44. Can you imagine?”
“Nope.”
“What I really liked, Burris, was that it was sent Fourth Class—Book Rate, so it could decompose for at least two weeks before it arrived.”
“Don’t know what you’re botherin’ me for, Kincaid. Probably a gift from one of your low-life clients.”
“I have some strange clients, Burris, but I’m not aware of one with a gopher fetish. And I can’t imagine why a client would want to kill a gopher, much less send it to me.”
Burris rolled his tongue around in his mouth. “Them gophers is a pernicious breed. They’ve been raisin’ hell in my backyard.”
“So I’ve been informed. And that, coupled with your access to about five hundred or so Smith and Wessons right here in your shop and your predilection for juvenile terrorism, made me think it was just possible you were my mystery correspondent.”
“And what if I am?”
“Transporting dead gophers through the U.S. Mail is against federal law.”
“What law?”
“I don’t exactly know, but I’m confident that if I spent an hour or so in the library I could find one.”
“Wouldn’t be surprised if you did take me to court. You ain’t shown
“I see. Did you eat or drink anything in his apartment? Other than the rosé?”
“I don’t think so.”
“Okay. Jones, draft another motion. I want that rosé and the carafe tested.”
“Got it, Boss.”
“What else can you remember, Christina?”
“That’s about it. I watched TV awhile, drank, then conked out. I mean totally. And I had the weirdest dream. Really bizarro. Something about swimming and…Frosty the Snowman.”
“I beg your pardon?”
“You heard me. Frosty the Snowman. You know”—she began to sing—“with a corncob pipe and two eyes made out of coal.”
“You’re lucky I’m a lawyer, not a psychiatrist.”
“Yeah. Anyway, you know the rest. I woke up and poked around like an idiot. The FBI goons came in, roughed me up, and hauled me off to the slammer.”
“Got all that, Jones?”
Jones nodded.
“If you think of anything else, write it down immediately, or tell Jones or me.”
“Okay.”
“I need some hard evidence before the hearing on Friday. With any luck, we can shut down this dog-and-pony show before it goes to trial.”
“Sounds good to me,” Christina said. “What should I do in the meantime?”
Ben considered her question. “I think you should either fry them, or collect their eggs, depending on which they are. Jones will know. He’s a country boy.”
Ben held the small brown package about a foot away from him. Although it was somewhat heavy, he preferred not to brace the weight against his body. The further away, the better.
He walked next door to the B & J Pawn Shop and peered through the iron bars. Excellent. Burris was in.
He pushed open the door, ringing the cowbell. The proprietor, Burris Judd (he was both the B and the J), was standing behind the counter.
Burris looked up. His face seemed to contract; his eyes became narrow slits. “What do you want?” The hostility was unmistakable.
Ben plopped his package down on the counter. “You’ll never guess what I got in the mail today, Burris.”
Burris scratched his stubbled chin. “How the hell would I know what you got in the mail?”
“Like I said, you’ll never guess.” Ben started to open the box.
Burris’s eyes lit up. “Now wait just a cotton pickin’ minute. What do you think you’re doin’?”
“You don’t want me to open this in your shop, do you? Kind of odd, since you don’t know what’s in it.”
“I’ve got customers to attend to, shyster. If you’ll excuse me.”
Ben scanned the small, otherwise empty pawn shop. “Looks like it’s just you and me from where I’m standing, Burris.” He pointed at the box and whispered. “It’s a gopher.”
“That a fact.”
“Yup. What’s worse, it’s a dead gopher.”
“Do tell.”
“Yup. Somebody shot it dead. With a Smith and Wesson .44. Can you imagine?”
“Nope.”
“What I really liked, Burris, was that it was sent Fourth Class—Book Rate, so it could decompose for at least two weeks before it arrived.”
“Don’t know what you’re botherin’ me for, Kincaid. Probably a gift from one of your low-life clients.”
“I have some strange clients, Burris, but I’m not aware of one with a gopher fetish. And I can’t imagine why a client would want to kill a gopher, much less send it to me.”
Burris rolled his tongue around in his mouth. “Them gophers is a pernicious breed. They’ve been raisin’ hell in my backyard.”
“So I’ve been informed. And that, coupled with your access to about five hundred or so Smith and Wessons right here in your shop and your predilection for juvenile terrorism, made me think it was just possible you were my mystery correspondent.”
“And what if I am?”
“Transporting dead gophers through the U.S. Mail is against federal law.”
“What law?”
“I don’t exactly know, but I’m confident that if I spent an hour or so in the library I could find one.”
“Wouldn’t be surprised if you did take me to court. You ain’t shown
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