Pattern of Behavior

by Paul Bishop

  He scowled.

  I said, “Why’d you feed Watts to Sonny and Vaughn?”

  Jenkins only laughed, a twinkle in his piggy eyes.

  “This whole thing smells like you, Jenkins. You hired Watts against my recommendation. I bet you used Sonny to give Watts the idea for the robbery. Probably even made Watts think it was his idea. Then, after Watts steals the chips, you have your goons take them back. Then what? You file an insurance claim? That about it, Jenkins?”

  That twinkle stayed in Jenkins’ eyes.

  His bliss confirmed everything I thought. I was the straight man in a joke I never knew about. Maybe I’d get lucky and find the junkies, a handful of The Diamond’s chips in their pockets, but the rest would disappear forever because Jenkins had them. When my search went blank, Jenkins would report the theft and explain everything. Never admitting the chips were recovered. After all, his investigator, Jimmy Ford, former FBI Special Agent, lost the trail and alibis the story from beginning to end. The insurance company coughs up the claim. Jenkins pockets sixty grand, and Jimmy Ford is the asshole.

  “Never could fool you, Jimmy.” The fat man’s leather chair creaked as he leaned back. His eyes never leaving me. “Should have known those two blunts would foul everything.” He leaned forward and slapped the desk. “Good work on your part, though. Sonny will be inside for five to seven.”

  I wondered how much Sonny’s silence would cost Jenkins, but said, “They kill Watts on their own initiative?”

  Jenkins laughed, the sound wet and hard. He was a crook, but he wasn’t stupid. Sixty thousand wasn’t worth a murder rap. When I found Watts dead, Jenkins’ plan changed from low-grade greed to high-fear survival.

  And I did exactly what Jenkins expected me to do—kill Vaughn and bash Sonny hard enough so he wouldn’t think right again.

  And Jenkins wins, like he always does.

  I said, “Too bad you found the casino chips and can’t make an insurance claim.”

  The laugh again, like he’d swallowed a watermelon. “That is too bad, Jimmy, but I’m sure the stolen chips will reappear once Sonny wakes up.”

  My first name again, and it bothered me.

  I said, “But until then, you’re down 60k and a couple enforcers.”

  Jenkins shrugged. “Easy come, easy go.”

  “Why Watts?”

  “You’re too much, Jimmy.” Jenkins dismissed me by reaching for a stack of papers at the edge of his desk.

  “What did you have on him? Why did Watts have to pull the robbery?”

  Without looking up from the paperwork, Jenkins said, “You’re boring me, Jimmy. I have to do my work.” He said “have” with sarcasm—and that’s what he knew that I didn’t. The why. Why Watts joined the crew, and how the junkies’ feeble blackmail attempt fit with the hook Watts had been dangling from.

  “Asshole.”

  A whisper, but Jenkins heard it and his smile hardened. “You’re forgetting your place, Jimmy. This is my kingdom. I pay your way, give you a woman here and there, and I own you. I own you from top to bottom.”

  Anger flashed hot behind my eyes, but I pushed it down. He was right. There wasn’t anything I could do about it.

  I said, “When can I expect my bonus?”

  Jenkins, with his arms stretched wide and his palms up, gave his best whattaya-do shrug. “No chips, no bonus.”

  “Sure, no chips, no bonus.” Then I asked, “Gina keeps her job?”

  Jenkins grinned. “She didn’t do anything wrong.”

  “Keep your hands off her, Jenkins.”

  A little two finger Cub Scout salute. “I wouldn’t think of it, Jimmy. She’s past her prime, but you’re more than welcome to make a run at her.”

  I stood there staring at my boss, thinking about how satisfying it would be to crack his head open. Instead, I turned and walked away with more swagger than I deserved. He owned me, but those casino chips were all mine. Right there in my car’s trunk where I’d left them. The conversion would take time since I’d have to make the exchange to cash in The Desert Diamond. A few hundred here and a few hundred there and no one would bat an eye. It didn’t hurt my feelings the money came straight from Jenkins’ wallet instead of an anonymous insurance company.

  My Impala would get its new transmission. I’d find Zach and Jess, those poor doped-up kids, and give them enough for a stint in rehab and a fresh start somewhere out of the desert. Maybe they would do something with the chance. I would try to satisfy myself with the facts. Watts’ killers were on ice, one in a cage and the other in a casket. Wallace and Story had escaped any punishment, but not the junk they kept jamming in their arms.

  I was happier than I’d been in months.

  Dark Estate

  Richard Prosch

  I first had the pleasure of meeting Richard Prosch via the Men’s Adventure Paperbacks of the 70s and 80s group on Facebook—a bunch of guys of a certain age still fascinated with the books of their misspent youths. Rich and I began trading a few genre books with each other, especially Westerns to which we were both partial. As we became friends, we also exchanged books we had written. Reading his, I found myself captivated by his skill as a storyteller. Aside from the pleasures of his novels, Rich’s short story collections were a joy—clever, low key, emotionally resonate, and filled with realistic small-town characters. If Meadows Ford, Nebraska, where many of his stories are set, was real, I’d move there tomorrow. Recently, Rich has been busy writing an excellent new crime series—featuring Dan Spalding, an ex-state cop turned vintage record store owner. Fortunately, he still allowed me to coax him into writing a new Meadows Ford story specifically for this anthology...

  Dark Estate

  No two ways about it.

  Jennifer Rand wasn’t dressed for running. Her jeans were just a little too tight and less than a block down the sidewalk, the pumps she wore to the estate sale that Saturday morning had flown off like unbuckled overshoes on the first day of summer. She dug deep, pounding along State Street with bare feet and a rising anger like she hadn’t felt since landing stateside after two tours overseas.

  In Afghanistan, she’d learned how to breathe through sand and hailstorms of smoke and debris.

  The morning exhaust from two farm pickups and Mrs. Larkin’s white Buick, she could handle.

  But losing those pumps...

  She’d spent the last of her July salary on them and payday didn’t come again for two weeks.

  Despite proximity to acres of agricultural wealth, a police officer in Meadows Ford, Nebraska—population 5,100—wasn’t exactly Warren Buffet.

  Brittney Dale would have to pay. Or her mom would.

  Jen’s ponytail swung back and forth and two big dollops of sweat fell from under her arms, staining her avocado-green camisole.

  Just great. Exactly the way she wanted to spend her day off.

  Slim Thompson drove past in his mail truck, going the opposite direction. Honked. Jen waved and kept running.

  Ahead, lanky Brittney Dale was down to a fast trot.

  Tall as she was, the girl was easy to see from a distance. Like a radio tower complete with red beacon up top.

  Britt’s cherry-colored Elvis pompadour might’ve scored her some points on the trendy meter at Meadows Ford High, but it was a definite detriment in trying to elude pursuit.

  Wearing a loose sweatshirt and cargo shorts two sizes too big, she wasn’t dressed for running either.

  Jen flexed her fingers, squeezed her hands into tight balls, and cranked hard, closing the distance between them by half. She’d already identified herself, called out for the kid to stop.

  Brittney knew perfectly well who Jen was and why she was chasing her.

  She knew it the minute she shoved the turquoise jewelry in the pocket of her shorts at the Willards’ estate sale and, pushing past Jen at the card table checkout, made for the street, leaving a dozen eye-witnesses to the petty theft behind.

  In an organized race, Brittney wouldn’t stand a c
hance against Jen.

  But Miss Sticky-fingers had a head start.

  Even so, as they turned onto Broadway, only a block from the downtown business district, Jen closed in.

  Near enough now to contemplate whether or not tackling the school superintendent’s daughter on the brick-inlaid main street was a good idea.

  Chief of Police Lyle Lindquist might frown on the idea.

  Much as Jen would enjoy it, she’d have to think of something else.

  As if a takedown would be necessary. Brittney was down to a stumbling jog. Jen had run her to ground.

  That’s when Lyle’s white Chevy Tahoe pulled up to the four-way stop at the intersection of Broadway and Main.

  Cutting Brittney off in mid-stride.

  Look who shows up when the hard work is done.

  Brittney didn’t even try to continue. Lyle’s arrival was the last straw, and the girl drew up fast, hands on her hips, out of wind, before bending over to stumble against the blond brick side of the Farmers and Merchants State Bank.

  Lyle had his vehicle parked and crawled out from behind the wheel as Jen arrived.

  “Morning, ladies,” he said, his teeth working a slender unlit cigar. He pushed the bill up on his black Meadows Ford PD cap and scratched his trim white hairline.

  He checked the time on his wristwatch.

  “If you were trying to make it to the bakery before the last apple fritter sold, I’m afraid you’re too late.” Lyle patted the extra ten pounds he carried under his sky blue work shirt. “I already got it—bought and paid for.”

  “Bought and paid for,” said Jen, her breath slowing to normal, her temper cooling as Brittney gulped for air beside the bank. “There’s a novel idea, Chief.”

  “Is that a new concept for some people, Officer?” said Lyle, for Brittney’s benefit.

  “Apparently,” said Jen.

  “Whatever, bitch,” Brittney said between gasps, waving them both away. Reaching into her cavernous pockets to remove three rings and a bracelet. “Take the stuff. No harm, no foul.”

  “No harm, no foul,” said Jen. She cocked her head and raised her eyebrows. “That’s a new idea too.”

  “And ‘bitch’ isn’t accurate at all,” Lyle said. He gave Brittney his best stare of authority. “Please apologize to Officer Rand.”

  Brittney showed him her middle finger.

  She shoved the jewelry in her other hand toward Jennifer. “You want these or not?”

  Jen took the stolen items.

  The little collection was primitive but lovely. Hammered pewter the color of an evening thunderstorm, flashing turquoise that caught the sun with veins of lightning. Attractive in the way only handcrafted items could be. Jen had no idea what the pieces were worth but figured the still-attached paper price tags still would help.

  “Shall we walk over to the station?” said Jen.

  Before Lyle could respond, a car braked to a hasty stop behind his Chevy.

  Mariah Dale shoved open the angry little BMW’s driver-side door and leapt into the fray, jaw set, eyes afire. “How dare you,” she said.

  After several seconds Jen realized the older woman was talking to her. She rolled her eyes, deflecting the criticism toward Lyle.

  “I’m officially off duty here,” said Jen.

  “Nice to see you, Mrs. Dale,” said Lyle, showing off a confident row of teeth. “I’m glad you could join us.”

  Mariah Dale wore a crisp beige suit with a white cotton blouse and a pendant of amber. Her hair was dark chocolate with silver streaks, so it looked like it was casually flowing through a breeze that wasn’t there. Her cheeks were heavy with foundation, and her lipstick a challenging black smear. She smelled of cigarette smoke.

  Jennifer couldn’t remember ever being quite so made up on a Saturday morning.

  “Are you okay, sugarplum?” said Mariah. “They didn’t hurt you, did they?”

  “You got an evidence bag?” Jen asked Lyle. She held up the loot.

  “Evidence bag?” cried Mariah. “Evidence of what?”

  “Brittney didn’t pay for this jewelry,” said Jennifer. “She took it off the table at Ms. Willard’s sale.”

  “She did not,” said Mariah. “I was right outside, waiting in the car.”

  Jen held the other woman’s gaze. “And I was inside, watching her do it.”

  “You’re talking about a future academic All-American here. We’ve already signed a letter of intent for Harvard,” said Mariah.

  “Why don’t we walk over to the station and talk about it?” said Lyle.

  “We will not,” said Mariah. “I’ve got to be in Lincoln this afternoon on business, and that’s a three-hour drive. Plus, Brittney has a pool party at her friend’s house.”

  “I’m sorry, Mrs. Dale, but this really can’t wait,” said Lyle.

  “Of course, it can.”

  “Oh, Christ, mother,” said Brittney. “Will you just shut the hell up?”

  “I don’t think, I—”

  “Can I take this, Chief?” said Jen.

  Hiding a smile, Lyle nodded.

  “How about the four of us walk back down to Ms. Willard’s house and we sort it out there?”

  Mariah Dale had her phone out, staring at the screen.

  “I don’t think so,” she said. “I need to be on the road.”

  “That or we go to the station,” said Lyle. “Lots of paperwork over at the station.”

  “I imagine the Chief would rather go fishing this afternoon than fill in all that paperwork,” said Jen. “But I guess that’s up to you, Mrs. Dale.”

  “I did have a nice little pond in mind,” said Lyle.

  Everybody was quiet, and Jen shifted her attention from Mariah Dale to the lazy street.

  Mrs. Larkin’s Buick purred past once again, moving in an opposite direction from its earlier run. Slim Thompson and the mail truck. A guy on a John Deere tractor.

  Finally, Mariah gave in.

  “Oh, alright,” she said. “But I’ll drive myself, thank you.”

  “It’s just past the big oak tree on State Street,” said Jen. “Look for the green sale sign.”

  Mariah went back toward the BMW, opened the door. “I know where the Willards live, Jennifer. I told you I was there waiting on Brittney this morning.” She settled into the leather upholstery. “By the way, dear. While you’re there, why don’t you look for some shoes? I’m sure they’ll have something you can afford.”

  Jennifer looked at her bare feet and smiled.

  After her Army stint, complete with a medal of commendation, she’d had a job offer from Homeland Security.

  Some days she wondered why she hadn’t taken it.

  On State Street, past the sign, a white ranch house with blue shutters rested on an acre of grass, its two open garage doors offering a candid display of its occupant’s everyday life. Amateur oil paintings hung from the rafters, and ceramic ashtrays filled two card tables next to several pieces of mid-century furniture that were loaded down with ratty paperback books and brazen piles of lacy lingerie.

  This was the estate of the late Herb Willard, curated by his daughter, Nora.

  Six or seven familiar faces from the community browsed through the merchandise, including Sam Miller from the market and Mrs. Larkin. Jen glanced toward the street and saw the white Buick parked at the curb.

  Edna certainly got around to all the weekend sales.

  On the other hand, Lyle Lindquist wasn’t the estate sale type.

  “Estate sale, garage sale, flea market,” he said around the soggy tip of his cigar. “It’s all the same collection of smelly kids clothes, old garage tools, and broken tchotchkes.”

  “Tchotchkes?” said Jen as they followed Brittney Dale up the driveway past a series of potted wildflowers to the front door where Brittney’s mother waited impatiently.

  They hadn’t taken the time to retrieve Jen’s shoes, and the cement was hot on her bare feet.

  “What?” said Lyle. “You don�
�t know what tchotchke is?”

  “I know. I’m just surprised that you know. It doesn’t sound right coming from you. It’s not a word a small town Nebraska cop would use.”

  “You don’t think us hick cops got culture?”

  “I’ve never seen any evidence of that, no.”

  “Everybody knows Tchotchke is the kid on that seventies TV show,” said Lyle. “With Joanie?”

  “That was lame. Even for you,” said Jen.

  “Game face,” said Lyle as they got close to the door.

  Jen pulled the stolen merchandise from her pocket.

  Lyle nodded at Brittney and Mariah Dale. Now he was all business. “Let me offer Ms. Willard a quick explanation of the facts. Then Brittney will apologize. We’ll see where we go from there.”

  They went inside.

  Less than fifteen minutes later, the situation was resolved.

  Knowing Nora Willard, Jen figured it would be.

  A silver-tongued septuagenarian who identified as a Sixties flower child with alert blue eyes and waist-length white hair, Nora dressed in a flowing tie-dye poncho, stretch pants, and strappy black sandals. After more than a year caring for her late father, Herb, she was selling off his estate and going back to Santa Fe.

  “It’s a haven for us enlightened types,” she’d told Jen.

  After listening to Brittney’s reluctant apology, and once the jewelry was back on display, Nora wrapped both arms around the teenager and sang a Native American song of forgiveness.

  “That was lovely,” said Jen.

  “It sure was,” said Lyle.

  “Whatever,” said Brittney, pulling away from Nora’s embrace.

  “Are we done here?” said Mariah.

  “We are indeed done,” said Lyle.

  “Why don’t you stay a while?” said Nora. “I’ve got Matcha tea in the fridge. Or any number of other varieties. I can fix you whatever you like.” She settled back down behind the card table checkout, flipped open a plastic cashbox and started tending to a line of five chattering customers. A stack of old Meadows Ford Chronicle newspapers sat on the floor beside her chair.

  “I’ll take you up on that iced tea,” said Jen. “So will Chief Lyle.”