I didn’t care, but Earnest wouldn’t drink it. He fired up the truck and we headed off to find some ice.
We pulled up at a crossroads general-store gas station on the edge of town. A half-dozen customers’ cars were parked in the lot, and along the side a dozen beaters were lined up with their prices and virtues posted on signs behind the windshields: Loaded! 150K. $2,995. Earnest went inside, then came out and took a big bag of ice from the quilted silver cooler.
When he got back to the truck, I asked him why he hadn’t just bought a cold drink.
He shrugged as if it had never occurred to him. He ripped the plastic with a thick finger and took out a cube. He intended to put it into his canteen, but it wouldn’t fit—just sat there obdurate on the round aluminum opening. He looked irritated for a moment and then did one of the most amazing things I’d ever seen anyone do.
The ice cube was balanced on the mouth of the canteen. Earnest held the canteen with his left hand and then, with his right index finger, drove the cube into the hole with one sudden, precise stab. The cube disappeared and ice chips showered the cab. He did it six or eight times, then sloshed the water around. My lap was covered in a light snow.
He took a trial sip and nodded. “Better,” he said.
He didn’t seem to think he’d done anything out of the ordinary, but I was speechless. I had just witnessed an astonishing act of strength and skill, each blow so savagely hard yet so well aimed that his finger went knuckle-deep into the hole after the cube. One rigid finger, held at right angles to his fist, stiff as a railroad spike.
We went on eating. After a while, I asked, “So what did you do in the army?”
“MP. That’s Military Police, basically where you have to break up bar fights among the enlisted men.”
“I take it you got some martial arts training.”
He had a huge mouthful. When he’d swallowed, he said, “Some.”
I didn’t probe further. When we finished, we balled up our wrappers and threw them into the trash can. Then we were on our way back to work.
We had barely swung out of the parking lot when Earnest stiffened, swore, and shifted gears quickly. He was staring at his side mirror.
I looked in the mirror on my side but didn’t see anything alarming.
“Fuck!” he snarled. He pounded the steering wheel. “Fuck!”
“What?” I craned around to look again. This time, I saw a police cruiser making a three-point turn in the parking lot. We were about half a block away now, and Earnest was flooring it, the old truck roaring and rattling. “What, the cop?”
He didn’t answer.
A UPS truck cut off our view of the parking lot, and the moment it did, Earnest yanked the wheel and we took a hard right onto a side road. “There, dickhead,” he growled at the police car. He smiled evilly because the truck and the line of cars following it had trapped the cop in the lot. “But he’s on the radio right now, you can bet on it.”
I got scared then. I had no idea what this was about, and I had no desire to get in trouble with the law through some guilt by association, aiding and abetting, accessory to a crime, or something. I craned around but didn’t see any sign of the cruiser.
Earnest swung a hard left at the next intersection, then barreled down a dirt road that dipped into a steep valley where the forest came up around us. We crossed a narrow bridge, came up the other side, rumbled along for a mile, ripped through a four-way stop without slowing, then turned past an abandoned barn and slowed to cruise past farms and auto junkyards. Earnest calmed. A final big puff bulged his cheeks, and then he chuckled.
“Okay,” he said as if I’d pressured him for information. “No big thing. Deputy sheriff. Name’s Dick Wilson—Puddin Head. Dick Head. Classic honky small-town sheriff. Got a bug up his butt about me.”
“Why?”
“Five, six years ago, we had a disagreement. He’s this great big guy, foot taller than me, ex-marine. I guess he thought he was tough. This was at a bar.”
I could see where this was going. The thought of anyone fighting with Earnest—one finger under the rib cage would surely kill a man.
“What’d he do?”
“He made disparaging remarks and I reciprocated. He’s well known for his attitude around here. Plays he’s big stuff, gives everybody a hard time. He wanted to get physical with me.”
“So …?”
Earnest grinned.
“Didn’t go his way, I take it,” I said.
“Well. Everybody at the bar had a good laugh. Hurt his reputation. So whenever I’m up this way he magically appears, to pull me over and ticket me for whatever—speeding, inspection out of date, taillight not working. It’s like he’s got a sixth sense, knows when I’m within ten miles of him. Third time, I made a mildly unflattering comment and he told me he was going to kick my ass. That a bunch of other cops around here would help him. He wasn’t kidding. About six months ago, he pulls up behind me in the mall parking lot over on Suzy Wilson Drive. I can’t back out. Two other sheriff’s cruisers pull up, five guys in all. Dick introduces me to them and they give me the evil eye, just letting me know how it is. So now I try to stay out of their sight. They’ll get me legally—you can always find something wrong on an old truck like this. I can’t afford any more fines. Or they’ll gangbang me. That’s what Dick really wants, hands-on gratification. That’s a no-win for me because if I let them kick my ass, it hurts, and if I fight back, I go to the big house for assaulting an officer, breaking half a dozen necks.”
“Wow,” was all
