Knock Out
Page 70
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“Hey, Martin’s widow brought him back to his hometown and family. That was surely a nice thing for her to do, don’t you think, Doreen?”
“She was gone fast enough. Della Hoop down at the dry cleaner’s said she heard the widow was this city girl, all proud and proper, and Martin’s little girl was cute as a button. That’s what Mavis at the Food Star told her. Said the little girl liked butter-pecan ice cream. But she didn’t look a thing like her daddy. Martin was dark, had a five-o’clock stubble by the time he was sixteen. Shepherd didn’t like that either, I heard, the little girl looking the image of her mother.”
Savich nodded. “Blessed told me how he caught that young guy from the newspaper who was at the funeral spying on them, how he told him to go quit his job.”
Doreen’s eyes flashed again—was it fear? Or was it par for the course when you lived in Blessed’s universe? “The little snoop, serves him right, but old man Maynard wouldn’t let him quit even though he lost his prized camera.”
“Yeah, Blessed said he smashed the camera.”
Doreen’s mouth opened and Savich leaned forward a bit. Suddenly she looked out the window. Savich turned to see a big muscle truck, a Chevy Cheyenne, so spit-shined you could see your reflection in its black surface. He saw a gun rack but no one riding shotgun.
Doreen said, “That there’s Sheriff Cole. Burris probably saw you, wants to check you out. He’s real careful with our town. I told you, Blessed and Grace aren’t here. Why don’t you just leave now? I mean, you got a real full tank now, don’t you? Trust me, you don’t want to tangle with Sheriff Cole.”
“Tangle with the sheriff? Last thing on my mind. I’m pleased you called him for me, Doreen.”
40
“SHERIFF COLE DOESN’T like strangers. He’s always driving through town, watching for them, so you’d best hie yourself out of Bricker’s Bowl, back up to the highway, before he hauls you in and puts the hurt on you. I didn’t call anybody.”
“The hurt on me? Does he make a habit of beating up strangers who come to Bricker’s Bowl?”
“Don’t make him think you deserve it.”
“Wouldn’t dream of it,” Savich agreed, and gave Doreen a small salute and a smile that startled her. He walked out the door to stand in the bright sun a moment and stretch. He watched Sheriff Cole climb out of his truck, check himself in the high shine. So this was the man who’d kissed off Ethan. He watched him hoist up his tan polyester pants and settle the wide leather belt and big holster around his middle, run his fingers over the butt of his Smith & Wesson Model 29, Dirty Harry’s classic .44 Magnum. What was this small-town sheriff doing with such a powerful gun? Stupid question. Like his truck, the .44 Magnum helped make him the Big Man, someone with power, someone to fear. He actually was big and muscular, in his late thirties, big hands, big booted feet. He rolled his powerful shoulders and, of all things, cracked his knuckles. Savich sincerely doubted the two of them would ever be friends. This was no Dougie Hollyfield or Ethan Merriweather. This man looked volatile, and that made him very dangerous. If Joanna was right, he was in the Backmans’ pocket.
What Sheriff Cole really looked like, Savich thought, was a natural-born bully.
He came to within four feet of Savich before he stopped, took a wide-legged stance, his fingers still on his gun butt. He stared at Savich, measuring him, assessing him, as if wondering, maybe, how long it would take him to beat Savich unconscious. Savich would bet this guy would go about any beating he did with great joy and viciousness. Savich saw he was wearing two-inch boots and wondered why. The guy was already a good six-foot-three or thereabouts. More intimidation, more huge attitude. No help from this quarter, not after what Ethan had told him. The guy probably feared only three people in this town—all of them named Backman.
Sheriff Cole had a heavy twang. His voice boomed out deep and hard, filled with threat and violence. “Good afternoon. You want to tell me who you are and what you’re doing here?”
Savich saw Sherlock climb slowly out of the Camry. She stood at her ease about eight feet behind the sheriff, her arms loose at her sides, her jacket shoved back so her fingers weren’t more than two inches from her SIG.
“Or what?” Savich asked easily, a black eyebrow arching.
“Or, you disrespectful piece of shit, I’ll whip your ass and kick you out of my town.”
“All that?” Savich smiled as he pulled out his creds and held them out. “If you will look at my credentials, Sheriff, you’ll see I’m Special Agent Dillon Savich. Behind you is Special Agent Sherlock, FBI. You know, Sheriff, I really dislike foul language. You might want to remember that. I didn’t catch your name.”
“She was gone fast enough. Della Hoop down at the dry cleaner’s said she heard the widow was this city girl, all proud and proper, and Martin’s little girl was cute as a button. That’s what Mavis at the Food Star told her. Said the little girl liked butter-pecan ice cream. But she didn’t look a thing like her daddy. Martin was dark, had a five-o’clock stubble by the time he was sixteen. Shepherd didn’t like that either, I heard, the little girl looking the image of her mother.”
Savich nodded. “Blessed told me how he caught that young guy from the newspaper who was at the funeral spying on them, how he told him to go quit his job.”
Doreen’s eyes flashed again—was it fear? Or was it par for the course when you lived in Blessed’s universe? “The little snoop, serves him right, but old man Maynard wouldn’t let him quit even though he lost his prized camera.”
“Yeah, Blessed said he smashed the camera.”
Doreen’s mouth opened and Savich leaned forward a bit. Suddenly she looked out the window. Savich turned to see a big muscle truck, a Chevy Cheyenne, so spit-shined you could see your reflection in its black surface. He saw a gun rack but no one riding shotgun.
Doreen said, “That there’s Sheriff Cole. Burris probably saw you, wants to check you out. He’s real careful with our town. I told you, Blessed and Grace aren’t here. Why don’t you just leave now? I mean, you got a real full tank now, don’t you? Trust me, you don’t want to tangle with Sheriff Cole.”
“Tangle with the sheriff? Last thing on my mind. I’m pleased you called him for me, Doreen.”
40
“SHERIFF COLE DOESN’T like strangers. He’s always driving through town, watching for them, so you’d best hie yourself out of Bricker’s Bowl, back up to the highway, before he hauls you in and puts the hurt on you. I didn’t call anybody.”
“The hurt on me? Does he make a habit of beating up strangers who come to Bricker’s Bowl?”
“Don’t make him think you deserve it.”
“Wouldn’t dream of it,” Savich agreed, and gave Doreen a small salute and a smile that startled her. He walked out the door to stand in the bright sun a moment and stretch. He watched Sheriff Cole climb out of his truck, check himself in the high shine. So this was the man who’d kissed off Ethan. He watched him hoist up his tan polyester pants and settle the wide leather belt and big holster around his middle, run his fingers over the butt of his Smith & Wesson Model 29, Dirty Harry’s classic .44 Magnum. What was this small-town sheriff doing with such a powerful gun? Stupid question. Like his truck, the .44 Magnum helped make him the Big Man, someone with power, someone to fear. He actually was big and muscular, in his late thirties, big hands, big booted feet. He rolled his powerful shoulders and, of all things, cracked his knuckles. Savich sincerely doubted the two of them would ever be friends. This was no Dougie Hollyfield or Ethan Merriweather. This man looked volatile, and that made him very dangerous. If Joanna was right, he was in the Backmans’ pocket.
What Sheriff Cole really looked like, Savich thought, was a natural-born bully.
He came to within four feet of Savich before he stopped, took a wide-legged stance, his fingers still on his gun butt. He stared at Savich, measuring him, assessing him, as if wondering, maybe, how long it would take him to beat Savich unconscious. Savich would bet this guy would go about any beating he did with great joy and viciousness. Savich saw he was wearing two-inch boots and wondered why. The guy was already a good six-foot-three or thereabouts. More intimidation, more huge attitude. No help from this quarter, not after what Ethan had told him. The guy probably feared only three people in this town—all of them named Backman.
Sheriff Cole had a heavy twang. His voice boomed out deep and hard, filled with threat and violence. “Good afternoon. You want to tell me who you are and what you’re doing here?”
Savich saw Sherlock climb slowly out of the Camry. She stood at her ease about eight feet behind the sheriff, her arms loose at her sides, her jacket shoved back so her fingers weren’t more than two inches from her SIG.
“Or what?” Savich asked easily, a black eyebrow arching.
“Or, you disrespectful piece of shit, I’ll whip your ass and kick you out of my town.”
“All that?” Savich smiled as he pulled out his creds and held them out. “If you will look at my credentials, Sheriff, you’ll see I’m Special Agent Dillon Savich. Behind you is Special Agent Sherlock, FBI. You know, Sheriff, I really dislike foul language. You might want to remember that. I didn’t catch your name.”
