The Deputy by Victor Gischler
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
Thanks big time to my whole family, especially my wife Jackie and son Emery who had to put up with a grumpy writer when things weren't going smoothly and a slightly silly writer when things were going well. First readers (and super cool pals) Anthony Neil Smith and Sean Doolittle will always get props. Video Golf on me next time, guys. Super-fly agent David Hale Smith derserves big thanks as does his right hand Shauyi. Hello to all my peeps back in Oklahoma. You didn't think I was done writing about Oklahoma, did you? And thank you, readers. And finally, I am grateful to Alison and Ben of Tyrus Books. You gave this novel a home. Much obliged.
CHAPTER ONE
I faked a cough, put my hand over my mouth to hide the grin. I knew it wasn’t funny really, but the surprised look on Luke Jordan’s dead face caught me just right. Luke was the first dead guy I’d ever seen up close except for in a funeral home.
Chief of Police Frank Krueger sighed out long and loud and scratched his big belly, pushed his straw hat back on his forehead, wiping the sweat off his face with a red handkerchief. He looked down at the body of Luke Jordan lying half-in half-out of the old pickup truck and began counting, stabbing his fat finger at the body. Finally he said, “I count nine bullet holes. That what you got?”
I didn’t bother counting. “Yeah.” I fingered the tin star pinned to my Weezer t-shirt, feeling stupid in untied high-top sneakers and sweatpants. When the chief phones you out of bed at midnight, you grab what you can and run out the door. I held the holstered revolver behind my back. I’d tried clipping the holster to the sweatpants, but the gun was too heavy, kept pulling the waistband down past my ass-crack.
So I didn’t count the bullet holes, but I looked hard at Luke Jordan, eyes wide and surprised as hell, blood all gunky and black and starting to dry on his plaid shirt. Luke was one of these good looking rednecks in a rough way, all faded jeans and t-shirts with the sleeves ripped off. Cowboy boots, some kind of fake lizard skin. Probably told everybody they were rattlesnake.
In high school civics class, Luke used to chew up notebook paper until it was nice and soggy then fling it at the back of my head. After graduation, Luke’s brothers had driven him down to Tulsa to see the Army recruiter. The Army had sent him back a month later. Luke said it was bad knees, but I’d heard somewhere they’d kicked him out for fighting and drunkenness. He’d been kicked out of gym class for pretty near the same thing.
Chief Krueger slapped a hammy hand on my back. “Stay here and watch the body, Toby. I’m going to talk to Wayne.”
“Okay, Chief.”
“Billy gets here you tell him he’s on my shit list,” Krueger said. “He only lives on over to Dixon. Should have been here ten minutes ago.”
“Check.”
The chief walked over to Wayne Dobbs who sat on the front steps of Skeeter’s, the local watering hole and burger joint. It had been Wayne who’d found Luke’s body, called the chief at home. You’re allowed to call the chief of Police at home if you’re on the town council, I guess. Wayne had been the late night cook and wash-up guy at Skeeter’s for as long as I could remember, even kicked me out of the place when I was sixteen and trying to get beer on a fake I.D. Now he was the owner. Wayne had American dreamed himself to the top of the food chain. Hell, it sure was a small damn town.
Wayne stood when the chief came over, wiped his hands on his apron then started pointing and talking, and I knew he was telling the same story over again about hearing the shots and finding Luke’s body.
The chief nodded, and they both walked into the bar.
I went to my rusted as shit Chevy Nova and opened the passenger door, leaned in and fished a pack of Winstons and a Bic lighter out of the glove compartment. I leaned against the hood and lit up, sucked the smoke in deep, then blew a long gray stream into the night.
The smoke clung, drifted, looking for a puff of wind to hitch a ride. But there was no breeze. Humid. It was hot, hot, hot fucking August in Oklahoma, and when the sun came up and cooked Luke Jordan’s body for a while it would get awful ripe real quick.
I looked up and down Main Street. The road glistened a dead black, the brick buildings closed up and sleeping. The chief said he chased a few folks back inside before I’d arrived. Guess they’d heard the shots. Only a few folks lived over their stores like in the old days. The barber shop, dime store, bank all looked like a deserted movie set. The light at the four-way stop blinked a hellish red. God cued a cat somewhere to meow and knock over a garbage can.
Headlights flashed at the other end of Main. They came close, and I saw it was the other squad car, Billy Banks behind the wheel. He pulled in next to me and climbed out. He wore ironed khaki pants and shirt, black tie. Shoes polished. His gun belt hanging at a jaunty, gunslinger angle. Billy was all close black haircut and brushed teeth and trimmed finger nails. I thought he was running for some office, although God knows what out here at the ass-end of Oklahoma. Dog Catcher maybe.
He nodded at me. “Toby.”
I grinned. “Chief says you’re late.”
Billy smiled back. “He in there talking to Wayne?”
“Yeah.”
Billy squatted next to Luke, wrinkled up his face like he’d eaten some bad egg salad. “Jesus, Luke pissed off somebody bad, huh? I bet he got drunk and his hands got busy after the wrong girl. Half these good old boys around here got pistols under their car seats.”
“Uh-huh.” I kept smoking. It was too hot to keep up my end of the conversation.
