It was bright now, June, and flecks of pollen hung in the air. Spring was a memory; full Oklahoma summer bore down, its weight crushing all movement from the air. He took an un air-conditioned breath, and it felt like sucking down steam. Then he turned the engine, backed out, and with a nod, passed the day-shift bodyguards.
He drove to the City Hall Annex. C.D. was not there to be found, but instead there was a younger OSBI detective, and some boys holding court in the task-force big room.
The boys wanted to meet Bud: two Texas Rangers still hoping to get a try at Lamar, two undercover state policemen from the headquarters unit, and two or three OSBI investigators, the names and hands all thrown at Bud in a hurry.
“Hell of a job you did there, Pewtie. Goddamn, that's the kind of shooting this here country needs more of by a damn sight'—that was the gist of the comments, offered in several variants.
“Well,” said Bud modestly, 'I was damned lucky.”
The social palaver done, Bud went into the office where once C.D. had drunkenly held court, and the new boss opened a drawer and pulled his guns out one after another.
“One Colt Commander, .45 ACP, serial number FC34509, one Beretta 92F 9-mm, serial number D12097Z, and one Beretta 84 .380, serial number E259751Y. There, Sergeant Pewtie, just sign and they're yours. Got your Beretta shoulder holster and the Colt Gaico, but I don't know what happened to the .380 holster. How the hell you carry that?”
“In my belly. Behind my belt buckle. No holster at all.
Hurt like hell, but I was damn glad it was there when I needed it.”
He looked at them: his three guns, all functional black combat pistols, without a grace note or a gleam to them.
Just tools. A wave of sweetness came over him, so powerful it almost made him want to faint. No man whose life hasn't been saved by a gun can begin to imagine what a man whose life has feels when he confronts the instruments of his survival.
Bud headed out, but then he stopped, feeling he had a thing or two still to do.
“Where would I find CD.?”
“Well, Sarge, he's got a place way south of town, out Thirty-eighth Street, south of Macmahon Park.” He gave an address.
“I ought to drop on by,” Bud said, learning that he felt it exactly as it popped out.
“The old boy'd probably appreciate that, assuming you get him early enough, before he's given himself up to the bottle.”
Bud looked at his watch. Did he have time for this? Why was he doing it? If he got in and got out quick, it shouldn't matter. But time, as always, was the problem. It might help him cover; he went to see the lieutenant, they got to talking, the hours passed, that's why he was late.
It was a dingy little suburban tract house in an unappealing development, smaller even than Holly's place, way south of the airport, and now and then a big jet would roar overhead, its landing gear threatening to knock down aerials and chimneys. There were no trees in the neighborhood.
He waited just a second to determine if he really wanted to do this or not. It had the sense of a fool's errand. But there was something in the way it was shaking out he didn't like—that he, Bud Pewtie, had 'found” Lamar, where the old man had not. It wasn't really a fair interpretation. He finally went up and knocked on the door.
The woman who answered was another bitter prune, without a lick of softness anywhere to her drawn features or her immense fatigue.
“I'm Pewtie,” Bud said.
“Is C.D. available?”
She just fixed him with a wordless glare, and then finally said, 'You the lawyer about the settlement?”
“No ma'am. I'm a highway patrol officer that worked his last case.”
“That damn Johnny Lawyer said he'd be here yesterday.
We need the money. Damn fool C.D. lost all his two years back on a goddamn re-sort investment down at Lake Texoma.”
“Sorry to hear that,” Bud said.
“Well, you go on back then. But he's in a black mood, as usual.”
“Has he been—”
“Of course. You can't take that man's bottle from him, but he don't get bad until around four.”
Bud walked back into a dark little room and found C.D.
sitting under a pyramid of cigarette smoke, his bourbon bottle, and a paper cup before him. He was watching a soap opera through squinty eyes, his face all knit up, a cigarette dangling from his lips. On a shelf to the left stood a brass army of pistol marksmanship awards.
“Howdy, there,” said Bud.
“Bud, goddamn,” the old man leaped up, 'nice of you to drop by.”
“Well, damn, just wanted to know how you's doing?”
“Oh, it's okay. Gits a little draggy toward the end of day, that's all.”
“You need anything?”
“No sir, not a thing. I ain't quite as drunk as I was last time I saw you. Need a drink yourself, son?”
“No, lieutenant. I just wanted to drop by to say so long.”
“Well, you're the only one of ’em man enough to do that. Close to fifty years, and nobody even come by. How 'bout a sandwich? Bud, you want a sandwich? Honey! Can you git Bud a sandwich?”
“No, it's all right. Lieutenant, I already ate.”
“Sure, Bud. Say, that was good work on O’Dell. Pity you couldn't have gotten Lamar, too.”
“I was one bullet shy, goddamn his luck.”
“Now, Bud,” Henderson said, 'I'll be the only one of ’em who tells you the flat-out truth. You shouldn't have fired so much without aiming.
Been in seven gunfights, won ’em all, only twice was I even hit. You got to aim, Bud. You can't spray and pray. That's what old Jelly Bryce taught me and no man was better with a gun than he was.”
“You're right. Lieutenant, I just couldn't think fast enough.”
“Another thing Jelly Bryce taught me, a man comes at you again, soaking up lead like that, you got to stay cool and break his pelvis with a big bore bullet. Break his pelvis, down he goes. Hit him three inches inside the hip. Puts him down every damn time. Under them circumstances, even a head shot is ifiy; hell, you can blow out the top half of a man's brain and his heart, and he can still go for fifteen seconds on instinct.”
“I'll remember that.”
He took a drink from his glass. The soap opera whined onward. Bud could smell the liquor and the smoke. All of a sudden, he just wanted to get the hell out.
“Listen, Lieutenant, I do have to poke along. I just wanted to say I's sorry how it ended for you and I didn't want no hard feelings. Some are saying I found Lamar and you didn't, but we both know that's not how it was.”
“No, Bud, that is how it was. You did find Lamar and I did not. Bud, you going to bring those boys over? I'd surely like to meet those boys of yours. They sound like a damned fine set of boys.”
“Sure, Lieutenant.”
“Let's set a date. Bud. I'll get my calendar out. Maybe we could take ’em fishing. Let's pick a weekend in July, we could go on up to the Wichitas, or no, no, out to Lake Texoma. Used to own a nice piece of land there. I know where the damn fish are hiding, that I can tell you!”
“Lieutenant,” Bud said, 'I'll have to check with them.
Jeff's got Legion Ball and I don't know when exactly Russ has to go East. I'll have to call you back on that.”
“Sure, Bud. Now, you positive you don't want no drink?”
“Lieutenant, I have to go.”
“Okay, Bud.”
“Anyways, I'm sorry—”
“Well, I's sorry too, Bud. I wanted that Lamar and by God if I'd gotten another break or so, you can bet I'd
