Chapter 11
I SAT IN Dean Walker's cool office with him and Lou Buckman.
'Well,' Walker said, 'we've given them enough time. I guess they're not going to pursue assault charges.'
I said, 'Whew!'
'So I guess I can't hold you.'
'I don't know why you arrested him anyway,' Lou said.
'He was just trying to protect me.'
Walker nodded.
'That's sort of my job,' he said.
'Well isn't it your job to arrest that Preacher?'
'For what?'
'For having Steve killed.'
'I got no evidence, Lou.'
'Because you're afraid to look for it.'
'Or because there isn't any.'
'You didn't seem so worried about that when you arrested a man who wasn't doing anything wrong.'
'Lou,' I said. 'He arrested me to keep me from getting shot by The Preacher's driver.'
She sat for a moment without doing anything. Then she opened her mouth and closed it again without saying anything.
'That's Spenser's theory,' Walker said.
Lou stood up suddenly and stalked from the office. Walker watched her go. She would have slammed the door except that it was on a pneumatic closer and she couldn't. When she was gone and the door had closed, Walker and I looked at each other. Neither of us spoke for a time.
Then Walker said, 'You're free to go.'
So I went.
I pushed through the heat, back up Main Street, toward my hotel.
Chapter 12
THE DAY AFTER I had my first fight with the Dell, I came into the lobby of The Jack Rabbit Inn, and J. George Taylor was standing near the front desk, talking with the bell captain. J. George was one of those guys that would bend whatever ear was closest. J. George spotted me as soon as I entered. I wondered if he was going to challenge me to a duel.
'Spenser. Can I buy you a drink?'
Apparently not.
'Sure,' I said.
He clapped the bell captain on the shoulder and led me into the bar. The bartender nodded at me without expression as we went by. In a booth on the back wall of the bar was a round table. Three men were sitting with drinks and a basket of tortilla chips. J. George introduced me as though I were meeting the leaders of the free world.
'This is Roscoe Land, our esteemed mayor. This is Luther Barnes, who serves as city attorney, and this is Henry Brown, who ramrods The Foot Hills Bank and Trust.'
I shook hands all around and sat. The cocktail waitress appeared. She was dressed like Dale Evans.
'What are you drinking?' the mayor said to me.
He was a tall, flabby guy with rimless glasses and a gray crew cut that wasn't cut short enough.
'Beer,' I said.
'Beer, Margie, and,' he made a circular gesture at the table, 'and hit the rest of us one more time.'
Margie cantered away.
'I gotta tell you,' the mayor said. 'We liked what you did out there.'
'We having a victory celebration?' I said.
'Well,' the mayor laughed, though not like he meant it. 'You might say so. You are one tough cookie.'
'That would be me,' I said.
Margie came back with drinks and set them out. While she was at the table nobody spoke. When she left the mayor looked after her.
He said, 'That little girl's got a hell of a butt, doesn't she?'
I heard Luther Barnes inhale as though his patience was being tried. He was a young-looking guy with gray hair, and thick eyebrows. His face was one of those pale English-ancestry faces that would never tan. The closest he had gotten was a mild sunburn.
'Could we get to it, Roscoe,' he said.
