second cup of herbal tea, deeply immersed in a crime novel. He was hunched over his desk, his rimless glasses teetering midway down his nose, lips pursed, as he turned the page of the thick paperback entitled
Sergeant Luger: Crack Shot
Wesley was surprised at his deputy’s choice of reading matter. Usually the Peace Corps veteran restricted his leisure study to socially significant works like
The Coalition for Central American Rights Newsletter
or pamphlets by groups with names like Defenders of the Ozone. Just bringing Clay’s mail back from the post office box could raise your social consciousness, the sheriff contended.
Wesley turned a page of the newspaper. “I see where the Chandlers’ niece is getting married,” he remarked. “I think we met her during the Chandler case, didn’t we? The one that kinda resembled Linda Ronstadt.”
Clay Taylor refused to rise to the conversational bait. He turned another page.
“Says here she’s studying forensic anthropology in graduate school. I used to think that meant analyzing the way different cultures talked, because back when I was in high school, speech class was called forensics. Turns out it means analyzing human remains. Interesting sort of job.”
With an absent nod in the direction of his boss, the deputy turned another page.
He must have reached a sex scene
, thought Wesley, returning to his own choice of reading matter. He scanned the rest of the page and caught sight of a familiar name. “Well, Clay, looks like you got mentioned in the
Scout
this week,” he called out.
The reply was a grunt from behind the cover of
Sergeant Luger: Crack Shot
.
“No picture, though. Marshal Pavlock has written up the Halliburtons’ account of how they calledyou to save them from the wild animal in their cellar. Listen here:
A feral whine was coming from the darkness of the Halliburtons’ basement, and upon discovering that the basement light had burned out after being accidentally left on, Bryan Halliburton declined to descend into the basement armed with only a flashlight to confront the beast. They thought that it might be a wildcat, using their premises for its den, and they decided to appeal for help to the local sheriff’s department Enter the intrepid deputy T. Clay Taylor.”
With a weary sigh, the aforementioned intrepid deputy marked his place in his novel with a parking ticket and listened to Wesley’s dramatic reading. “I wish he hadn’t run that story,” he said.
Wesley chuckled. “Why not? It’s a corker.
Deputy Taylor did not draw his gun as he crept slowly down the concrete steps toward the Halliburtons’ washing machine. He heard the menacing noise they had told him about. It was then that he informed them that bloodshed would not be called for.”
The sheriff rattled the paper, too overcome to continue.
“All they had to do was change the battery on their smoke alarm and the noise would stop,”
said Clay, supplying the story’s punch line. He shrugged. “Can I go back to my book now?”
Wesley took a sobering sip of black coffee. “What do you want to read that thing for anyhow?” he asked.
“It’s a modern parable of good and evil, full of riveting authenticity about the deadly game in the inner cities,” said Clay, consulting the back cover for blurbs.
“Oh crap,” said the sheriff. “It’s a male romance novel is what it is.”
“It’s reality,” said Clay, looking earnest as usual.
“This
is reality!” said Wesley, waving the
Chandler
Grove Scout
. “Killer smoke alarms. Two years without firing a shot in the line of duty. That thing you’ve got is what a lot of humorless people
hope
is reality. Because if the world is grim and sordid, then it means they’re not missing anything.”
Clay Taylor shrugged. It wasn’t easy working with an incurable optimist when the world was going to hell in a Central American handbasket. When the phone rang a few moments later, he found himself wishing that it would be someone
Sergeant Luger: Crack Shot
Wesley was surprised at his deputy’s choice of reading matter. Usually the Peace Corps veteran restricted his leisure study to socially significant works like
The Coalition for Central American Rights Newsletter
or pamphlets by groups with names like Defenders of the Ozone. Just bringing Clay’s mail back from the post office box could raise your social consciousness, the sheriff contended.
Wesley turned a page of the newspaper. “I see where the Chandlers’ niece is getting married,” he remarked. “I think we met her during the Chandler case, didn’t we? The one that kinda resembled Linda Ronstadt.”
Clay Taylor refused to rise to the conversational bait. He turned another page.
“Says here she’s studying forensic anthropology in graduate school. I used to think that meant analyzing the way different cultures talked, because back when I was in high school, speech class was called forensics. Turns out it means analyzing human remains. Interesting sort of job.”
With an absent nod in the direction of his boss, the deputy turned another page.
He must have reached a sex scene
, thought Wesley, returning to his own choice of reading matter. He scanned the rest of the page and caught sight of a familiar name. “Well, Clay, looks like you got mentioned in the
Scout
this week,” he called out.
The reply was a grunt from behind the cover of
Sergeant Luger: Crack Shot
.
“No picture, though. Marshal Pavlock has written up the Halliburtons’ account of how they calledyou to save them from the wild animal in their cellar. Listen here:
A feral whine was coming from the darkness of the Halliburtons’ basement, and upon discovering that the basement light had burned out after being accidentally left on, Bryan Halliburton declined to descend into the basement armed with only a flashlight to confront the beast. They thought that it might be a wildcat, using their premises for its den, and they decided to appeal for help to the local sheriff’s department Enter the intrepid deputy T. Clay Taylor.”
With a weary sigh, the aforementioned intrepid deputy marked his place in his novel with a parking ticket and listened to Wesley’s dramatic reading. “I wish he hadn’t run that story,” he said.
Wesley chuckled. “Why not? It’s a corker.
Deputy Taylor did not draw his gun as he crept slowly down the concrete steps toward the Halliburtons’ washing machine. He heard the menacing noise they had told him about. It was then that he informed them that bloodshed would not be called for.”
The sheriff rattled the paper, too overcome to continue.
“All they had to do was change the battery on their smoke alarm and the noise would stop,”
said Clay, supplying the story’s punch line. He shrugged. “Can I go back to my book now?”
Wesley took a sobering sip of black coffee. “What do you want to read that thing for anyhow?” he asked.
“It’s a modern parable of good and evil, full of riveting authenticity about the deadly game in the inner cities,” said Clay, consulting the back cover for blurbs.
“Oh crap,” said the sheriff. “It’s a male romance novel is what it is.”
“It’s reality,” said Clay, looking earnest as usual.
“This
is reality!” said Wesley, waving the
Chandler
Grove Scout
. “Killer smoke alarms. Two years without firing a shot in the line of duty. That thing you’ve got is what a lot of humorless people
hope
is reality. Because if the world is grim and sordid, then it means they’re not missing anything.”
Clay Taylor shrugged. It wasn’t easy working with an incurable optimist when the world was going to hell in a Central American handbasket. When the phone rang a few moments later, he found himself wishing that it would be someone
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