Mean Streak
Page 26
The main tent boasts a calf-judging. Boys in Future Farmers of America T-shirts stand around an antique tractor. A sign in front of the huge iron wheels says that it was made in Toledo in 1915.
Cass searches the crowd for a glimpse of Ted, wanting to get this over with before she loses either her nerve or her breakfast.
A man in a tan suit and white shirt walks up, flashes a badge, and says, “Stop right there. You’re under arrest.”
The cop says the newly minted Miranda warnings as though the words hurt his mouth. Uniformed police officers step out of God-knows-where and pull arms behind backs, snap handcuffs over wrists. Mothers in Bermuda shorts stop to stare. Kids with brightly colored balloons stand openmouthed as the students are marched toward waiting black-and-whites. Calliope music from the merry-go-round, playing “After the Ball Is Over,” fills Cass’s ears as she stumbles along the gravel path, hands bound behind her back.
“It’s pepper oil, man,” Rap says. “Take it to your lab and test it.” If his hands were free, he’d be making an expansive gesture; since he’s handcuffed, he can only lean toward the canister, now carried by an impassive deputy. “Worst thing that stuff’ll do is give you a humongous case of heartburn.”
Cass lets out a sigh of relief. How can they possibly be charged with a crime when they haven’t done anything?
“Shut up,” the blond cop says, giving Rap a shove.
Rap gives Cass a sidelong glance. “What exactly are we charged with?” he asks in a taunting tone. “Possession of Tabasco in the first degree?”
It is Tarky who finally silences Rap. “I’d advise you to stop talking,” he says. “Wait till Harve gets here.”
The blond cop wrinkles his brow. “You mean Harve Sobel?”
The partner speaks up now. “Wasn’t he the lawyer on that Black Panther case? Geez, and now he’s representing this bunch.” He shakes his head. “Hell of a thing,” he says. “Fucking Panther just walked up to the patrol car and blew a cop away,” he went on. “How could anybody represent a piece of shit like that?”
“You’re speaking of my future father-in-law,” Rap says in mock indignation.
They reach the parking lot. One of the cops walks toward the station wagon and opens the door. Wes says, “Don’t you think you ought to get a search warrant?”
To Cass’s astonishment, the cop stops in his tracks.
“What are we going to do with this stuff?” the blond cop asks. “I don’t like the idea of riding around with deadly poison in the back seat, if you get my drift.”
“I keep telling you, it’s not—” Rap begins.
“Will you shut the fuck up?” Tarky cuts in. In the distance, the merry-go-round stops, then starts up with a spirited rendition of “Happy Days Are Here Again.”
“We got an expert on the way,” the balding cop tells his partner. “Some guy from the Department of Agriculture.”
A big black car rolls up, bouncing through the ruts in the dirt parking lot. The door opens and a man in a plaid sport shirt steps out. He walks toward the canister and nods at the cops. They nod back. He pulls on a pair of rubber gloves, the thick, heavy kind used in industry. He reaches up and turns the top of the canister, opening it. He takes a handkerchief out of his pants pocket and holds it against the opening.
Standing in the dusty parking lot, the music of childhood ringing in her ears, the smell of manure in her nose, Cass feels a bubble of laughter welling up in her throat. This solemn little man with his polyester shirt and his handkerchief is about to make a scientific declaration that the canister contains … hot sauce!
But before the bubble explodes in a giggle, the little man takes the handkerchief away and brings it, slowly, toward his face. He stops when the cloth is about eighteen inches from his nose. He sniffs the air, then says, “I don’t dare bring it any closer, boys.” He lowers the handkerchief.
“And get that plastic bag over here quick. I don’t want to end up dead. It’s parathion all right.”
All eyes turn toward Kenny.
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About the Author
Carolyn Wheat is an attorney, editor, and award-winning author. She has worked on both sides of the legal fence, defending indigents accused of crime for the Brooklyn office of the Legal Aid Society and giving legal advice to the New York City Police Department. Wheat’s short stories have won the Anthony, Agatha, Shamus, and Macavity Awards, and two of her six Cass Jameson Mysteries have been nominated for Edgar Awards.
All rights reserved, including without limitation the right to reproduce this ebook or any portion thereof in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of the publisher.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, events, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, companies, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
Copyright © 1996 by Carolyn Wheat
Cover design by Barbara Brown
ISBN: 978-1-5040-0235-6
This edition published in 2015 by Open Road Integrated Media, Inc.
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