by Pete Dexter
The sheriff looked across the seat as he said that. "Mine's gone, of course," he added.
Trout stuck his fingers into the pack of Camels in his pocket and came out with a cigarette. Doing that, he moved his coat, and the chief glimpsed the gun and holster. Trout lit the cigarette and blew the smoke out of his nose.
"You can't take that there with you inside the camp," the sheriff said. His own pistol, he noticed, was wedged halfway into the crack where the seat met. He wondered what had been going on in his head, to let Paris Trout in the police cruiser without checking if he had his gun. "In fact, I ought take it for you now."
Trout studied the cigarette between his fingers. "I'1l turn it over when we get there," he said.
The sheriff reached into his pocket for a cigarette of his own. "They get it from you at prison," he said, "it won't be there when you get out. Sure as hell, somebody will of misplaced it for their own."
A little later the sheriff dropped his window another inch. "How old is your mother now?" he said.
"Ninety."
He picked a piece of tobacco off his tongue, looked at it a moment, and then rolled it off his finger and out the crack in the window. "Time goes by, don't it?"
Trout didn't answer.
"Six months at the work farm," the sheriff said, "that ain't no worst than joining the army."
He looked across the seat to ask Trout if he had ever been in the army, and at that moment a liver-colored mongrel dog appeared from some trees along the road, angling for the cruiser. It crossed in front of the car, and there was a banging noise and then at bump from underneath. Sheriff Fixx stood up on the brake, panicked at the prospect that he'd torn up the new cruiser.
Trout's forehead hit the windshield, and the car came to a stop sideways in the middle of the road. Before they could get out, the front end was smoking. "Lord a mercy," the sheriff said, "what now?"
Leaving his door wide open, he walked to the front. Trout stayed where he was. A knot was growing on his forehead, under his fingers, and there was a metallic taste on the end of his tongue. What kept him in his seat, though, was the feeling that he had crossed for a minute to the other side. In the second he'd hit the windshield, he was somewhere else. He'd ridden there behind a beam of black light and seen something he had already forgotten.
The sheriff was still in front of the car. He walked back and forth, keeping his eyes the same place. Trout watched him through smoke and cracked glass. A minute passed, and he sat down heavily in the driver's seat, his feet still on the highway, and looked out over the trees.
"That sonofabitch must of come up out of the gully," he said. "I never saw him." He turned and looked at Trout. "You was right here," he said, "there wasn't a thing a body could of done .... " He noticed the knot in the middle of Trout's forehead. "It look like somebody laid an egg on your head."
Trout did not answer.
"You feel poorly?"
He shrugged.
"If you are, get over into the gully to do it. We made enough mess of this Ford already .... " He got up again and walked back to the front of the car, as if he did not trust his memory. "You ought look at this," he said. "He's tore up the radiator, broke the headlight, pushed in the bumper."
Trout got out and walked into the gully. When he returned, the sheriff pointed to a spot where the metal was crushed and said, "This is the exact spot he hit us." The dog was fifty yards north, still lying in the road.
"Probably stray," the sheriff said, looking around. "Could of belonged to somebody, but more than likely he was a stray. You wonder what gets into an animal's brain to try something like that .... "
There was a pine tree lying on the ground across the highway, broken two feet off the ground and still hinged to the stump. Trout walked over and sat down. He closed his eyes, feeling dizzy, and in a minute the tree branch sank and the sheriff was sitting on it too.
"They'll be somebody by," the sheriff said. "They always is."
Ten minutes passed. The radiator ran out of steam, and in the building quiet Trout tried to remember what it was like when he hit the window and went away.
The sheriff stood up twice and walked back to the car, came back twice shaking his head. "Anybody can hit a dog," he said.
Time passed, nothing came along the road. The sheriff moved off the trunk and sat on the ground, with his back against the stump.
"Were you ever in the armed services?" he said.
Trout looked down at him a moment, as if he did not understand.
"The armed forces," he said, "like the army or navy."
"I was in the army," he said.
"During war?"
"World War One," he said.
"Did you like it?" the sheriff said. Trout nodded and lit a fresh cigarette. The sheriff said, "The best time in a man's life, ain't it?"
"I didn't have no best time," Trout said. "I was just there."
"Tell me something," the sheriff said a little later. "Did you ever shoot somebody?"
In a minute Trout looked up the road and saw a truck.
* * *
THE DRIVER TOOK THEM back to Cotton Point, where Sheriff Fixx separated a deputy from his car, and ordered him to call the garage to pick up the one on the highway. The deputy saw the sheriff was mad, and said "Yessir" every time he paused long enough for him to get it in.
Trout and the sheriff were in sight of the wreck before either of them spoke. "That bastard's a monster, ain't he?" the sheriff said, "looking at the dog."
Trout had no interest in the animal. An unfocused anger was settling over him, and dead in the middle of it was a headache. He took the watch out of his pants pocket and checked the time. Eleven-thirty. The older car smelled of cigars and urine. "Mr. Trout," the sheriff said, "you the first man I ever took to jail that worried he was gone be late."
The sheriff laughed out loud, and a moment later he reached into his pocket for a tin of Copenhagen, opened it one-handed, and then put a pinch underneath his upper lip. A little later he felt around under the seat and came out with a wide-necked bottle, which he set between his legs, lifting it to his mouth every few minutes to spit.
He was beyond the wreck now and enjoying himself. He felt suddenly charitable toward Paris Trout. "You want, I could look in on your momma until you get back .... "
Trout opened his coat and brought out the gun.
"Whoa, there, Mr. Trout," the sheriff said. "Don't take that thing out its holster in here .... "
Trout heard the fear inside the sheriff; and an anger blew through him like a scream. He put the muzzle underneath Edward Fixx's chin. He heard the right-side tires leave the pavement, then come back. The bottle between the sheriff s legs tipped, and tobacco spit spilled over
his pants.
"Mr. Trout," he said, "what the world you doing?"
Trout pushed the gun up, elevating the sheriff s chin. The car began to slow. "Is it an excape?" The gun barrel inhibited the movement of the sheriff s jaw and affected his speech. Trout cocked the hammer, all ready to do it now. It was loose in his head.
"You want to excape, it's all right with me," the sheriff said. "I 'ain't got a thing in the world against you, Mr. Trout. Didn't I call you up on the phone? I told you I got this order from the judge to take you down to Pete County. That's all. I'll pull over right here. You can do what you want .... "
And then something stopped it, he didn't know what. It was loose in his head, and then it was gone. He put his thumb on the hammer and slowly brought it back to rest against the firing pin. He pulled the gun away, the sheriff' s chin held its altitude until he was sure it was gone. The smell of fresh urine filled the car. Edward Fixx checked his lap.
The gun, still in Trout's hand, lay on the seat between them. For a long time neither of them spoke.
"I want to stop we get to Petersboro County," Trout said. The sheriff nodded.
"Just tell me where."
"A phone, so I can call a man."
"Yessir."
The s
heriff moved his eyes from the road to the seat and then back. The gun was still lying on the seat in Trout's hand. He had the feeling Trout had forgotten it was there.
He rolled down the window, realizing he was still alive.
* * *
THERE WAS A GAS station just across the county line, bordering Hard Labor Creek. The sheriff slowed the car and stopped without being told. Trout walked inside, carrying the gun in his hand. A fat, heavy-lipped woman appeared at the screen door, her head wrapped in a bandanna, and stared out. The sheriff lifted his hand, a gesture to reassure her, but as he moved, she was gone.
The car filled with flies, and he slapped them off his lap.
Trout was inside half an hour. He came out carrying a Dr Pepper in his hand instead of the gun and got back into the car. The sheriff considered taking the shotgun out of the rack and shooting him as he opened the door, but there was a public consideration to the Trout case: A lot of people didn't think he ought to be going to jail in the first place. He had been arrested and tried and convicted, but there was a limit to what the citizenry would tolerate.
"Let's go if we're going," Trout said.
The sheriff started the engine and backed out onto the highway, catching a glimpse of the woman again behind the screen door. The work farm was another twenty miles. As soon as they were back on the highway, the sheriff said, "I thought that fat girl might talked you out of your britches, you was in there so long .... "
Trout did not reply, and neither of them spoke again until they saw the farm.
* * *
"THERE IT IS" THE sheriff said.
They had just cleared a stand of pines, and the work farm was sitting in the middle of a clearing a quarter mile off the highway. There was a chain-link fence, eight feet tall and topped with barbed wire, that went around the perimeter. The gate was wide and open, a man in prison pants and an undershirt standing at it with a shotgun.
He looked into the car, squinting, as the sheriff slowed and lowered the window. "Got one for the warden," the sheriff said. The man pointed, one finger, at a large wooden building in the middle of eight smaller buildings.
The sheriff drove past him without another word and parked the car in front of the main building. "You want me to take your gun for you?" he said.
Trout said, "I left it."
The sheriff opened his door, thinking he would stop at the gas station on the way back and find out from the lady herself what had gone on inside. They walked in. A single prisoner was mopping the hallway, which smelled of lye soap and sweat. They walked to the last door on the right. It opened as soon as the sheriff knocked. It was the warden himself, Buddy White. Behind him the sheriff saw two men he did not recognize, both of them in suits and pointy ha1f-white shoes. A German shepherd lay with its chin on its feet, watching Trout.
"This here is Paris Trout," the sheriff said, handing the warden the papers. He did not like this particular warden, who had never as much as offered him a cold drink. The sheriff believed lawmen ought to show each other professional courtesy.
The warden took the papers without acknowledging the introduction. As he looked them over, he said, "Mr. Trout, your lawyer is over there to the desk."
He signed the acceptance form and returned it to the sheriff "That's it?" the sheriff said.
"Unless you got another one in the car."
The sheriff turned to leave, and a low rattle sounded somewhere in the dog's chest. "I'll shoot that dog right here in your office", the sheriff said, "before I let him chase me out."
"Shut up, Butch," the warden said, and the dog went still.
The sheriff saw they were waiting for him to leave. It felt like he'd walked into one of Richard Dickey's fancy parties. He turned without another word, opening the door for himself, and made his way out. When he had been gone a minute, the warden said to Trout, "I believe you have some bi'nes with these gentlemen here," and walked outside. The dog stood up, stretching one end, then the other, and followed him.
One of the men in the suits motioned Trout to the desk. "I am Mr. Dalmar," he said when Trout was closer. "This here is Judge Raymond Mims, who has come out in person to hear this matter."
The judge was sitting behind the desk with his hands behind his neck. "Your attorney informs me you have been the victim of perjured testimony, Mr. Trout," he said. He was a small man with a shined appearance. Trout saw he had never done any work in his life. He nodded his head. "People have told things about me in court."
"I'm sure they have," the judge said. And for a minute the three men stayed where they were without speaking.
It was the attorney who broke the silence. "There is a matter of legal fees, Mr. Trout. Ourselves, we'd straighten this out gratis if we could, but Mr. White, the warden there, is not a man who appreciates the moral issues .... "
Trout reached into his pocket and found the envelope. It was two inches thick, and he handed it to the lawyer without looking inside. The lawyer handed it to the judge, who did look.
"Twenty thousand dollars," Trout said.
The judge paid no attention. When he had finished counting, he took papers from his inside pocket, signed his name half a dozen times, and then stood up, leaving the papers on the desk, and looked out the window at the empty yard.
Rodney Dalmar studied the papers the judge had signed and then offered Trout his hand.
"The judge has issued an order freeing you on a writ of habeas corpus, citing perjured testimony at your trial," he said.
Trout looked at the attorney's hand and then at the man near the window. "I want proof he's a judge," he said.
Rodney Dalmar tried to smile, but there appeared to be something wrong with one side of his face. He put his hand on Trout's shoulder and moved to lead him toward the door. "I know you're having a joke on us, Mr. Trout," he said, "but sir, this is not the time."
Trout would not be led. "I don't make jokes about twenty thousand dollars," he said. "I never seen you before in my life, and I want proof what I paid for is legal."
The attorney held the orders open for Trout to see. "This is the seal of the Superior Court," he said. "That's as legal as it gets down here."
But Trout was looking past the document at the small man standing at the window. "I give you twenty thousand dollars," he said. "He counted it on that desk right there and put it in his pocket. I'm entitled to proof."
The attorney looked quickly at the man in the window, then back at Trout. "You got to understand," he said, "we have a . . . sensitive situation here."
"I ain't asked to put it in the Atlanta Constitution, " Trout said. "I just want proof it's a judge signed this paper."
"Mr. Trout," Rodney Dalmar said, "as your attorney I would suggest you drop this right here. If it wasn't legal, the warden wouldn't let anybody out this room .... "
"He ain't yet. And if he does, there's nothing to keep them from bringing me back."
The little man at the window turned' slowly around. The shined look was drained out of his face. "Judge," the attorney said, "could you give us a minute? Mr. Trout is got nervous being so close to jail .... "
"Exactly a minute," he said, and moved to leave the room. Trout stepped in front of him.
"Nobody leaves the room till I'm satisfied," he said.
"Mr. Trout," the judge said, looking up into his face, "all I need do is to whistle, and Warden White will be back through the door with a shotgun, shoot off your legs at the knees. It has happened in this room before. The dogs come in and clean up the mess. I understand you are a man of some resources in Ether County, but it didn't save you up there, and it can't save you here. It's out of your hands now, and if me and Mr. Dalmar here wanted to rob you, you are robbed."
Then he walked around Trout and out the door. Rodney Dalmar ran his fingers through his oiled curly hair. He began to smooth feelings, but something in Trout was out of control. He saw it and left him alone. "Just have a seat there against the wall, Mr. Trout," he said.
Trout did not move.
The attorney followed Judge Mims out the door. When he was gone, Trout reached behind himself and found the handle of his pistol. He pulled it out of his belt. It was a forty-five automatic, and the weight of it in his hand made him patient. He moved a chair behind the place where the door was hinged and sat down, holding the gun in his lap, and waited for the warden to come into the room with his shotgun.
The office was quiet and hot. He pictured the bullets lying in the clip in the handle of the gun, he remembered his feelings in the car again when he was right on the edge of blowing the chin off Edward Fixx. It was different from the way he'd felt shooting the girl.
When he'd gone after her, the anger blew into him from the outside.
* * *
IT WAS ANOTHER HALF hour before Trout heard the warden's steps in the hallway. He cocked the hammer, holding the gun between his knees. The warden opened the door and scolded the dog. Trout heard his voice and knew he wasn't coming in with any shotgun. He replaced the hammer against the firing pin and sat still.
In a moment he heard the dog — its nails against the cement floor — and then it came into the office, shook, and the door closed. The warden did not see Trout at first and started when he did.
"What in the world you doin' still here?" he said.
A noise began to crawl up the dog's throat, and the warden didn't hush him.
"This is where I was put," Trout said, watching the animal.
Something was taking it over, growing on itself, and it bared teeth and black gums.
"They supposed to take you along," the warden said. "They bust you out, they supposed to take you out. I come in here and find you playing with a gun?"
The dog was edging closer, making wet, growling noises, his eyes seemed to he fixed on Trout's, except Trout could not meet them. He leaned forward for a better look.
"Sit down," the warden said in a tired way, and in that instant the expression in the animal's face changed. He sat and looked up at the warden, his tongue jiggling happily out of one side of his mouth.