Cody's Army by Jim Case

studied Cody quizzically.
    “I don’t get you, Sarge.”
    Caine was studying him too.
    “Nor I,” he added, “but I will say, mate, that that grin you’re wearing calls to mind the proverbial cat that has just swallowed
     the canary.”
    Cody, not losing the grin, turned to Hawkins.
    “Hawkeye, that southern accent of yours is going to come in handy for a change, but you’re going to have to play this one
     easy. Don’t get anyone suspicious. Say you’re some sort of termite specialist or something. Just find some way to call around
     to the sheriffs’ offices in the neighboring counties; find out the sheriffs’ names. We’ll need a name or two.”
    “Gotcha,” Hawkins nodded. “Sort of.”
    “What have you got in mind, John?” Caine asked.
    “Something that could work,” Cody explained. “And I’ll guarantee you Rufe will like it so much he’ll want to marry the idea.
     So Braddock’ll gamble on anything, eh? Okay then, here’s what we’re going to do…”
    Rufe Murphy, six-foot-two and two hundred and sixty pounds of restless black muscle, sat on the lumpy jail-cell mattress and
     contemplated his small universe; the one into which he had been hurled due to his never-ending quest for pussy.
    Pussy.
    It was that simple.
    Here he sat in a cell eight feet wide and eight feet deep, sharing it with a drunk, because he could not make the big head
     override the urgings of the little head. Now, a good, cool distance from the passion that had sent him here, he decided it
     had not been at all wise to bang the mayor’s wife. He should’ve stayed busy with his chopper and his charter services.
    True, she had wanted it and things had led up to it nicely, and once he’d finally got a chance to put the mule in the barn
     it had been real all right, but had it been this good? Was anything worth a hole like this: roaches the size of cigar butts
     on the floor; one little, barred, and net-wired window; and a companion who needed a bath?
    Rufe looked at the little drunk, not able to remember when they had brought him in. He’d gotten into the bad habit lately
     of sleeping sound as a rock.
    The drunk saw him looking his way and leered back.
    “Reckon you’re in some deep shit here, boy. Mayor’s wife ain’t the ticket for a colored. Not here. Everyone else in town was
     fucking her, but not with a black dick, no sir. That’s gonna get you sent up.”
    “Secrets are real well kept around here, aren’t they?” Rufe groused.
    “Nope, they ain’t, and that’s a fact,” the drunk grinned.
    At the end of the hallway, Rufe heard the door open and the drunk whispered, “Shit, here comes Braddock. Don’t look like I
     been talking to you, will ya?”
    Braddock came over to the bars and grinned.
    Rufe thought the sheriff looked like an oversized Butter-ball turkey that had learned to wear clothes.
    “Momin’, boy,” Braddock snickered.
    “I guess that pleasant greeting must be for me,” Rufe growled, wishing he could reach through the bars and strangle the bastard
     to death.
    “The mayor don’t like his wife being soiled by no burrhead,” Braddock rasped. “He’s having her put out to pasture, just ’cause
     of you. And you…well, you’re going to be breaking big rocks into little ones real soon, and the mayor aims to make sure there’s
     some guards up at the state pen paid off to bust your balls real regular-like.”
    “I’m not there yet, Sheriff.”
    “No, and that’s a fact, and I’m right proud to have you here as my guest, boy. You and me, we’re going to have ourselves a
     little fun back here before your case comes to trial, ain’t we?” Then he turned to the drunk, not waiting for a response from
     the big, angry, glaring black man.
    “All right, Leroy, get your ass out of there.”
    Braddock took out his revolver and held it against his leg. He unlocked the cage with the other hand, let Leroy out and closed
     the cell door, putting the gun away again and smiling at