Bull Mountain(6)

Because all brothers originate from Atlanta. Everybody knows that.

“Talk about terrible luck, though. What an idiot. Anyway, he gets all freaked out seeing a deputy of the law walk in, so he aims that little toy pistol at me. I’m like, ‘Dude, what the hell? I’m a cop. Put that thing on the counter and assume the position.’ I’m sure he knew how to do it, probably been doing it his whole life.”

“You know, Choctaw, for a minority like yourself, you sure are quick to profile.”

“I’m only fifty percent American Indian, boss. The rest of me is one hundred percent good ol’-fashioned redneck.”

“That makes a hundred and fifty percent.”

“Right.”

The sheriff sighed again. He doubted there was any American Indian in there at all. Choctaw’s skin color was tinted enough to notice only if it was pointed out to you. He could even be Mexican, but whatever.

“Did you draw on him?”

“Had no time. As soon as I tell him to put his gun down he starts getting all jittery and starts popping off rounds into the ceiling. Drop-ceiling panels and dust start raining down all over the place and I couldn’t see nothing. I drew my gun then, but I didn’t shoot it.”

“Then what happened?”

“In the pandemonium, this jackass bolts. Before I know it, he got around me and made it outside. As it turns out, this idiot is on foot, so he hops into the first car he thinks he can haul ass in.”

“Your running patrol car?”

“Yup. By the time I get outside after him, he’s tear-assin’ out of the parking lot.”

“Where’s your friend?”

“Chester?”

The sheriff spoke into his lap. “Yeah, Chester.”

“Chester is totally oblivious to what’s going on inside, because he’s too busy exacting his revenge for the goddamn blow-up doll.” The deputy leaned forward in his chair. “Get this, Chester stashed two big-ass bags of packing peanuts behind the Texaco ice machine earlier that day, and that’s why he was so hopped up about stopping there. As soon as I walked inside, he went and dumped ’em all into my patrol car.”

Silence filled the sheriff’s office like ocean water.

The sheriff narrowed his eyes. “Peanuts?”

“Not real peanuts, packing peanuts. You know, that white Styrofoam shit you get from FedEx.”

“Right, packing peanuts.” His head was starting to hurt.

“Yeah, right. So this retard just jacked a cop car full of packing peanuts. That guy’s got to have the worst luck of all time. He got that Crown Vic up to about forty miles an hour before it looked like a f*ckin’ snow globe.”

The sheriff coughed up a sudden laugh against his will. He didn’t want to, but he did. Choctaw joined in.

“I kid you not, boss. This * can’t see a damn thing when the peanuts start flying and, boom, straight into a telephone pole across the street. I couldn’t make this shit up if I tried. That’s why there’s a black kid all banged up in cell one and car three is in the shop. That’s what happened, boss. Honest truth.”

“Where’s your friend now?”

“Chester?”

This time the sheriff just waited.

“He’s at my place, scared to death you’re gonna lock him up for obstructing justice, or something like that. At the very least, make him pay for the damages to the car.”

“Well, you can tell him to relax, he doesn’t have to worry about the damages.”

“Thanks, boss, I knew you’d—”

“Because you’re going to pay for them.”

Choctaw deflated like an untied balloon animal. He squinted and studied the sheriff’s bearded face for a hint of sarcasm. Maybe he was joking. He wasn’t.

“Oh, come on, Clayton. It was circumstances beyond my control—”

The deputy was interrupted by a beep on the sheriff’s intercom, and both men listened as the timid voice of Cricket from the front desk crackled out of the speaker.

“Sheriff Burroughs, there’s a federal agent here to see you.”

3.

The sheriff looked at his watch.

“It’s eight-thirty.”

“I’m aware of that, sir.” Cricket’s lo-fi voice crackled over the intercom.

“On a Sunday.”

“I know that, too, sir. Would you like me to tell him to come back tomorrow?”

The sheriff thought on that and wondered if it was possible. Maybe he could just climb out the window.

“Sir?”

“No. No. Send him in.” The sheriff put on his hat and looked at his deputy, who shrugged. A few seconds later the door opened and in walked a handsome man in his mid-forties, maybe younger, with sharp features, dark close-cropped hair, and stormy gray eyes. Cricket, who always wore her hair back, had managed to shake it free and even took off her glasses to smile at the agent before closing the door behind him. Clayton found that amusing. Choctaw shifted uneasily in his chair.

The agent was wearing a dark blue blazer, a matching tie, and a starched white shirt tucked into blue jeans. Wearing a tie with blue jeans spoke volumes about a man, but Clayton gave him points for trying to country it up. Most of these feds never even took their designer sunglasses off when they found their way into Clayton’s office.