Stateline by Dave Stanton Page A

What’s goin’ on?”
    “Bong hit, Sven?” Whitey said, his voice a rasp, holding a hit deep in his lungs.
    “I saw him over at Caesar’s and brought him over,” I said, following Osterlund in.
    Whitey blew out his hit. “Dude, any word on your truck?”
    Osterlund loaded himself a bowl out of Whitey’s plastic baggie and lit it. He held it in for about thirty seconds, and when he exhaled there was no smoke.
    “Yeah, it’s in the sheriff’s impound lot. They towed it.”
    “Those motherfuckers,” Brad said.
    “Dude, what’s up with Bascom kickin’ the bucket? Did the cops talk to you about it?” Whitey’s eyes were red and glassy.
    Osterlund glanced at me. “Talk about it later,” he mumbled.
    “Christ, Sven, what happened last night?” Brad said.
    “You got any beers in this dump?” Osterlund said.
    “No, we finished our twelve-pack.”
    Osterlund pulled a ten out of his wallet, crumpled it up, and threw it in Brad’s direction. “Why don’t you go get us a half rack?”
    Brad picked up the ten and smoothed it out. “Okay,” he said, looking at the bill.
    “Dude, what about Bascom?” Whitey said. Osterlund cut his eyes toward him, but Whitey was obliviously stoned. “Hey, maybe Dan can help figure out who killed him, he’s a private eye!” Whitey smiled, his jaw hanging stupidly, nodding his head as if it were attached to a spring. Osterlund turned toward me, and I could see the suspicion glowing behind his reptilian eyes.
    “How nice, a private investigator,” Osterlund said. “You been messing around with Mandy McGee?”
    I felt my brow crease. “What?”
    “She told me you short-stroked her the other night. Hope you enjoyed it, but she’s off limits from now on, you got it?”
    I shrugged. “Sure.”
    “So, did you fuck her?”
    “Is that what she told you?”
    “I’m asking
you
, bitch,” he said, the cords in his neck like taut rope beneath his skin. I was leaning against the windowsill with my arms crossed, and he was on the other side of the room. He stared at me hard.
    “Whitey, why don’t you load Sven another bong hit?” I said.
    “You got a real smart mouth on you, buddy.”
    “What happened at the Crown Ambassador last night?” I said.
    “That’s a good question. Why don’t you stick your head up your hole and ask around?”
    He took a step in my direction. Brad and Whitey were silent and frozen.
    “You and Mandy might consider a future in Mexico,” I said. “I’d say it will take about forty-eight hours for the cops to gather enough evidence to arrest you. If you head south quick, you might make it.”
    He shook his head. “Unbelievable,” he said. Then he pointed at me with two fingers. “It’s time for you to leave, fuckwad.” He came forward and opened the door. No more than four feet separated us. We stood staring at each other.
    “Fuckwad, huh?” I said. “I haven’t heard that one in a while.”
    “Hit the road, pal, before I rip your throat out.”
    “You’re one badass son of a bitch, aren’t you?”
    A tight smile formed on his face. He moved his arm in an underhanded motion, gesturing toward the door. I decided I’d split—there was no point in sticking around now, unless I wanted to try to beat a confession out of him. I doubted I could, but for a long moment I was tempted to try.
    “You’re welcome for the ride,” I said finally, and as soon as I walked out he kicked me hard in the ass. I whirled around, but he was already in position, and his leg shot out, the sole of his shoe aimed at my chin. But his kick wasn’t quite high enough, and I took the blow in the meat of my chest. Before he could snap his leg back I grabbed his ankle and jerked it upward. He fell back on his neck, bucked his legs and was on his feet like a cat, but not quick enough. I jumped forward and hit him in the jaw with a straight left. His skull snapped back, and I threw a roundhouse right, going for the knockout, but he blocked it neatly, then his