about that.”
“I’m not complaining,” I told him honestly.
“They’re just kids. And sometimes payback is part of the job description.”
“Right, but the stupid bastards were bragging and laughing in the locker room,” Gannon said.
“It ain’t the worst thing that ever happened to me.
“I don’t want to hear the worst,” Gannon said, almost smiling as we stopped at the unnumbered door of my room.
Gannon tossed the room with a quick and practiced expertise without leaving the least mess. I complimented him. “Good work, man, the only thing you didn’t find was the mouse fart.”
“Right lizard boot, you goddamned drunk,” Gannon said as he wrote a number on the back of one of his cards and left it by the telephone. “This is my personal cell phone. Call me before you leave town. We’ll have a drink somewhere down the road. In another county. Maybe you’ll tell me what really happened.”
“I’ve got no plans to leave town,” I said.
“You better leave,” Gannon said. “Believe me. Word around the courthouse is that Steelhammer plans to dismiss your charges tomorrow, so you’ll get your bond, your piece, your car, and your license back. Until the grand jury convenes in three weeks and comes in with a capital murder indictment. Tobin Rooke is a mean, smart son of a bitch, and he and his twin brother were as tight as two baby snakes in a single egg. They’ve never lived apart. So you can bet your ass he’s gonna nail you for something, and it won’t be pleasant. You can count on that.”
I used the arms of the chair to push myself upright, then said, “He better bring his lunch this time, Captain, ‘cause they fucked with the wrong dog.”
“Forgive me for pointing it out,” Gannon said, “but clearly you ain’t as tough as you think.”
“I dug my own grave once,” I said, “but I ain’t buried in it yet.”
Gannon’s face remained impassive. “You need a hand back to the bar?”
“You really want to know what really happened. Off the record?”
“Rooke was a complete asshole, man,” he said, “but you know I can’t go off the record with a suspect. Not on a mess like this.”
“Well, fuck you then,” I said. Then I told him the whole story. Except for the fact that it seemed that Molly McBride had stolen Betty’s revolver.
“That doesn’t make any sense,” Gannon said.
“You’re telling me,” I said, “unless he was moonlighting as a hit man.”
“I’ve always thought he was dirty — too tight with rich folks — but hiring out for a hit? I just don’t know,” Gannon mused.
“The son of a bitch was going to kill me,” I said. “There’s not a smidgen of a doubt in my mind.”
“You sure you just didn’t piss him off?”
“Right,” I said. “Have you got the technology to get a photo off this tape?”
Gannon shook his head. “Not without involving other people in the department. And I don’t think you want that. Try this guy downtown.” Gannon picked up his card off the telephone table and scribbled another number on the back of it. “Let me know if I can help.”
“You can help me back to the bar,” I said. And he did. Later, I made it back to the room leaning on Mike Herrera’s shoulder. But I couldn’t sleep. I grabbed my smokes and a beer out of the small fridge and shuffled outside to the balcony that overlooked the hollow.
No matter how I looked at it, I couldn’t come up with a reason why an off-duty sheriff’s detective would want to kill me. Unless it had something to do with my vague campaign to save Enos Walker from an undeserved hit from the state’s needle. The slice of the moon was smaller than the night before and it seemed somehow sharper, the soft rush of the Blue Hole somehow farther away.
* * *
It was two the next afternoon before I could struggle to the Jacuzzi. Mike brought me a Bloody Mary and a plate of Pete’s hottest tacos. The weather had held, and I found myself basking in the sunlight like a
“I’m not complaining,” I told him honestly.
“They’re just kids. And sometimes payback is part of the job description.”
“Right, but the stupid bastards were bragging and laughing in the locker room,” Gannon said.
“It ain’t the worst thing that ever happened to me.
“I don’t want to hear the worst,” Gannon said, almost smiling as we stopped at the unnumbered door of my room.
Gannon tossed the room with a quick and practiced expertise without leaving the least mess. I complimented him. “Good work, man, the only thing you didn’t find was the mouse fart.”
“Right lizard boot, you goddamned drunk,” Gannon said as he wrote a number on the back of one of his cards and left it by the telephone. “This is my personal cell phone. Call me before you leave town. We’ll have a drink somewhere down the road. In another county. Maybe you’ll tell me what really happened.”
“I’ve got no plans to leave town,” I said.
“You better leave,” Gannon said. “Believe me. Word around the courthouse is that Steelhammer plans to dismiss your charges tomorrow, so you’ll get your bond, your piece, your car, and your license back. Until the grand jury convenes in three weeks and comes in with a capital murder indictment. Tobin Rooke is a mean, smart son of a bitch, and he and his twin brother were as tight as two baby snakes in a single egg. They’ve never lived apart. So you can bet your ass he’s gonna nail you for something, and it won’t be pleasant. You can count on that.”
I used the arms of the chair to push myself upright, then said, “He better bring his lunch this time, Captain, ‘cause they fucked with the wrong dog.”
“Forgive me for pointing it out,” Gannon said, “but clearly you ain’t as tough as you think.”
“I dug my own grave once,” I said, “but I ain’t buried in it yet.”
Gannon’s face remained impassive. “You need a hand back to the bar?”
“You really want to know what really happened. Off the record?”
“Rooke was a complete asshole, man,” he said, “but you know I can’t go off the record with a suspect. Not on a mess like this.”
“Well, fuck you then,” I said. Then I told him the whole story. Except for the fact that it seemed that Molly McBride had stolen Betty’s revolver.
“That doesn’t make any sense,” Gannon said.
“You’re telling me,” I said, “unless he was moonlighting as a hit man.”
“I’ve always thought he was dirty — too tight with rich folks — but hiring out for a hit? I just don’t know,” Gannon mused.
“The son of a bitch was going to kill me,” I said. “There’s not a smidgen of a doubt in my mind.”
“You sure you just didn’t piss him off?”
“Right,” I said. “Have you got the technology to get a photo off this tape?”
Gannon shook his head. “Not without involving other people in the department. And I don’t think you want that. Try this guy downtown.” Gannon picked up his card off the telephone table and scribbled another number on the back of it. “Let me know if I can help.”
“You can help me back to the bar,” I said. And he did. Later, I made it back to the room leaning on Mike Herrera’s shoulder. But I couldn’t sleep. I grabbed my smokes and a beer out of the small fridge and shuffled outside to the balcony that overlooked the hollow.
No matter how I looked at it, I couldn’t come up with a reason why an off-duty sheriff’s detective would want to kill me. Unless it had something to do with my vague campaign to save Enos Walker from an undeserved hit from the state’s needle. The slice of the moon was smaller than the night before and it seemed somehow sharper, the soft rush of the Blue Hole somehow farther away.
* * *
It was two the next afternoon before I could struggle to the Jacuzzi. Mike brought me a Bloody Mary and a plate of Pete’s hottest tacos. The weather had held, and I found myself basking in the sunlight like a
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