The Deputy

The two red shirts closed in on either side. I felt the stars go off hot behind my eyes as a fist slammed into my face.

Some additional personal history: I always took more than I dished out.

They grabbed at me fast, trying to wrestle me down. I kicked out, connected my heel with something and heard a grunt. More fists in my gut and a blow to the back of my head, and I oozed down to the asphalt.

I lay there a second with the vague sense of them standing over me. Pressure on my chest. My eyes focused and I saw it was a boot, the bald one keeping me down with a foot on the chest. The other two went through my pockets.

I found my voice and managed, “What the hell, man?”

“Quiate tu boca.”

Right.

One of the red shirts yanked a set of keys out of my pocket, held them up and jingled them. “Aqui.”

They chattered at each other some more, and I got the idea they were talking about what to do with me. I thought about shoving the guy’s boot off my chest and making a run for it, but I still had cartoon tweety-birds circling my head, and I was hoping I could think of some better plan that didn’t involve me running and having three Mexicans jump on my back.

I got lucky. Headlights sparked into view at the end of Main, coming right toward our little scene in the street. The Mexicans jabbered at each other again, and one of the red shirts gave me a goodbye kick in the ribs before they all jumped back in their muscle car. They squealed the tires as they tore away from the curb. I flinched away as a tire came within three inches of my head.

I sat up, watched the taillights vanish the other direction out of town. I wasn’t exactly sure what had happened. The other car came up behind me, and I twisted to look, muscles sore, a vague pain through my whole body.

The kid stuck his head out of the window of the Trans Am. “You okay, man?”

I stood slowly, a miserable groan leaking out of me. “I told you to go home.” His mouthy pal wasn’t in the passenger seat anymore.

“Who was that just drove off?” he asked.

“Bad guys.”

“You going to chase them?”

“Can’t. They got my keys.” I patted my pockets, was surprised to feel a lump and pulled out my set of keys. “Wait.” I looked at them. Yep. They were mine. I snapped my fingers. The Mexicans had grabbed Roy’s keys. Ha. Take that, fucking beaners.

“I’m serious this time,” I told the Trans Am kid. “Get home.”

He shrugged and drove away.

I thought about going after the Mexicans, but it was still three against one, and I hated to admit it, but that Mustang could blow the doors off my Nova. What the hell did they want with me keys? Had they come all the way to Coyote Crossing to steal my Nova? That would make them the world’s worst car thieves.

I went inside the station and cranked the radio. I tried to raise the chief, and when that failed I tried Billy or anyone at all. This was bullshit. Somebody was always supposed to be on duty, either here or listening on the scanner at home. I flipped over to a couple of other channels we used and tried calling all the same people. Nothing. Where the hell was everybody?

I suddenly wanted to feel the weight of my revolver on my belt real bad. I went out to the Nova and fetched my gun, paused when I heard an engine. Maybe a street over. Maybe two streets. Sounded like a big V-8. I got back inside and sat at the desk, swung out the revolver’s cylinder. Just as I thought, no bullets.

I opened the top drawer. Fished around for a box of .38 caliber.

I pushed back from the desk when I heard the big engine again, closer this time. I didn’t doubt it was the Mustang. I went to the window, peeked through the blinds but couldn’t see anything. I went through the back room and opened the door to the alley, stood there a moment listening. Quiet.

The alley stank like trash. It was still so damn hot. I stepped out, looked up and down, trying to catch any little hint of movement in the shadows. I didn’t hear or see anything, but then a light in the firehouse window caught my eye. Wasn’t supposed to be anyone in there, although the town council certainly wouldn’t feel the need to inform me if they were doing some work on the place. What kind of work at this time of night, I couldn’t guess.

I should probably take a look. I was wearing a badge after all, and they hadn’t fired me yet.

I went back inside and grabbed the revolver off the desk, clipped it to my belt. Okay, let’s see what’s in the firehouse. I headed down the alley, my hand resting on the revolver. My own breathing sounded a little too loud in my ears.

Simmer down, dumbass.

I listened at the backdoor of the fire station. All I heard was dead wood. I tried the knob. Unlocked. I swung it in, waiting for the hinges to creak, but they didn’t. I entered a kitchen, florescent lights buzzing overhead. I expected the place to smell musty and unused, but it didn’t.

I paused, surveyed the kitchen counter. Unopened cans of beans. A big stack of paper plates. Jugs of supermarket water. Had the state passed the new budget? Maybe the firefighters were moving back in. I wondered if that meant there wouldn’t be enough in the budget to put me on full time. Like it mattered anyway. I was sure Krueger would take my star away in the morning.

I walked through the kitchen, down a short hall and found another door which lead into the garage. I cracked the door and looked inside. The lights were on, and a truck was parked there. A big moving van. The words Budget Movers still showed through where they had been painted over. Somebody had taped over the little windows of the garage door to keep the light from showing on the street.

I heard movement and held my breath. Voices.

The door crack didn’t let me see too much, but I was-n’t ready to barge in yet. I shifted around, strained to see and hear. A couple of guys standing in back of the truck, mostly out of sight. The elbow and leg of one just in view. A black shirt and jeans. I closed my eyes, put my ear to the door crack.

The first voice was probably in English but with such a thick Spanish accent, I couldn’t follow what he was saying. The other voice was clearer and in English. I held my breath, strained to listen.

Billy.

It was Billy’s voice, and I could almost hear what he was saying. The two seemed to be arguing, but it wasn’t too heated. Nothing too passionate, just a disagreement about something or other. But since I just had my ass stomped by some Mexicans, you can bet your sweet ass I was curious what Deputy Billy was doing in a supposedly closed up firehouse, talking to a Mexican, hell, maybe even the guys who’d kicked me in the ribs.

So yeah, I was going top find out more.

I opened the door just enough to scoot through then shut it back. I crouch-walked to the front of the truck, put a hand on the hood. Cold. It had been parked here a little while, or anyway, it hadn’t just arrived. I eased my way down the other side where there was a narrow aisle between the truck and a bunch of oil cans and tools and other stuff that had collected up against the wall. I went on my belly by the rear tire, lay there flat and stone still, trying to control my breathing.

“I told you these ain’t even the right ones.” Billy’s voice. Exasperated. The jangle sound of keys. “I tried every one of them three times.”

“You said get the keys from him and I did,” insisted the heavily accented Mexican.

“Hell, you probably got the keys to that piece of shit Nova.”

Now that was just fucking uncalled for.

The Mexican muttered something I didn’t catch. They talked so damn fast.

“You better watch your Goddamn mouth,” Billy said. “This isn’t my fault, remember? You people are the ones fucked this up. Where the hell is Juanita, anyway?”

The Mexican said something again, talking too low to catch.

“Good then,” Billy said. “Keep her out of the way and go find the boy again and get the right keys this time.”

Mumbling.