Justice Lost (Darren Street #3)(25)

“That’s what you’re hearing.”

“I don’t recall you helping me get elected,” Corker said. “I don’t recall you saying a word to help me or getting me a single vote. So I expect I’ll just sit back and see which way the wind is blowing in a month or so. I’ll probably have a sit-down with this Darren Street fella, though, see what’s on his mind, see if he’s willing to join the congregation if you have to leave. And then I’ll decide what to do. Whatever my decision, you can bet it’ll be in my best interests.”

“Thanks a lot, Sheriff,” Morris said. “It’s good to know loyalty doesn’t mean shit to you.”

“A man who talks about loyalty in this line of work is a fool,” Corker said. “I believe in the good Lord above, but I also believe in evolution. Only the strong survive around here. Now I’m gonna go back inside and watch this fight. I don’t think it’d be a good idea for you to do the same.”





CHAPTER 13

Corker watched while Morris stomped away, his shoulders slumped, muttering to himself.

“Some folks just don’t have what it takes to last at this kind of thing,” Corker said aloud as he turned and started climbing the back steps to Roby’s observation room.

Up to that point, Corker knew of nobody who had announced they were running against Morris in the November election. It was a powerful job, but it was thankless. There were almost a hundred employees who brought all their personal baggage to work every day, and it paid less than a hundred and fifty grand a year without the illegal perks. If a murder was committed and went unsolved, the DA got the blame. If it was solved and the guilty party went to prison for life, barely anyone noticed.

Morris was unopposed in the August primary, which pretty much made him a slam dunk in November. But now this Darren Street apparently wanted in. Corker thought it might be difficult, though. Street had missed the primary election, so he would have to run as a write-in candidate. Write-in candidates were rarely elected, although it had happened on occasion. As he climbed the last step, Corker decided to just watch it play out. It might even be entertaining.

“You get rid of him?” Roby Penn growled as the sheriff stepped up to the window. The large crowd had circled two men below. Both were bare-chested and heavily tattooed, wearing only blue jeans and athletic shoes.

“You know, it probably isn’t a good idea to stick a Colt .45 in the face of the district attorney general,” Corker said.

“He’s a pussy,” Penn said. “I don’t trust him.”

“You don’t trust anybody. I assume the marine is the one with the buzz cut?” Corker said.

“That’s him.”

“How much you got riding on him?”

“A couple grand.”

“Who you betting with? Yourself?”

“I’m betting with Harley Shaker. Harley’s got some money. Ain’t afraid to bet on himself.”

“Any man that wouldn’t bet on himself has got no business down there,” the sheriff said.

“How about you?” Penn said. “Care to make a wager?”

“I’m not much of a gambling man, Roby, you know that. I just like to pick up my cash at the end of the day.”

Sheriff Corker knew the rules of bare-knuckle boxing were simple. No biting, no gouging, no head butting, no kicking, and no hitting a man when he was down. There were no time limits to the rounds. Once the referee said, “Fight,” they fought until one man either quit or was knocked unconscious. The sheriff had heard people say that bare-knuckle boxing was actually safer—in terms of head injury—than gloved boxing because if the fighters hit each other in the head with as much force as they did with gloves, they’d break their hands. The two men downstairs were fairly evenly matched from a physical standpoint. Harley Shaker was a couple of inches taller than the marine, but the marine was thicker through the chest and shoulders. Harley’s hair was long, black, and pulled into a ponytail. The marine’s hair was sandy blond and less than a quarter inch long.

The vocal crescendo built as the betting intensified and money changed hands. The two men met with the referee in the center of the dirt floor, and he gave them last-second instructions. They touched fists, backed a few feet away from each other, and the referee said, “Fight!”

Shaker began circling to his left, and both men began throwing short, exploratory jabs. More punches were aimed at the bodies than at the heads. Shaker landed a solid right hook to the marine’s ribs, and the crowd became even more excited. The marine backed away, gathered himself, and went back at Shaker with his fists close to his face. His left fist struck like a cobra and caught Shaker square in the temple. Shaker’s knees buckled, and he nearly went down. As he gathered his balance, the marine swarmed him, striking him five times in succession. One of the blows was solid to the solar plexus and took Shaker’s breath. He fell to the floor in a heap. The marine backed off as the men whooped.

“He’s finished,” Roby Penn said to the sheriff.

“I’ve seen Shaker take worse. Give him a minute.”

The marine stood over Shaker and spit on him.

“Fucking cracker,” he said. “Pussy-boy cracker.”

It turned out to be a mistake. Shaker was on the ground for only a short time before he stood, staggered briefly before righting himself, shook his head, and let out a guttural yell.