BULLETS by Elijah Drive

in this country. I’ll check with Mexican authorities to see about a criminal record there, but it seems unlikely. According to his co-workers, the two I’ve spoken to, he was quiet and law-abiding, shy even. Devout Catholic, single, went to church every Friday night, Saturday and Sunday. He’d been here for five years and, like many illegals, he tried hard to stay out of trouble.”
    “Carlson’s body was found at six in the morning, right? More or less. And Pedro was arrested in the diner sometime after eight?”
    “Eight-twenty.”
    “That’s pretty fast police work, ain’t it?”
    Melvin thought about that and nodded. “Real fast.”
    “Too fast. How’d they identify him so quick? If he’d never been arrested before, his prints weren’t in the system. Yet in two hours they knew who he was and where he was. Two fucking hours. You think the cops here are that good?”
    “I don’t know of cops anywhere who are that good. Nothing in the arrest report, either. It’s pretty sparse, in fact. I’ll double-check, but it could be an opening. Good catch. You could be a good lawyer.”
    “I make more money at cards than you do at law. But thanks anyway.”
    Melvin was less than amused by that comment but ignored it. “So are you going back to … where is it you live?”
    “New York City. No. I’m not going back, not just yet.”
    “Really?” Melvin raised an eyebrow. “You’re staying here?”
    Slick could see that Melvin thought this boded well for his potential civil suit against the department. “A little while, anyway. I’m not ready to go just yet.”
    “You mentioned yesterday that you might have … what was your phrase for it, for the aces in the hole?”
    “Bullets.”
    “Bullets, yes. You mentioned you might have something to that effect with regard to your encounter with Sheriff Ted?”
    “I might. I might not.”
    “You can tell me, you know. I am your lawyer, after all.”
    “Not anymore. I don’t need a lawyer now, right? But if I do, I’ll give you a call. You have my numbers, I have yours, and if things change I’ll be in touch.”
    Slick stood and walked out, leaving a perturbed Melvin to deal with the check. It wouldn’t be much, at least from his end. There hadn’t been much for him to eat there.

16
    S lick pulled into the long drive leading to the Carlson ranch. He wasn’t sure what type of reception he’d get there, but thought it might be worth at least seeing where it happened and if anyone would possibly talk to him. Except for the work barns and a modest but well-maintained ranch house, there was nothing but lettuce fields as far as the eye could see.
    He parked and climbed out of the car. No one around, no workers, no dogs, it was very quiet. He sensed movement in the house, a flutter of a window shade. He shut the car door and made his way up the front walk. The front door opened before he got close and a woman in her fifties stepped out, one foot and hand inside.
    “You a reporter?” she asked.
    “No, ma’am,” Slick said.
    “You ain’t a salesman either.”
    “No, ma’am, definitely not.”
    She stared at him a moment and he at her. She wore jeans and a t-shirt, her hair up in a bun, a well-preserved woman but just as obviously barely holding it together. She finally nodded and opened the door all the way.
    “Thirsty?”
    “I surely am.”
    “Come on inside then, too hot out here.”
    Slick followed into the air-conditioned coolness of her house and noticed, once inside, that she held a shotgun in her free hand, the one she kept inside the house, partially hidden. She leaned the weapon against a counter once she got to the kitchen.
    “For reporters?” he asked.
    “And salesmen. You like iced tea?”
    “Love iced tea.”
    She took out a pitcher of tea from the refrigerator, poured them both a glass.
    “You want sugar with that?”
    “No, thank you.”
    “You ain’t from the south, then. But neither am I and that’s also the way I like it,