Johnny made a face of mock horror. "I don't think I can. I stink tonight."
"I'll spot you three balls," Taylor said, clearly itching for more money and a chance to prance in victory.
"Three balls? And what's the bet?"
"You name it," Taylor said, smiling and nodding at one of the girls in the corner.
"Well, I guess if you're gonna go, you gotta go for broke," Johnny said. "Hundred?"
Taylor snorted. "Shit yeah, let's go for it."
<><><>
There was nothing mock about the horror on Taylor's face as Johnny expertly placed every ball he called into each pocket. Taylor's jaw went increasingly slack during the two minutes it took Johnny to get down to the eight ball.
"In the corner pocket," Johnny said, pointing with his cue. He sunk it, scooping the cash off the edge of the table. "Thanks. Guess I got my cool back."
"God damn mother--" Taylor threw his cue on the table and leapt at Johnny. The girls shrieked, and Landon yelled at him to stop.
Johnny turned, deflecting Taylor headfirst into the wall. He hit heavily, then fell on his hands and knees, cursing and sputtering.
"Stay down," Johnny said. "I won fair and square."
"Fucking cheat. Hustled me," Taylor said between gasps for air. He pulled himself up the wall to his full height.
"You're gonna want to stop right there, man," Johnny said, his peripheral vision taking in fifty pairs of eyes on them, murmuring to each other over the din of Molly Hatchet.
This wasn't exactly what he had wanted. Johnny knew he had pulled the ripcord on this asshole too suddenly, but Taylor's dead face prancing around the room every time he thought he won had pissed him off.
Taylor charged at Johnny. This time, Johnny was unable to deflect him and Taylor took Johnny into the wall opposite; a Pabst beer sign fell onto Taylor's head.
Pinned to the wall, Johnny hoped the sign had knocked Taylor out, but it only served to make him angrier. Taylor pumped his fists into Johnny's ribs, knocking the breath from him and, from the feel of it, cracking a couple of ribs.
Johnny tried to protect his ribs from the blows, an ineffective tack. Though he knew it would leave him vulnerable, he started scratching at Taylor's eyes with his right hand, fumbling in his pants pocket with his left.
Taylor screamed as one of Johnny's fingers found his eye socket. His blows stopped and he started to pull back, giving Johnny enough space to whip out the switchblade and rip it viciously across Taylor's forehead.
A wounded shriek issued from Taylor as the blood formed sheeted down his forehead and ran into his insulted eyes.
Johnny kicked Taylor hard in the chest, and he staggered backward onto the green felt of the old pool table, weeping like a dying beast.
Johnny waved the bloody knife at the stunned barflies, the blade flickering dimly in the smoky light. "Anybody else want a new look on your dead face?"
The crowd shrunk back from him, making a hole for Johnny to get to the door and out into the South Dakota night.
<><><>
He made it back to I-90 and a mile or so east before a county sheriff caught up to him. He had tossed the switchblade a quarter mile from the bar, but they had him. He gave up without any resistance.
At the county jail, he went through the booking process, refusing to give his name.
The sheriff shrugged and told the deputy to take his photo.
"You know, sir, if you just give us your real name and cooperate a little, you might only get charged with the bar fight," he said, adjusting the camera lens as Johnny waited against a measuring stick taped to the wall.
"What else you gonna charge me with?"
"Well," the deputy continued fiddling with the camera, his eyes on his work. "Guys like you…drifters? Yeah, drifters are great folks. Useful. We can get half the unsolved murders from the past six months taken care of with you. We'll just get a confession written up for you to sign."
"What if I don't cooperate?" Johnny said, his gut roiling, his eyes tunneling in on the deputy as his hand unconsciously moved to his pocket, looking for his lost blade.
"As I said, you're already not cooperatin'," he said, fiddling with the camera lens. "So we'll give ya a name and make sure that the last couple of rapes and murders are down to you."
"And if I give you my name, who's to say you won't do that anyway?" Johnny said, stammering just enough to encourage the deputy.
The deputy looked up, regarding Johnny with dead, dull, black eyes. "Nobody. Nobody's to say we won't. But I like your chances better if you cooperate."
"You fucker," Johnny said, bursting into laughter. "You think I'm that stupid?"
The deputy shrugged, his face impassive. "Hold still."
Johnny's laughter drained away, his smile faded into a smirk. "Fuck you. My name's Lindstrom. Johnny K. Lindstrom."
Badge
Ollie Olafson's thick fingers grasped the bottle of Wild Turkey as if it were the size of a beer can, pouring a shot for himself and another for Morgan Scovill. He made a slight nodding motion with his head as he reached for his shot and brought it to his lips, where it stayed, motionless, eyes on Scovill.
Scovill remained seated squarely in his seat, his straw hat hanging off the toe of the brown Justin boot on his right leg, crossed evenly over his left. His eyes, one seemingly frozen in a permanent squint, remained on Ollie's.
"Drink up, Morgan," Ollie said. A command, not a request.
"I’m on duty," he said.
Olafson rolled his eyes, put the shot down and ran his paws over his balding head. He snorted. "Please. Give me a fucking break."
Scovill shrugged. "Okay, I'm not thirsty, then."
"I'll drink it, Daddy," a dull voice in the corner of the room resonated. It sounded as if it sprang from vocal chords soaked in heavy phlegm.
"Shut up, Craig," Olafson said, leaning back in his heavy leather chair, resting his black booted feet on his massive desk. "Morgan, we been through too much not to be completely on board on this."
"I am," Scovill glanced at the massive, carved eagle hanging on the wall above Ollie's seat.
"Well, let's drink on it, then," Ollie said, exasperated.
Scovill swooped his hat off the tip of his boot and placed it on his head as he leaned forward and stood, grasping the shot glass with his free hand and downing the shot. He moved so quickly, the hulking Craig was momentarily startled from his torpor. Olafson smiled, and finished his shot off.
"Glad we understand each other," he said. "Glad you're on board."
Scovill nodded, placed the shot glass on the desk upside down and turned on his heel.
"Just so's you understand that I'm handling this investigation, not you."
Ollie raised his hands in mock surrender. "’Course."
"Uh huh," Scovill said, moving past Craig, eyes forward. He grasped the door to Olafson's office, looking outside at the bank next door and Mostek's General Store across the street.
"Just make sure our new college president understands our policy on interference in township matters," Olafson said. "His authority stops at the edge of campus. And even on campus, it’s only as long as I say so."
"Uh huh" Scovill replied, slipping on his mirrored sunglasses, walking outside and walking out to his truck.
<><><>
It didn't take long to track down Cross College President Jack Lindstrom. True to the rumors, which fly around Cross Township faster than Superman giving Wonder Woman the business, Lindstrom had taken a powerful, if unsurprising, liking to the barbecue over at the Tin Roof Rib Shack.
Now in his second year at the head of the tiny college, the popular president preferred to meet outside of town with wealthy local farmers to secure grants for his campus revitalization plans over steaming plates of ribs and pork butt sandwiches made by Bart Robeson, owner and operator.
Lindstrom's precious black Mercedes gleamed in the gravel parking area. Some of the kids on campus called him "Mister Mercedes" when he drove by. Word
was he'd be letting that go as soon as the college coughed up a lease he’d negotiated on a Lexus SUV.
Scovill opened the beat-up screen door of the Shack, the sweet smell of mesquite and pork overwhelming his nose. He scanned the room, noting the faces of dozens of barbecue fiends dotting the room, stuffing their mouths with brisket, ribs, pulled pork sandwiches and burnt ends served on butcher paper with cheap plastic tumblers of iced tea and soda. Beers would be great with the 'cue, but Ollie Olafson owned the Brown Betty roadhouse down the road a bit, and made sure that Robeson didn't even think of serving any competing booze.
Scovill didn't have to look hard for his troublesome president. Lindstrom was holding court with his right arm man, Dick Shefler, at a table dead center in the Shack's dining room. "Dining room" was a bit of a euphemism--it was mostly a collection of weather-beaten old picnic tables under a large tin lean-to. Just a few yards away were the three massive cast iron smokers Bart Robeson had operated to the delight of locals for nigh on twenty-five years.
Scovill caught the eye of Otis, one of Robeson's employees, busing a table. Otis, his black skin gleaming with sweat, nodded and went about his business of clearing rib bones, sauce-stained paper towels and drink tumblers.
"Sheriff, hey there," Lindstrom said, his smile broadening as he wiped barbecue sauce from his goatee. Dick Shefler waved, his half-smile betraying a wariness Scovill noted for future reference.
"Dr. Lindstrom," Scovill said, sidling over to their table. "Mind?"
"Please," Lindstrom said, gesturing for Scovill to sit.
Scovill sat down; removing his hat and setting it upside down on the table, clear of a few dabs of spilled barbecue sauce and the sweat from an iced tea tumbler.
"Sheriff, I believe you know Dick," Lindstrom said.
Shefler nodded and Scovill nodded back. "Dick," he said.
"So, you going to have some of this?" Lindstrom said, picking up a pork rib. "My latest addiction."
"No, just a social," he said.
"Social call?" Lindstrom's brow furrowed. "What's more social than eating ribs?"
"Bit of a long drive for a social call, " a voice said from over Scovill's shoulder. "Especially if you didn't know our president was going to be here, Morgan."
Shit. Scovill thought. Without looking over his shoulder he smiled for a second and said, "Derek Krall, who's minding the stacks over at the college library, if you're out here stuffing your face?"
Krall slid onto the bench next to Shefler, holding a plastic orange tray heaped with ribs. "Oh I think everything will be alright over there for an hour or two." He reached for a red squeeze bottle. "Besides, the boss doesn't mind."
"You're going to put sauce on those ribs without even trying them?" Scovill said. "If Robie sees that he'll be insulted."
"What he doesn't know won't kill him," Krall said, upending the bottle and squeezing a copious amount of sauce on the ribs. "He's picking up more meat at the butcher."
Scovill grunted. "Your call, Krall. But if Robie hears about it, he'll ban you for a year."
Lindstrom rolled up his shirtsleeves, revealing a shiny gold watch with a black strap on his right wrist.
Scovill raised his eyebrow. "I sure like that watch, Dr. Lindstrom. Wonder where I might find one when my Timex here gives up the ghost?"
"Patek Philippe," Lindstrom said. "It's a very…exclusive watch."
"They don't have those at the general mercantile," Krall sniggered, denuding a rib bone of its meat in three bites.
"Well, that's okay," Scovill said. "The Timex looks like it's in good shape for now anyway."
"Speaking of time…" Shefler said.
"Quite right," Lindstrom said. "We should be getting back to the admin building."
"I just got my food," Krall said.
"Hold up, just a bit, would you sir?" Scovill said.
Lindstrom picked up a wet wipe packet, opened it and began cleaning his hands, one finger at a time, the red coming off with only a light scrubbing motion.
"Sure, sheriff," he said. "Whatever you want."
Shefler sighed inwardly, his eyes on the table.
Krall continued to eat his sauce-drenched ribs, sucking every fiber of meat from each bone.
Otis passed by the table, sliding a tumbler of iced tea in front of the sheriff. Scovill nodded in gratitude. "Hot in here," he said. "This will hit the spot."
"What's on your mind, sheriff?' Lindstrom said.
"Well," he said, pausing to take a long swallow. "I'm just checking to make sure you're settling in alright."
"Settling in? I've been here a year already." Lindstrom smiled, elbows on the table, leaning slightly forward.
"Well, we really haven't chatted much," Scovill said, smiling back. Scovill's smile had a chilling effect on the table. Men like Scovill rarely smiled due to mirth.
"But this must be part of the famous Cross Township charm," Lindstrom said. "Very cordial. Everyone in Cross has been so…hospitable."
"Especially the people who you're buying property from?" Scovill said.
Lindstrom nodded, his forehead shiny and scalp visible under his thinning hair. "Oh, yes, the Hansens. Very nice folks."
"Very nice barely scratches the surface," Scovill said, his eyes on Lindstrom's. "Cross College bought the Hansen home for a song. Or should I say the Cross College Foundation?" His gaze shifted to Shefler, director of the foundation.
"Well I don't know that we acquired it for a song," Shefler said, shifting in his seat and accidentally dipping his elbow in a blob of barbecue sauce.
Lindstrom shot him a quick, sharp glance and handed him a wet wipe packet, nodding at his elbow. "You just got yourself in it, Dick."
"It's what I heard," Scovill said, sipping more from the tumbler of iced tea.
Lindstrom observed a drop of condensation slip from the bottom of the tumbler and drop dead center on Scovill's badge. "Rumors. Town's full of them. Surely you don't put any stock in those?"
Scovill shrugged. "Don't have to. I can look up a deed at the county."
"And what's your point?"
"Just that the Hansen house was on the market for one day, then your foundation closed the sale the next."
"So what?" Lindstrom said. "That house was adjacent to our science building and we need the room for expansion. Incidentally, the house is coming down next month."
Krall's eyes darted between the two men, eating his ribs as if he were munching popcorn at a prizefight.
"Well, Marvin Hansen never told anybody around here he was even thinking of selling. In fact, a local interest had made him an offer a few months ago and he turned it down. Next thing we know, Marvin's car's in a ditch, he's got a broken skull and will be on disability for life. His poor wife Lanie has to sell--incidentally to the Cross College Foundation--so she can be near him at the nursing home in Goss City."
"Terrible tragedy," Lindstrom said.
"Yes sir, it was," Scovill said. "And still is. Just strange that all the pieces fell that way so fast."
Lindstrom's smile unfurled. "From what I understand, a car getting run into a ditch is a proven method for accelerating commerce around here."
Krall pursed his lips in a silent whistle, a rib halfway to his mouth, his eyes on Scovill.
Scovill nodded, face impassive, and fished a toothpick from his pocket. He slipped it into his mouth. "I am investigating what happened to Marvin."
A silence dominated the table for a seemingly interminable thirty seconds, until a rib bone fell from Krall's hands onto his tray. "Last one," he said, smirking.
"That's good," Lindstrom said. "Investigate."
"What do you think I'll find?"
Lindstrom shrugged. "That Marvin had a stroke? That he was driving distracted? Maybe a wasp got in the car and he lost control trying to swat it? I hear that happens to people."
"Occam's razor. Know that one, Dr. Lindstrom?"
"I know plenty about razors, sheriff," he said, his tone flat.
"Then may
be that's what it will be. The simplest answer. I'll find out that somebody ran him off the road." Scovill's gaze danced from Lindstrom to Krall to Shefler and back to Lindstrom.
Shefler ran a jittery hand through his hair, biting his lower lip.
Krall picked his teeth with a credit card.
Lindstrom smiled.
"Well, as I said, that seems to be the thing around here," he said. "Derek, didn't you tell me that that lovely young instructor, Kate something--"
"Nathaniel," Krall said, his expression wistful, as if imagining her nude in his bed. "The lovely, lovely Kate Nathaniel."
Lindstrom glared at Krall, then swiveled his head back to Scovill. "Nathaniel, yes. Didn't her husband die in a similar accident?"
"Father-in-law, too," Krall said. "Way, way back when."
"Oh, yes, terrible. Sheriff, it would seem that you might want to spend less time monitoring real estate deals and more time policing the state highways."
Scovill eyed Lindstrom for a moment, rolling the toothpick from one side of his mouth to the other. He stood. "Thanks for the advice, President Lindstrom."
"Please, call me Jack, Morgan," he said, also standing, extending his right hand. "It is Morgan, isn't it?"
Scovill ignored the proffered handshake. "It's sheriff. I'll be seeing you"
<><><>
Scovill's stomach growled the entire way back to Cross. The smell of Bart Robeson's barbecue is torture when you can't have any.
The sun was down by the time his home appeared in the headlights. His wife was out of town, visiting her old man at his farm outside Grand Island. He had cancer in his pancreas and wouldn't see Christmas.
She had left right after Scovill went to work. Scovill smiled at the note she left on a casserole dish in the fridge, "Heat at 250 for forty minutes" with a hurriedly drawn, crude, lace heart underneath.
He replayed her last words to him that morning, the same every morning: "Don’t get hurt."
"Yes, ma'am," he said that morning, and again that night, to her spirit in their kitchen.
His mind cast back to her thick waist, mousy hair and crooked smile as she threw feed to the chickens and cursed Ranger the rooster for laying down on the job. He supposed not many men would give her a second look these days, but she was a supermodel in the hayloft back in her day. Morgan Scovill had loved her in that hot, precious, dusty moment and he loved her still.
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