Justice Lost (Darren Street #3)(31)

I grabbed a beer. I walked over and set it down on the counter in front of him while I took a seat across from him. “What can I do for you, Sheriff?”

“I hear you’re considering a run for the district attorney’s office,” he said.

“You heard wrong.”

“That right? How so?”

“I’m not considering it. I’m doing it. Come November, there’ll be a new DA here in Knoxville.”

“Damn, boy, they didn’t tell me you were so cocky.”

“What do you want?” I said.

“This is a nice little place you got here,” the sheriff said as he popped the cap off the beer bottle and took a drink. “Nice and cozy.”

“Either tell me what you want or get out of my apartment. I don’t give a shit who you are or who you think you are, you don’t break into my house without a damned good reason.”

“And if I don’t have a good reason?”

“Let’s just say there could be consequences.”

“Damn!” Corker said. “You are a rooster, ain’t you? What’re you gonna do? Kill me like them other five?”

“No idea what you’re talking about.”

“Of course not. So what are you going to do?”

“I’m going to give you about ten seconds to tell me what you’re doing here. After ten seconds, I’m going to kick your fat ass all over this apartment. I’ll give you hundred-to-one odds I can get across this counter before you can get one of those pistols out of the holster. If I’m wrong and you kill me, I’m sure you’ll get away with it, but I won’t care, will I? I’ll be dead.”

“Are you telling me you’re not afraid to die, boy?”

“Not in the least, and don’t ever call me ‘boy’ again. Now what’s it going to be?”

I felt my body beginning to tense as I prepared to leap across the counter and commence pummeling the pink-faced bastard. I was looking him straight in the eye, and I saw him give in. I knew right then that at his core, this huge pistol-toting redneck was a coward.

“Take it easy,” he said, holding up both of his hands. “Stephen Morris came to see me and wanted me to talk to you.”

“About what?”

“Maybe reconsidering? He’d make it worth your while to stay out of the race.”

“Really? How much?”

“I don’t know exactly. I’m thinking somewhere in the neighborhood of fifty to a hundred grand, I’d imagine.”

“Damn,” I said. “His salary isn’t much more than a hundred grand a year. Why would he want to pay me so much?”

“Let’s just say it’s possible he makes a little on the side.”

“Yeah, I’ve heard,” I said. “I’ve also heard it’s more than a little. Let me see if I’ve got this right: You and your department turn your backs to cockfighting, dogfighting, bare-knuckle fighting, prostitution, gambling in several forms, and drug distribution. In exchange, you get a cut of the action. The district attorney gets a cut, too, because he isn’t up your ass all the time about bringing cases for him to prosecute. You let a select few people operate with impunity, and whenever somebody new and stupid comes along and tries to set up shop, your select few operators—who also double as informants—help you set them up and bust them. You run them through the system, send them off to jail, and look like a real sheriff instead of the corrupt asshole you really are. How am I doing?”

“Nearly good enough to get yourself killed,” the sheriff said.

“Relax,” I said. “You don’t have to worry about me. I don’t have any intention of getting in the middle of your business. I’ll have some minor demands, but I don’t think you’ll have a problem with them. If I win, you can keep going, business as usual, with a couple of small changes.”

“What kind of changes?”

“Like I said, minor changes. There may be someone I want you to let in, which means someone will have to go. Is that going to be a problem?”

“Probably not. Depends on who’s coming in and what they want to do.”

“It’ll be someone experienced. Somebody who knows what they’re doing. They’ll agree to the terms that are already in place, whatever they are.”

“Who’s gonna have to go?” Corker said.

“I think I’ll keep that to myself for now,” I said. “But we can work something out. We’re reasonable men, right? We can find mutually beneficial solutions to problems, can’t we?”

“Don’t know if I can trust you yet,” Corker said. “If you ain’t with us, you’re against us.”

“The truth is I don’t give a shit about you and what you do or don’t do. The sheriff’s real job is supposed to consist of three things if I’m correct. One is to maintain the jail, and I know from firsthand experience that you do a lousy job of that. The second is courthouse security. Last is law enforcement, and for you guys that’s mostly domestic violence and meth heads. Your guys don’t even write speeding tickets because it costs you votes when they do.”

“We enforce the law,” Corker said.

“No, you don’t. You get in front of a television camera every chance you get to give the appearance you’re enforcing the law. But that’s okay with me. I don’t care. Keep faking it. My office will crack down on homicides, armed robberies, gangs, home invasions, things like that, most of which happen in the city. I’ll concentrate on making the city and the county—where I can—safer. Now if you let things get out of hand and the drug trade gets violent or people start pulling out guns at the cockfights, things will change. You and I will have a problem. But as long as you and your operators keep a low profile, see no evil, hear no evil.”