cab of the truck so low and small it could have gone under the truck instead of next to it.
“Maybe I’ll buy me one of them,” said Chambers.
Parker leaned forward a little bit and looked at the rear-view mirror outside the right window. A way back, he could see headlights. “If that’s Littlefield,” he said, “I’ll crack his skull.”
“Don’t worry ‘bout Littlefield. He knows what he’s doing.”
By the time they made the turnoff on to 22A, the headlights had dropped farther back. They rolled along, right on the speed limit, and after they passed the trooper barracks a squat brick building with yellow lights behind the windows, off to their left, surrounded by flat emptiness Parker said, “Slow down a little now. Give Littlefield a chance to catch up.” The headlights of the station wagon were much farther back now, almost invisible.
Ahead of them, on the right, was a sign. They came closer, and the truck lights illuminated it:
WELCOME
to
COPPER CANYON
“Son of a gun,” said Chambers. “Son of a gun.”
PART THREE
1
Officers Felder and Mason were on night-duty in Copper Canyon’s only prowl car. They rode along in companionable silence, looking for but not expecting to see violators of the city curfew. It was just a few minutes after midnight, and here and there lights were still on behind windows, but the sidewalks were empty. The radio hissed like coffee brewing; at the other end, Officer Nieman had nothing to say.
The prowl car was a Ford, two years old, painted light green and white, with Policewritten in large letters on the doors and hood and trunk. The dashboard lights were green, and there was a small red dot of light, like a ruby, on the radio. Officer Mason wanted a cigarette but couldn’t have one, because Officer Felder, who was driving, was allergic to cigarette smoke. Officer Mason said, “What say we take a break? I could use a smoke.”
“Let me swing down around by the west gate. George is on there tonight.”
“Fine by me.”
They were on Blake Street, east of Raymond Avenue. Officer Felder drove over to Raymond Avenue and turned right, and the west gate to the refinery was six blocks dead ahead.
A few cars were parked along Raymond Avenue, as usual. Between Loomis and Orange Streets,” against the right-hand curb, there was a huge tractor trailer parked. It was brown, all over brown. Officer Mason looked at it and thought to himself, Funny color for a truck.
He reached into his pocket and pulled out a pack of cigarettes. He got one out, then got his lighter out. He was ready.
They were almost to the gate when the hissing radio suddenly spoke. “Officer Felder, Officer Mason. Officer Felder, Officer Mason.”
Officer Mason looked at it in surprise. What the hell kind of way to talk was that? They were on first-name basis, always. What the hell was this all about?
He grinned and said to Officer Felder, “Old Fred’s gettin’ highfalutin.”
“He’s just kidding around.”
Officer Mason picked up the microphone and said, “Yes, sir, Officer Nieman, what can I do for you, sir?”
“Come on in to the station. Something’s come up.”
“What’s come up?”
“Just get in here. Make it fast.”
There was something funny in Officer Nieman’s voice, some sort of agitation. Officer Mason said, “Okay, Fred, here we come.” He hung up the microphone again and said to Officer Felder, “Something’s sure got him upset. You hear his voice?”
“I heard it.” Officer Felder had already made the turn into Caulkins Street, and was driving toward police headquarters.
“That’s a funny thing,” said Officer Mason.
“What is?”
“Kidding around one minute, then all upset the next.”
“Maybe he wasn’t kidding around. Maybe he got all formal and everything because he was upset already. Got rattled or something.”
“Well, let’s see what it is.”
The police station was a modern building. It, and the fire department building across the street, had both been built five years ago, both with the same architect. They were built of tan brick, broad low buildings one storey high, very similar in appearance except for the wide garage-type doors across half of the fire department building facade. Flanking the police station entrance were large modernistic faceted green lights, and across the street the fire department entrance was flanked by similar lights in red.
Officer Felder pulled to the curb in front of the building, in the No Parking zone, one of the few in town. They both got out of the car and went up the cement walk past the well-tended lawn into the building. They entered upon a hallway, and the Command Room as the architect had called it where Fred Nieman would be, was to the left. It was a large room, with desks along one wall, and a counter in front of the area where the radio and booking desk were located.
