Ramsey Security (Ramsey Security #1-3)(121)

“What the f*ck is wrong with that f*cker?” Hayes asks me.

“He’s in heat, and I don’t think his mom hugged him enough.”

“Or maybe she hugged him too f*cking much.”

Dino loses his smile. “Hey, now. I will put up with a lot of shit from a hot woman, but no one talks about my mom. The woman is a damn saint.”

“Can I say she did a good job, or is that off limits too?”

Relaxing again, Dino smirks. “That’s fine. Compliments are always welcome.”

“So,” Hayes says, standing up and making me reach for my gun under my jacket, “this cop comes into town, and he’s all friendly smiles and kissing babies. Like the f*cker is running for f*cking mayor.”

Hayes clearly loves the word “f*ck.” I can’t hear anything he says except that word. I need to pay attention, though, since Dino clearly isn’t.

“Everyone in Common Bend was so f*cking happy with him, but I smelled a f*cking rat. Soon people started dropping dead from brain aneurisms, suicides, and overdoses. Not just any f*cking people, but the f*cking people who caused trouble. First was the pastor out at Landmark Church who protested against the Sheriff’s Department. He was out there every f*cking day, marching back and forth with his damn sign about corruption never ending and how f*cking Black was a false prophet.

“The old crank was always f*cking protesting something, but people in Common Bend liked him. He was a f*cking character who’d help out anyone. Paid for STD treatments for hookers. Found daycare for single moms. Shamed abusive husbands. He caused trouble, sure, but no one ever thought of f*cking killing him. Then he keels over one day from a brain aneurism. Not a big thing, but I was suspicious. I’m always f*cking suspicious of cops, but Black was too f*cking nice to be the real deal.”

“No offense, beef boy,” Dino says, “but that isn’t proof of anything. This preacher likely got himself so worked up that it was bad for his heart or some shit. I’m no doctor, but his death don’t sound suspicious.”

“It don’t, huh?” Hayes asks, removing the cigar from his lips. “Makes me wonder why you never went to medical school, f*ckwit.”

“Who else died?” I ask.

“An old deputy suing the department. A clerk fired for stealing. If someone messed with f*cking Black, they died. His deputies were also putting the squeeze on people. That’s why Johansson is pissed. His people ran the drugs and sluts in Common Bend. Those people ended up dead, arrested, or just gone. The deputies started spending a lot of time out at the Harvest Fields Trailer Parks where all the sluts work. They spend all day with those girls and then turn around and take a fee for keeping them out of trouble.”

“Cops are *s,” Dino says. “So what?”

“These sluts don’t make a lot of money to begin with. They do their work during the day when their kids are at school, and they need a lot of turnover to make enough to pay their pimps and feed their families. It’s simple economics, meathead.”

When Hayes sits back down, my hand eases off my gun. “Black’s deputies got rid of the pimps and took what the pimps made. Except they take up so much of the sluts’ time that those girls ain’t making enough money. When one of the whores mouthed off about the situation at a local titty bar, she suddenly turned up in a ravine. The cops ruled her death an accident. They claim she got drunk, stopped by the side of the road, and then fell into the ravine where she broke her neck. They didn’t even try to make that one look real.”

Hayes puffs at his cigar a few times before continuing. “Now the sluts are all scared, and they can’t make money and feed their kids. The deputies smack them around too, but who in the f*ck are they going to f*cking call? So Johansson’s people got pushed out. Now the only one making any money in Common Bend is Black.”

Giving Dino a quick glance to find him still playing with his phone, I ask Hayes, “Why haven’t you taken him out?”

“That’s not how this shit works, darlin’. I don’t run Common Bend. I might feel bad for the f*ckers living there, but I don’t cross the line between territories. That’s Johansson’s problem. If he’s cashing the checks during the happy times, then he can sweep up the shit during the down times. Hell, I assumed you f*cks were the janitors in this f*cking situation.”

“I wouldn’t mind seeing Minka in a maid’s uniform,” Dino says, and I smack him again.

“Save the rough play for the bedroom, kiddos. I told you what needed to be told. What you do with that shit is your f*cking problem.”

“Here’s the thing,” I say, flicking Dino for playing with my hair, “What if the sheriff isn’t making these moves on his own? I mean he must have some brass balls behind the scenes.”

“Why?”

“Because the guy seems clean. He shows up and kills these people and takes over illegal activities, yet no one’s ever touched him in the past. That seems fishy. Everyone has dirt on them. I’m sure you’ve gotten hassled by the feds or state cops. Why not the sheriff? We checked, and his file is squeaky clean.”

“What do I care if he has someone bankrolling him?”

“Because,” Dino says, “after Sheriff Black gets a stranglehold over his little slice of Honky-tonk Heaven, do you think he’ll be satisfied? Common Bend is a tiny f*cking place with whores and meth. White Horse has real money invested. Businesses he can shake down. Or use to launder his dirty money. Whatever, but you’re next on the colonization list.”