“What was it you say these fellas were tryin’ ta sell you?” Trey blinked hard enough to get out.
Her hip cocked, which caused her bosom to sway delectably in the hand-stitched top, and she explained in that weird accent that all the Squatters seemed to have, “Ice! Can ya believe that? They asked me if I wanted to buy some
ice
! Sure, it’s hot ʹnʹ all, but we got a bunch a’ ice trays in our freezer just like dang near everyone, and even if we didn’t, I could walk right in the Qwik-Mart and buy me a bag. Dumbest thing I ever heard anyone tryin’ ta sell right out front of a convenience store. Who sells ice out of a truck, Mr. Chief? So’s that’s why I flagged ya down, just ‘cos that whole thing seemed really weird and so did them fellas. Thought the police’d wanna know.”
Sutter and Trey exchanged glances. At least now they had some police business, which was good, because if Sutter had to spend another minute looking at this girl’s outrageous body he might have a heart attack right there in the cruiser.
“That was right of you to flag us down, missy,” Sutter said, “because fellas like that are definitely not the type we want in Agan’s Point. You see which way they went?”
Now she stood on both feet, legs parted, and leaned back with hands on hips. More distraction: she was so
short
—all the Squatters were—and as she leaned back like that, she nearly appeared unreal, like something manufactured at a scaled-down size. When she pointed across the windshield, Sutter’s eyes bugged as one immaculate breast rose in the top, and in that little gap underneath he could see the bare bottom of it in all of its orbicular glory. “They ain’t went nowhere yet, Mr. Chief, ‘cos see? They’re still there. That’s them in that orange boxy-looking truck parked right out front of the Qwik-Mart, and that’s one of ‘em standin’ right there talkin’ on the pay phone.”
Trey’s expression revved up. “Well, ain’t that grand, yes, sir!”
“You got that right,” Sutter agreed, then back to the girl: “You’ve done a fine civic duty today, missy, and we appreciate it.”
She seemed delighted by Sutter’s response, and then her not-so-comely face lit up with a big smile—not that Sutter nor Trey, was focused on her face. “You have a fine day, Mr. Chief, and . . . and . . . and Mr. Chief’s partner.”
Sutter paused to himself.
Shit. I
gotta
know
. “By the way, missy, if you don’t mind my asking . . . how old are you?”
Her eyes beamed. “Why, it’s funny you should ask, but I just turnt fifteen yesterday!”
Trey spit out a mouthful of coffee while Sutter thought in a long, low groan:
Oh, my great God in . heaven. . . .
The girl waved giddily as the cruiser backed up and began to turn. “Jiminy Christmas,” Sutter muttered like a man with a bad bellyache. “That dizzy brick shit-house was almost the death of me just lookin at her.”
“Damn near busted my pants, Chief. And did‘ja see how
little
she was? Bet she wasn’t five feet. And who cares about the butt-ugly face? Them Squatter chicks got bods on ’em that make me wanna howl at the fuckin‘ moon.” Trey may have momentarily rubbed his crotch when Sutter wasn’t looking. “I got myself a leapin’ lizard down here.”
“Tell me about it.”
His slapped his thigh. “And she’s only
fifteen!”
“Tell me about it,” Sutter repeated, pulling around.
Trey was shaking his head. “But just as they got bodies from hell they ain’t got but shit fer brains.” He let out a hick laugh. “She thinks those guys are selling ice cubes! How’s that for a dumb shit?”
“Aw, give her a break. She’s had a shit life, no proper schooling, and works her ass off at the crab plant.”
Trey belted out another laugh. “Shit, Chief, with that bod, she can work
my
ass off anytime she likes!”
Sutter shot him a reproving glare.
“Er, I mean, once she turns eighteen,” Trey added in haste.
“That’s what I thought you meant. Christ, ten minutes ago you were runnin’ your mouth all about how God helps us out if we obey His laws.” Sutter chuckled. “You sure lost your religion quick enough, lustin’ after that Squatter.”
Trey roused to object. “I was just speakin’ figurative, Chief,” he said, pronouncing the word as
figgur-tive
, “as men will do when they’re amongst themselves, but in my heart—and I say this ’cos I know it’s in your heart too—men married in the eyes of the Lord wouldn’t even
think
of havin’ any carnal knowledge with no gal other than his lawful wife, no matter what age she is. I asked Father Darren ’bout it once.”
“About what?”
“About lust in the heart, and he said that since all men was born in original sin, we’re all guilty of lust—can’t help but be—‘cos it’s all in our genes. So it’s okay to eyeball a hot gal now and again, ’cos it’s a manner of appreciatin’ the beauty God gave to women.”
Sutter’s eyes narrowed. “Father Darren said it’s
okay
to eyeball other women?”
Trey raised a finger to finish his point. “As long as you know in your heart that ya wouldn’t really have sex with her once it got down to brass tacks. I know you’d never cheat on yer fine wife, June, and I sure as shit’d never cheat on Marcy. Don’t matter that they both gone to fat and got tits hangin’ down to their thighs. That’s ’cos God blesses us in our love.”
Sutter sighed.
“Anyway, Chief, that’s what Father Darren means in a nutshell. It’s okay by Him that you look at other chicks every once in a while as long as ya’d never really hobnob with ‘em.”
Well
,
that’s sure good to hear, ‘cos
I still got half a hard-on in my pants from lookin’at that little thing
, Sutter thought sourly.
Trey grinned. “And look at it this way, Chief. That little piece a’ eye candy got your mind off your money problems, huh?”
The recollection of those breasts, those curves, and those legs waylaid him. “It got my mind off ‘em, but I still
got
’em, Trey.”
“Patience is a virtue, Chief. Says so in the Bible. God smiles upon a patient man. . . .”
Sutter shook off the after-imagery as he pulled into the convenience store, where a gleaming, brand-new Humvee occupied one of the parking spots, tangerine orange and ten coats of lacquer. A shifty-looking black guy in his mid-twenties, in baggy pants and gold chains, had just hung up the pay phone and was coming back to the car, giving them the eye.
“Fucker’s got more gold chains than Mr. T.,” Trey observed with a smirk. “And look at the watch on the son of a bitch. Looks like a Rolex.”
“We know where he gets that kind of money,” Sutter remarked. His own watch cost $7.95 at the drugstore. “And look at those rings on him, too. Fucker’s all decked out like a Harlem pimp.”
In the Hummer’s driver’s seat sat a long-haired white kid with scruff on his chin, and similar gold chains and watch.
“We know what these scumbags are all about, so keep on your toes,” Sutter said. “I’ll take the rapper and you take the white guy.”
“Gotcha, Chief. Thumb snap’s off.” He grinned at his boss and released the snap on his holster. “We ain’t had a tussle in a spell. I’m ready.”
“You keep your dander down unless ya need it.” Sutter hit his own thumb snap; then he added, “And it can’t hurt for us to mitt up.”
“Roger that,” Trey assented. They each slipped on their pair of Bianchi elastic-stretch sand mitts with nude trigger fingers and heavy-duty leather sand pouches reinforcing the knuckles and palms. Ideal for punching through doors or busting a scumbag’s face without consequently busting one’s own knuckles.
Sutter moved his own considerable bulk out of the car. He blocked off the black guy before he could get back to the Hummer, while Trey leaned against the driver’s door, arms crossed.
“Is there a problem, Officer?” the black guy asked a bit haughtily. His T-shirt read, RAPPINʹ AND CAPPINʹ, and he had a tattoo of an AK-47 inked over one apple-sized bicep.
“Oh, there’s a problem,” Sutter confirmed. “Turn around, hands flat out on the roof, and spread ’em. No sudden movements. Don’t fuck with me.”
“The fuck?” the white guy complained.
“Pipe down, Kid Rock,” Trey said, “or
I’ll
pipe ya down.”
The black guy glared. “I haven’t done anything wrong! You’re just shaking me down ‘cos I’m black!”
“Don’t give me that racist jive,” Sutter said back. “I don’t give a shit what color a man’s face is. The only kind of black man I call a nigger is a black man trying to sell crystal meth to kids.”
That was all the black guy needed to hear—“crystal meth”—before he realized he could either run his ass off or do three-to-five for possession and distro of Class II narcotics with another five tacked on for attempted distro to a minor. He chose to run his ass off.
Shit!
He bolted off the car. Sutter, since he was not exactly dextrous nor physically fit, being obese and close to sixty, managed to get a handful of T-shirt, which sufficed only to slow the guy down around the comer of the car, whereupon the T-shirt tore away.
As for Trey, he didn’t appear to even break a single bead of sweat when in some impressive synchrony he—
Whap!
—landed a solid fist right smack-dab into Kid Rock’s forehead, then—
“Holy Jesus, man, that hurts like a motherfucking motherfucker!”
—emptied half a can of GOEC-brand chemical spray into his eyes and bleeding, split-open face.
“Got ya covered, Chief,” Trey said next, sidestepping forward. He moved fast enough to cut off the black guy before he could get clear. Then—
Thud.
—palm-heeled him once in the solar plexus.
Which sufficed to circumvent the attempt to flee.
“Getcha a case of beer for that one, Trey,” Sutter said approvingly, then lumbered over. “You simmer down the long-hair while I read this suspect his rights.” The black guy was sprawled out belly-down on the pavement, bug-eyed, barely able to move. He was sucking wind. Sutter promptly stepped on the back of his head, treating his face to a little dermabrasion the hard way. The guy flip-flopped on the pavement, shrieking like a little girl who’d just been scared out of a carny house of horrors.
Kid Rock had managed to stop screaming long enough to make the very unwise decision to attempt to drive off. Hair hanging in blood-drenched strings, he jerked his hand forward, touched the keys in the ignition, was about to start the car, when—
“Holy Jesus, mother of God, you gotta be fuckin’ shitting me!”
—Trey emptied the rest of the GOEC into his eyes.
Sutter dragged a dozenish bags of crystal methamphetamine, aka “ice,” out of the black guy’s pockets, not to mention a pipe, and—of all things—a 1964 Topps Mickey Mantle baseball card. Sutter pocketed the card, then allowed the point of his steel-toed black oxford to come into direct proximity with the area of space that was occupied by the black guy’s scrotum. That took the rest of the zing out of him.
Finally got me another Mantle card for my collection . . .
The cowbell on the door clanged. Pappy Halm, a well-known Agan’s Point local and the store’s proprietor, hobbled out front, aghast. He clacked toward the scene on his cane and objected in his typical loud rail, “What the hell ya doin’ Chief? I seen ya in the winder! All that fella done is make a blamed phone call! What right ya got to beat him down like that?”
Sutter showed him a handful of ice. “This walkin’ piece a’ shit here and his hippie buddy are selling these hard drugs to kids. Just tried to sell some to a fifteen-year-old not five minutes ago.”
“Oh, yeah?” Halm replied, then cracked the end of his cane hard up into the black guy’s crotch. Now the guy was gasping, screaming, and blubbering all at the same time.
“Want me to cuff Kid Rock, Chief?” Trey asked.
“Naw.” Sutter dragged the black guy up. “If we write this one up and take ‘em to county detent, I’ll miss dinner. And you know how fierce the wife bitches at me when I miss dinner. Fuckers’d be out on bail in the time it takes me to fart.”
“Roger that.”
“But we better look the vehicle over. Check that guy’s pockets and under the seat.” Sutter opened the Humvee’s back door for a quick search.
Jesus
. . . He found a tackle box full of more ice. “Bet there’s a thousand bucks’ worth of dope in here,” he said.
Trey peeked between the front seats. “More’n that, by the looks of it. Just think of all the kids they’d be selling it to. And look at what the hippie was carryin’.” He held up a small pistol.
“Jesus. These guys.”
Sutter shoved the dizzy black guy back into the front seat, but before he closed the door—
Crack!
—he raised his fiberglass nightstick high over his head and whacked it down across the guy’s thigh. The thighbone snapped like a stout bough.