“Sorry, but you are.” Pilate tickled her.
She giggled and ran to the door.
As they passed Cross College on the way to the school, Kara gazed out the backseat window. “That’s where that bad man tried to hurt you.”
“Well, yes,” Pilate said, glancing out the window. “But that’s all over now, and the place isn’t bad. Mommy and I teach there.”
“Uh-uh. You don’t teach school. You have a new job.”
“Yes, well, the new job is temporary.”
“What does temprayery mean?”
“For a short time.” He was interrupted by a dinging sound. “Hey, is your seatbelt on, squirt?” Pilate asked, looking at Kara in the rearview mirror.
“Oh. No. Sorry.” She scrabbled for the seatbelt.
“Kara, what have I told you about unbuckling it?”
“Sorry, Daddy. I was trying to see out the window better.”
“Kara, do you know what my real job is?”
“Uh, um…teacher?”
“Sort of, but not really. Guess again.”
“Book writer?”
“Yes, but there’s one job that’s more important.”
“Sheriff?”
“No. That’s close, but it’s not the most important job.”
“What is your most important job, Daddy?”
“To keep you safe.”
Kara smiled in the back seat. He had told her the same thing many times, but she never seemed to tire of hearing it.
“And Peter and Mommy too?”
“Yep, that’s my job, to keep you safe, and I can’t do that if you’re not wearing your seatbelt.”
“Or if one of any number of psychos come out of the woodwork in this mutated Mayberry,” Simon said.
Pilate pulled up to Kara’s school, where a hundred kids from five different grades were swarming all about.
Standing in front of the building was Abbey, his former student, now a teacher. “Hey there Mr…er, John,” she said, smiling.
“Hey, Abbey,” he said, leaning over the passenger side to let Kara out.
“Bye, Daddy,” Kara said, running inside.
“Bye, sweet girl,” he said.
“Growing up fast,” Abbey said. “How’s your Peter?”
“My what?”
“Uh…your son. How’s your son Peter?” she said, blushing.
“Oh. He’s fine,” he said.
“Good.” Abbey gently nudged a couple students toward the door. “Riley said he helped you fix a door or something.”
“Yeah,” Pilate said. “He’s a good guy.”
“Yes, he is,” she said, looking down at her shoes. “You know he broke it off with me, right?”
Pilate’s smiled faded. “Oh no, Abbey. I didn’t know.”
“He said he just needs a little time,” she said, wiping a tear and breathing in noisily. “It’s okay though. I figured when he moved to Lincoln he might get the wandering eye.”
“Abbey, he’s nuts if he does that,” Pilate said.
“What a two-faced jerk you are, John,” Simon said.
“No, really, he’s okay. I can’t blame him.”
“Well, give it a little time,” he said. “He’ll come to his senses and be back.”
She shook her head quickly, inhaled, and forced a smile. “Will do.”
The bell rang.
“That’s my cue. Better go,” she said. “See you around, Mr. Pilate.”
He checked the subpoena again. The Tin Roof Rib Shack was being sued for back taxes, so it fell to Pilate to serve Bart Robeson’s court papers. Pilate cruised past a few farm trucks, giving the customary four-fingered wave from his steering wheel as they went by. It was a chilly day, making Pilate grateful for the old Saab’s seat warmers as he blew down the road, orange and brown leaves flying in his wake.
Hilmer Thurman’s Brown Betty Roadhouse appeared in the distance, with the usual three or four pickups and beat-up cars parked haphazardly in front.
Glad I have no business there today.
“Yes, a man can take only so much backwoods mafia talk,” Simon sarcastically agreed.
Thurman had kept a low profile since taking over his dead cousin Ollie’s criminal enterprises. He didn’t throw his weight around, and even when Jeremy Ryder named Pilate constable, the Olafson clan didn’t speak a word about it. Where Olafson had been showy and intemperate and reckless, Thurman was quiet, calm, and resolute.
Perhaps that made him more dangerous, Pilate considered.
Sweet, delicious smoke from the Tin Roof Rib Shack lured Pilate out of his thoughts. He pulled onto the gravel outside the building, which truly was a tin shack. Smoke drifted from behind cords of wood in back.
Pilate picked up the paperwork from the passenger seat, checked to make sure his stubborn badge was on straight and strode to the door.
He raised his hand to knock but was interrupted by a black man in his late twenties, with a thin, scraggly beard. He was carrying a large axe, sweating profusely in the cool air.
“Help you?” the man asked, hefting the axe.
Pilate cleared his throat. “John Pilate, Cross Township Constable. Are you Bartholomew Paul Robeson?”
The man shook his head. “Nope. What can I do ya for?”
“See? That’s how dumb you sound when you say that,” Simon said.
“I need to speak with Mr. Robeson about a legal matter.”
“He under arrest?”
“No, nothing like that. Can you tell me if he’s inside?”
The man shook his head, and the axe blade glinted in the sun. “I can tell ‘im you come by.”
“Are you open?” Pilate asked, gesturing at the door.
“Nope, not till noon.”
“Well, is Mr. Robeson nearby? I really need to talk to him today.”
The man shrugged, turning the axe handle in his palms, rotating the blade.
“Nice cutlery,” Simon said.
“Well, who cooks and takes care of the customers?”
“I do, and Melba and Cinnamon Tate.”
“So you’re telling me Mr. Robeson isn’t here to run his own restaurant?”
“Restaurant?” He snorted. “Whatever, mister.”
“What’s your name?”
“Why? Am I under arrest?”
“No, you’re not.”
“You can call me Mistah Tibbs.”
“Okay.” Pilate managed a dry, raspy chuckle. “Mr. Tibbs. Uh-huh. I’ll just come by some other time and see if I can catch Mr. Robeson.”
“I’ll be sure to tell ‘im you was here, Sheriff.”
“Constable.”
“What?”
“Constable. It’s different than sheriff.”
“Okay. If ya say so.” He twirled the axe again, shrugged, and wandered back behind the shack.
A few seconds later, Pilate heard the sound of the axe striking wood.
Pilate checked his watch and saw that it was eleven a.m. He started to pass the Brown Betty, then slowed, did a u-turn and parked in front of the roadhouse.
“What the hell are you doing?” Simon asked.
A little police work.
“A little dogcatching, Constable?”
Pilate walked into the bar, startling three daytime boozers who were nursing their Buds. His eyes adjusted to the dim lighting, and he took in the sight of Nelda, who was standing precariously on a stepladder behind the bar, screwing in a light bulb. “Um, hi,” Pilate said.
“Just a minute, honey. Cain’t you see I’m screwin’?” Nelda asked, then cackled at her own shameless innuendo.
“Charming,” Simon said.
She walked her bony butt down the steps, thin gold bracelets clattering on her wrists as she peeled a sticky cobweb from the light fixture. “What can I do ya for, sheriff?”
Shut up, Simon.
He didn’t bother correcting her. “I’m hopin’ you can help me. I’m looking for Bart Robeson.”
“Oh, honey…” She
snapped up a bar rag and wiped the counter absently. “He don’t work here. He owns the Tin Roof, down the road. Just follow your nose.”
“I know, but I heard he comes by here every now and again, and I just need to chat with him.”
“Well, he does, but not today. He’s probably at the Tin Roof, gettin’ ready for lunch rush. Sometimes he brings a rack or two of ribs and some butt over for us to sell.”
“Nelda, I’ve got this,” Hilmer Thurman said, sticking his head out the door of his office. “Hello, Constable. Come on in.”
Pilate nodded and walked inside the small office behind Thurman. “Last time I was in here, we had a meeting of the minds,” Pilate said as both men sat, Thurman behind his desk, Pilate in a small wooden chair across from him. Though Thurman wasn’t smoking, the room reeked of cigars.
Thurman smiled. “That we did.”
“I must admit, I didn’t expect such a warm welcome today.”
“Last time you were in here, you weren’t wearing any fancy brass jewelry,” Thurman said, nodding at the badge.
“And the last time we talked, it was on the phone. I believe you said we’re even.”
“Hmm. I don’t recollect that.”
Pilate nodded.
“So, to what do we owe the honor?”
“I’m hoping to talk to Bart Robeson. He around?”
Thurman smiled. “Sadly, no. I could go for some ribs and slaw right about now. You should try his place down the road. Just follow your—”
“Nose? Yeah, I did. He’s apparently not there. Only saw some guy with an axe.”
“Otis.”
“Mr. Tibbs.”
Thurman burst into laughter. “Tibbs? Mr. Tibbs? Love it.”
“Yeah, it was funny.”
“So, anyway, what do you want with Robie?”
“Well, it’s a legal matter.”
“Process server, eh? My, how the mighty have fallen,” Thurman said between his perfectly straight, white teeth.
Dentures?
“Maybe, but I do get fancy jewelry,” Pilate said. He played it cool but felt sweat forming in his armpits.
“What do you want, Constable Pilate?” Thurman said, calm, cool, and unnervingly polite.
“I just hoped I might catch Bart Robeson…and I figured I may as well say hello to you.”
“Hi.”
Again with the teeth?
“And ask if you’ve heard from Perry Mostek.”
Thurman’s face darkened, and the teeth disappeared behind thin, pursed lips. After a couple seconds, he brightened with a well-orchestrated smile, revealing the pearlies that were, most definitely, dentures. “No. Perry blew town after he shot Sheriff Welliver. I can honestly say I haven’t seen or heard from him since.”
“Well, his wife needs money, and she’s putting the store up for sale.”
“Yeah, I heard that.”
“I figured you might have. You happen to know anybody who’s looking to buy it?”
“Maybe, maybe not.”
“Well, I spoke with that banker, Mr. Nemec, about it,” Pilate said, keeping his scrutinizing eyes on Thurman’s face.
Thurman was a fount of pleasantry. “Oh?”
“Yeah. He says there are a couple of interested parties.”
Thurman nodded. “I see. Well, it’s the only game in town. Whoever gets it will do pretty well. Everybody needs groceries, and they’re all sick of driving ten miles to get ‘em in Goss City.”
“Me included,” Pilate said, standing. “Well, thanks for your time.”
“You bet, Constable,” Thurman said, leaning back in his chair. “Oh, how’s your family doing?”
Pilate clenched his jaw. “They’re fine.”
“Good, good. Pretty rough, that car accident your wife had a while back.”
“Thanks for helping out,” Pilate said. Thurman had found Kate’s wrecked station wagon hanging precariously off a bridge. He may have saved her life and the life of their unborn baby by calling for an ambulance.
“Least I could do. Hope that never happens again,” Thurman said. “Terrible to contemplate.”
Pilate opened the door. “Yeah, that’s for sure.”
“Well, as long as people take care, accidents don’t happen.”
“Goodbye, Mr. Thurman,” Pilate said. His knees felt funny, his guts hot and sickening.
“I’ll tell Robie you’re lookin’ for him,” Thurman called after Pilate.
Back in his office, Pilate saw the blinking light indicating that a message had been left on his voicemail. He pushed the playback button and listened closely.
“You really need to get a decent cell phone,” Jeremy Ryder drawled.
“I have one,” Pilate told the machine, looking at his cell, only to realize it was set on vibrate.
“Look, I heard Gary Rich came by and that you used your world-famous charm on him. Can you please smooth that guy out so I don’t have to hear about serial littering or whatever the hell he’s got up his nosy ass? By the way, I also heard that Jim Kolar over in Vettsville is thinkin’ of throwing his hat in the ring for sheriff. That’s a good one, right? Talk at ya.”
Click.
Pilate didn’t know Kolar personally, but his friend, State Trooper Hulsey, had mentioned him once, referring to Kolar as a “solid, stand-up guy.”
Pilate sighed as he pondered the neighborhood watch captain calling Ryder to complain about Pilate’s lack of interest in his ridiculous, unfounded suspicions.
Beep.
“Sheriff, this is Mrs. Drum. That boy pooped in my yard again. What are you gonna do about it? Please come over and look at this poop. If I catch the little twerp, I’m gonna put a cork where the sun don’t shine!”
Beep.
“Harley Cordwainer here. I was up all night listening to that yappy homunculus. If you don’t do something about it, I will.”
Beep.
“Constable, this is Watch Captain Rich. I saw a strange man riding his bike by my house last night, around seven. He wouldn’t make eye contact. I think he’s up to something, maybe drugs. He’s Mexican, I think. I need to file a report.”
Beep.
Pilate fell heavily into his chair, holding his face in his hands.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
“Why in the hell is the airport so far away?” Taters Malley stared balefully out the Saab window. “We’ve been driving for half an hour.”
“We live in one of the armpits of the state. Omaha is the nearest national airport, unless you take a private charter and land in the next county over, something I’d rather you didn’t, considering recent events.”
Taters looked at Pilate. “Right. That nut-job ex-president dude hijacked a small plane to get here, didn’t he? Sorry.”
“How’s Jordan?”
“Beautiful, more woman than I deserve and more man than I’ll ever be.”
Pilate raised his eyebrow.
“I just mean she’s ace, brother, just great. She was plenty happy to see me climb on that jet, though, let me tell ya.”
“Well, I can’t believe we got you away from the TenFortyEZ,” Pilate said.
“Me neither. I miss ‘em both already. The two ladies in my life. Speaking of ladies, how’re your girls?”
“Wonderful…and looking forward to seeing you,” Pilate said, checking his rearview mirror.
“Peter ruling the roost?”
“Growing like a weed.”
“Good.”
The pair drove in silence for a few miles.
“How’s your ticker?”
Taters snorted. “Fine, fine. Silly nonsense, all of it. I don’t mean to sound like one of them conspiracy theorists or whatnot, but personally, I think it’s just a way for the insurance companies and hospitals to rob me blind. That’s what they do, you know. They find something and blow it all outta proportion so they can run expensive tests, pokin’ and proddin’ me in places I didn’t even know I’ve got places and then chargin’ me an arm and a leg for
it. That’s the Taters Malley theory on that.”
Pilate chuckled. “You’re taking your medication, though, right?”
“Yeah. They’ve got me on all kinds of pills, tons of ‘em, in every damn color of the rainbow. They’re hoping the meds’ll break down some of the blockage so they don’t have to crack my chest. Jeez, what is that thing? A tractor?”
“Harvester.”
“Wow. Looks like a spaceship. Anyway, in a couple more weeks, I get another multimillion-dollar scan to see if their pretty little pills are doing anything, and they’ll decide the next brilliant move then.”
“How do you feel?”
“Fine. I get a little tired, but I’m good unless I overexert. It’s a real drag as far as the boudoir is concerned, if ya know what I mean.”
Pilate nodded. “I can imagine.”
“What’s the point of havin’ a young, gorgeous wife if you can’t properly tend to her lady needs?”
“No argument there, T.”
“Are we there yet? I really gotta piss. These drugs run right through me.”
“We can stop up here,” Pilate said.
“They film Field of Dreams up here?”
“No. That was in Iowa, I think.”
“Close enough,” Taters said. “That Susan Sarandon…mmm, mmm, mmm…” He whistled.
“That was Bull Durham.”
“Oh. Well, whatever. Just please tell me they sell Modelo up here in this overgrown cornfield. If they serve it, I will drink.”
They stopped in Goss City for lunch.
“What the hell kind of salad dressing is this?” Taters asked.
“Dorothy Lynch. Try it,” Pilate said, chewing his bison burger. “It’s a Nebraska thing.”
Taters tasted it and made a face.
“Oh, c’mon. It’s not that bad.”
“No, it ain’t the dressing. It’s just salad in general,” he said. “Jordan made me go veggie, and it’s killin’ me just looking at that juicy buffalo burger.”
“Bison.”
“Same thing, if ya ask me. Whatever it is, this damn rabbit food ain’t no comparison.”
“I’m sorry,” Pilate said. “I wouldn’t have ordered it if I had known.”
“Well, why should you suffer too?” Taters asked, laughing. “I’m not supposed to drink either, but I’m telling you right now that there’d better be cold ones at your place. Otherwise, there’s gonna be trouble no amount of constable peace-officering will prevent.”
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