Dead Man's Badge

by Robert E. Dunn

  Maybe Paris.

  Maybe that was why I was driving so slowly and felt so exposed. Once I had made the decision to become my half-brother, I’d never once asked myself, could I live up to it—to him? Even if I laid aside the pitiful self-doubt in that question, I had to admit I knew nothing about being a cop. What was I doing? I had more money than a man like me had ever dreamed of walking away with. No one was looking for me. I had a good truck, and I was just a few hours from Mexico. Why take the harder road?

  I squinted into the glare as the sun passed in front of me, lightly, like paws of a cat hemming me in. The only real choice felt like the one that led into the teeth. At the next gas station, I stopped for a fill-up and a pair of cop-style reflector sun glasses.

  Lansdale had changed since I had been through it last. The biggest change was the people. The town was larger than I remembered. Town limit signs were pushed out at least a half mile. Much of the space that had been taken over was filled with new trailer park developments. The squat and featureless cracker boxes were lined up like teeth in in a rich kid’s mouth, straight lines and perfectly aligned. Some of them, those on the outskirts, seemed to have been placed with less care, as if the town no longer had the time for good orthodontics.

  I cruised in on the main road from the east and past the same old motel I had been at before. Even it had a new coat of paint.

  I made a pass down Main Street just to look around. The oldest part was still lined with the vintage stone buildings. All of them had Mason’s seal cornerstones dated at the turn of the last century. Beyond that stone core, in each direction, were new frame and stucco or metal-skin buildings touting mostly one-dollar products or payday loans. Continuing to the west, where I recalled the town ending in a blunt cut of asphalt and a sign at the edge of the dirt reading City Maintenance Ends, there was more and newer town. To the north was a residential development with nice homes. Surprisingly, given the water situation in the area, some of the homes had lush green lawns. To the south, closer to the river, were a couple of fast food places mixed in with a taxidermy shop, a used-car lot, and two places piled with junk that bore signs reading Antiques. It all looked like a normal growing town until I got to the new and improved City Limits sign.

  There the real changes started. Roads were new blacktop rolling into hills that had been turned artificially green and verdant. A golf course was the last thing I would have imagined taking root in this land. Beyond the course was another new road. It was guarded by twin stone posts. One was hollow and housed an attendant. The other was solid mounting for a twenty-foot-long iron gate topped with spear points. Those points looked a little sharper than necessary for decoration. On the guard post was a polished plaque that read, in fancy black script, Gun Hills Hunting Lodge and Private Club. The only thing that struck me as stranger than all that was the weirdness a bit farther down the road and closer to the river. Buildings were being constructed. Most of the work though was being done behind tarps. I couldn’t see much. I could see enough to know it wasn’t everyday construction. Thick foundations were being poured into dense nests of reinforcing bar. There were a lot of commercial trucks parked around the site. Most trades were represented, but there seemed to be more electrical and information-system contractors than anything.

  In the mess only one business looked to be finished and open. It was a bank, a big one. I knew that only by the fact that it looked like every other bank in the country. It had no signs up, not even a Grand Opening banner, but it was the one building that looked complete with cars parked out front.

  Adjacent to the big-dollar construction site was a low-dollar, lower-rent-looking bar. It was the kind of place with lots of neon out front. It had a broad gravel lot with ample parking for bikes and big rigs. Out back were parked several small trailers. I had no doubt that when the sun went down, there would be little light back there but lots of activity. The trailers were cribs for the working girls.

  Someone had thousands of acres of nothing to put the First National Bank of the Middle of Nowhere in, and they chose the spot next to a whorehouse.

  There was a boom going on, and all of it seemed to be happening beyond the city limits sign. Booms don’t come without something exploding. In this part of the country, that means oil. I hadn’t seen anything that said oil. I hadn’t seen anything that could keep me from bed any longer either. I circled the truck back around into town. When I got to the Desert Drop Inn, I wondered how it was still the only place to get a room with all the construction. Then I parked and didn’t care.

  The fresh paint was a combination of stark, glossy white and bright-green trim. It had an old-fashioned feel that matched the semicircular two-story building and the kidney-shaped pool in the center. I half expected the other cars in the lot to have fins on them once I got out of the truck. Not that there were many cars in the lot.

  The woman at the desk was named Lenore. The name fit in an odd way. She had raven-dark hair and skin that mixed the shades of many races into an entirely new tone of soft darkness. As if beauty weren’t enough, she was decorated with ink and silver jewelry. Her right arm was a colorful swirl of flames and tiny bats rising on the light into tattered skies sparking with stars. It was an intricate and hypnotic tableau. At her wrist, under the dangling silver bracelets, was a circling of bright, grinning skulls and flowers. Their stylized Day of the Dead look reminded me of the fingers of the thin man who had sent me into the desert.

  I signed, remembering at the last moment that I was Paris Tindall, not Longview Moody.

  “Sleep well, Chief,” Lenore said, handing over the key.

  Her eyes were a hazel that leaned toward green and gold. I dropped my gaze to keep myself from giving an invitation I could not have lived up to. When I did, I noticed another bit of her ink. There was a colorful flower disappearing into the top of her shirt.

  When I looked back up, Lenore’s smile had changed. It was even better. She turned around. I wasn’t sure if her hair moved like that naturally or if she worked at it. I let my gaze sweep over her. The sweeping was interrupted by the dainty .25 pistol holstered at the small of her back. After that I noticed that the tattooed pin-striping wound through with more skulls and flowers behind the weapon.

  “You always go packing?” I asked her.

  “I don’t always have the chief watching my—back.” She didn’t turn to look at me until she said the word “back.” She looked and wiggled at the same time.

  It was a nice view, but something else caught my attention. That had been the second time she’d called me chief. The first time I had heard the word but not the meaning.

  “You know who I am?”

  “Of course. I’ve been expecting you.”

  “Why?”

  “Only two places around here to get a room. Desert Drop or the hunting club. You haven’t been invited up there yet, have you?”

  “Gun Hills?”

  “Been doing your homework?” She asked the question with less wiggle but something more in her eyes as she stepped up closer.

  “And did anyone tell you to give them a call when I checked in,” I asked.

  She smiled. Her face lit with it. The bright-green-gold and polished wood of her eyes promised a knowing of secrets. Lenore’s was an Eve-offering-the-apple smile. “You want me to wait?”

  “Depends.”

  “On what?”

  “On what they’ll want when they get here.”

  She nodded, leaned forward, and said in a breathy whisper, “Talk.”

  I looked her over again. Early thirties, slim but wonderfully hippy. Her shirt was tight against a belly that was flat but soft. Lenore was a lot more woman than girl. She was used to being looked at too. I lifted my attention back to her eyes and said, “I’ve had enough talk. If anyone is coming to shoot me, call them, and get it over with. Otherwise, give me a couple of hours.”

  She laughed and then said, “You got it, Chief.”

  The first thing I did after opening the room d
oor was put the bedspread over the window. Adding it to the curtains tamped down the light, making the small room cave-like. Second, I turned the air conditioner to max.

  I wish I could say I slept easily and dreamed of Lenore. It didn’t happen. I did fall asleep quickly, but my dreams were a chaos of black impressions that left me on edge and sweating. Sweat turned cold quickly in the dark room.

  When the knock came, I was still sitting in my underwear on wet sheets. It had taken longer than I’d thought. What little light leaked around the combination curtain and bedspread over the window was red. It was evening.

  Time to put my pants on. That was my sole concession to decorum. I added the .45 belt-clip holster, but I doubted that it qualified as clothing. I just knew that without it I would have felt naked.

  There was no knowing who was at the door, just as I’d had no doubt that someone would show up. My guess had been that it would be cops, one or a delegation of them, wanting to know where they stood. If the Justice Department was picking their new chief, the rest of the cops had to be nervous. Then there was that other side of the dropped coin. It could be the feds themselves, a handler, here to lay the law on me.

  Leaving the lights and my shirt off—I didn’t want to appear overly friendly no matter who was knocking—I opened the door and stepped back.

  Hot air dug claws into the ceiling and pulled itself in, chasing the chill out along the floor. Light shifted only in shade, not volume. Through the doorframe was a darkening sky bruised red and purple. Long streaks of clouds pointed west, their leading edges painted by the sinking sun. They looked like rockets blazing with the heat of friction as they left the earth.

  Then there were the men.

  The fat one was standing at the door. He had knocked. The other one stood back. He sheltered his face under a straw hat and leaned with one foot on the railing. The aspect of his body and posture kept his back slightly to the setting sun and his head turned. He appeared to be looking at something other than my door. That didn’t change the fact that I could feel his eyes staring in my direction. I took a small pleasure in the fact that he could see me no better than I could see him.

  “Chief Tindall,” the fat man said. His voice had a well-buttered cheerfulness.

  “Yeah,” I said. “I’m not set for visitors.”

  “Oh, we understand,” he said. “We understand. But it’s just me, Bascom Wood, from the city council. We met last month.”

  I stared at him a moment, thinking it was all over. I was thinking I should put my shirt on and get in the truck.

  Then he asked, “Remember?”

  I nodded. “Yes.”

  “Good. Good.” He grinned and then pointed at my head. “You let your hair grow. You’ll want to take care of that.”

  I reached up to run my hand over my ragged cut. Paris always had short hair. My mind worked over a couple of lies to tell. I was on vacation—or—things were busy. I hadn’t had time—

  “In fact—” Councilman Wood seemed to be thinking very hard about something.

  “Is there something I can do for you?” All I could do was to try to distract him off of me and back to what they came for. “It’s been a long day. I’m tired.”

  “I wanted to welcome Chief Paris Tindall personally.”

  There was something about the way he said the title and name all together. Or I thought there was something about it.

  “Good. Good.” Wood tried to steal a glance backward at the man on the railing. “Very good. I’ll give you a day or two before I come see you at the station. I imagine a man wants to get to know his troops one on one without the bosses looking over their shoulder.”

  “Bosses?”

  “Well, uh, well I know there are some…special circumstances, but the chief still reports to the city council.”

  “I don’t rate a visit from the mayor?”

  Even in the low light, I could see Bascom’s jowls droop. His eyes shifted nervously. “I regret that we still have not filled that position. Since the passing of Mayor Bell…uh…” He wrung his hands and glanced side to side, trying to see without moving his head. The councilman looked like a politician forced to listen to a racist joke without knowing who was around. “City operations remain with the council until…uh…until such time as new elections can be arranged.” He nodded, seemingly happy with the explanation, and then said again, “Yes. Arranged.”

  “Is that what you’re here to tell me?”

  “What?” He stepped back from the threshold like I’d been the one to knock on his door, and holding up copies of The Watchtower too. “Not at all. Not at all. This is just a welcome visit.”

  He seemed to have a habit of repeating himself when he got nervous. He was definitely a politician because he was literally double-speaking. It helped me to understand something though. It wasn’t to him I was speaking.

  “Who’s that with you?” I asked.

  The man in the background chose that moment to put a cigar in his mouth. He lit it with an old-fashioned lighter, the kind that had a big flickering flame and closed with a resolute metal snap. After that snap, the yellow glow that lit the lower part of the man’s face was gone. I saw only his chin and mouth. That, along with the snakeskin boots under a cream-colored western suit and sky-blue silk shirt, was enough to tell me of his Mexican heritage. He exhaled a thick cloud of cigar smoke before walking to the balcony stairs. Behind him lingered the smoke and scent of the San Andrés black leaf.

  Mr. Bascom Wood watched him go and then turned back to me. He was Mexican or at least Hispanic, not a recent immigrant. His English was Texas, through and through. Other than heritage he shared the appreciation of western wear if not the actual sense of style with his compadre. His suit was denim, his boots scuffed, functional leather. He wore no hat. My guess was because of a pride in his Vitalis-slicked hair. He probably had the same pride in his drooping mustache.

  “Pardon my friend, Chief Tindal. Relations with law enforcement have been strained here in Lansdale with all the growth.” Bascom used both hands to gesture vaguely outward at the word “growth.” I counted five gold rings on his piggy fingers. Three were on one hand, two on the other.

  “I’m not here to make things difficult,” I said. I didn’t altogether know why I was there. It was a sure thought, though, that not making things difficult was high on Bascom Wood’s list.

  I was right. He smiled broadly and relaxed, and then he said, “Good. Good. Everyone will be glad to hear it.” He continued to stare at me.

  “Is there something else?”

  “It’s not just the hair, you know.” Wood pointed a fat finger at my chest. “You lost weight too.”

  My spine stiffened.

  “And your voice—”

  “It hasn’t been a good time for me,” I cut in, trying to sound bothered and not desperate. “We’ve had a death in the family.”

  He nodded and then said, “I had heard that. I’m sorry.”

  I believed the first part. Not the second.

  “Chief.” Again, he put a little spin on the word. “I can’t wait for you to get started.”

  “Then maybe I should get some sleep.”

  “Oh yes. Of course. Of course. If you need anything—anything at all—don’t hesitate to call on me, my friend.”

  “Sleep,” I said. “I need sleep.” I closed the door before he could say anything more. I wasn’t always intentionally rude. The fact that he’d met Paris concerned me. I didn’t want to encourage contact. One other thing concerned me: the snappy dresser behind Bascom. I knew when someone was trying to put me off balance. I didn’t rattle that easy.

  Sleep. I’d said that was what I wanted. No chance. I was completely awake, and the edgy feeling would make sure I stayed that way. Maybe it was time to check in.

  I slipped the SIM back into the phone and let it power up while I hit the bathroom. Before I had flushed, it was ringing. Milo.

  “You killed the phone,” he said.

  “Hello
to you too.”

  “Screw hello. I want you to keep in contact. I want you to roll over and kiss me good night before you close your eyes and smile at my pretty face in the morning. Do you get me?”

  I killed the phone again and let it sit while I dressed in a new snap-front shirt. Western plaid—I was stylin’. I tucked the tail and rolled the sleeves. Seeing the bare skin of my arms made me glad I always waited to sober up after deciding to get tattoos. Sober, I had no desire. The one I had was high up on my shoulder, covered even by short sleeves. It read “Airborne.”

  I had planned on powering up the phone again and seeing what Milo had to say. When my boots were on, I realized I was hungry. The phone stayed on the stand as I went looking for a meal.

  The hunt turned out to be doubly productive. Right next to a local taqueria was a barber shop. The barber was sweeping up and ready to close his doors until I told him who I was. He gestured to his chair with a smile so forced I thought his face would break. It didn’t ease up when I told him what I wanted. My hair was well over my ears and shaggy. In five minutes, it was buzzed to a barely there flattop. I paid in cash and tipped well enough to have a new friend. He smiled warmly when I handed over the money. Before I went out the door, he said something to me in Spanish. I can get along with most exchanges but can’t say my vocabulary was as deep as it should have been. Most of my conversations were either threats or drug related.

  When I shook my head in incomprehension, the barber cupped his hands in front of him and then gestured for me to do the same. As I stood with my hands in front of me, he retrieved a bottle from the shelf behind his chair. He held it up to show off the fancy writing on the label. It looked like a bottle of Jack but smelled like wildflowers, sandalwood, and cedar. He poured a healthy puddle in my hands and then mimed putting it on his face.