“What happened?” Mullins chuckled in despair. “The fuckers quit, that’s what happened. They turned in their notice and walked, got better paying jobs with other departments. North’s driving a sector beat in Fairfax, and Adams got snagged by Montgomery County.”
“They were good men, Chief. You should’ve given them more money.”
“Yeah, and the mayor should be fucking Santa Claus. There was nothin’ I could do. I can’t offer the money and bennies of a county department. All I could do was watch and wave bye-bye.”
Hmmm, Phil thought. North and Adams left for better departments. But I wonder what happened to—
“What about Vicki?” Phil asked.
“I figured that’d be your next question. Well, she left too, years ago. You’d be more informed about things if you’d keep in touch.”
“Hey, I sent you a Christmas card, didn’t I?”
“Yeah, back when Reagan was in office.” Mullins scratched his chin. “Or was it Carter?”
“Funny, Chief. I’m laughing hard, see? Now what were you saying about Vicki?”
“I wasn’t saying nothin’. You were asking… Still got a torch burning for the old sweetheart, huh? Still got the hots for that red-haired little cutie-pie…”
Phil frowned, but he couldn’t help but think back. He and Vicki Steele had dated from high school through college—his first love…well, his only love in reality. Guess I didn’t love her enough, though, he considered now. When they’d gotten their degrees, they’d had the most awful fights. Phil had been hired at once by Metro. She didn’t want to leave. He did.
He left. She didn’t.
End of story.
“But,” Mullins rambled on, “there’s one thing I never understood. How come you dumped her?”
Phil frowned again. He had a feeling he’d be frowning a lot if he did indeed take this job. “I didn’t dump her. Things didn’t work out so we broke up, and are you going to tell me what happened to her, or are you gonna jerk my chain for the rest of the afternoon?”
“She quit, just like the others. Walked right out on me.”
“What department picked her up?”
“I never said she quit to go to another department,” Mullins took the opportunity to cryptify. “She’s still around, though. I’m sure you’ll run into her sooner or later, so put it back in your pants and let’s get down to brass tacks. It just so happens that those turncoats North and Adams boogied on me right in the middle of a crisis…”
But Phil’s attention phased out; he was still musing upon Vicki. Christ… Where was she working now? Where did she live? Did she still look the same? And when—
When was the last time she thought about me? he dared to wonder. Grow up! he ordered himself. She probably doesn’t even remember who you are anymore, you smug, pompous ass…
“What’s that you were saying?” he finally got back to reality. “A crisis?”
“That’s right, I got big problems here all of a sudden, and if I don’t fix it, the town council might give me the boot.”
Phil couldn’t imagine any kind of genuine “crisis” out here, much less one severe enough to depose Mullins’ seemingly endless reign. The guy had been chief here longer than Caesar had ruled Rome. “What,” Phil jested, “You got stoners ripping off parking meters from the town square?”
Mullins didn’t laugh, or even smile. It was hard times when this man got serious. “No, smart boy. You remember Cody Natter, the Creeker?”
“I remember Cody Natter, vaguely.” Rumor had it that Natter was sort of the governor of the Creekers, the tribemaster.
“Well, the ugly fuck and his Creeker cronies are givin’ me problems like to make me shit my pants.”
Phil, if only indistinctly, remembered the tall, gangly, and incredibly ugly Cody Natter. Yeah, ugly as all hell but smart as a whip. The guy, it was claimed, was either psychic or could count cards, since he’d cleaned out many an illicit poker game in the back of Sallee’s after hours, and he had this subtly twisted smile that, the few times he’d seen him, sent shivers up Phil’s back. His own childhood’s version of Hannibal at the Gate; Phil’s aunt always told him, “If you don’t go to sleep, Cody Natter’ll be stopping by for a visit tonight.” The guy always drove a souped, rebuilt ’69 Chrysler Imperial, dark-red, and was always blowing money all over town, though no one knew how he earned it. And he was ugly, sure, the ugliest Creeker of the clan.
“Oh, so it’s Cody Natter who’s ripping off the parking meters from the town square. Sounds like a crisis to me.”
“I thought Sam Kinnison was dead, funny man,” Mullins responded. “Take my word for it, Cody Natter and his Creekers are a pain in my ass.”
“But the Creekers always pretty much kept to themselves,” Phil said. “At least that’s what I remember.”
“Yeah, well, they’re all over the friggin’ place now. Shit, he’s even got the less-fucked-up-lookin’ ones working around town.”
“Christ, Chief, I lived in Crick City twenty years, and I don’t think I saw more than a dozen Creekers in all that time.” But then Phil paused, reflecting. I just saw one ten minutes ago, didn’t I? Walking down the Route? The image remained: the swollen head, the uneven arms and legs, and—
—The red eyes, he remembered.
“I don’t care what you seen when you were a punk,” Mullins articulated. “Things have changed in ten years. Natter’s trying to take over the town, and the ugly motherfucker’s doing a great job since I ain’t got no cops on my department.”
Phil still couldn’t quite believe this. The Creekers had always been harmless, and so seldom seen that most people didn’t even believe they existed. This sounded like bullshit to him; he stood his ground. “Okay, Chief. How’s Cody Natter taking over the town? Tell me that, will you?”
Mullins’ fat face turned dark, and his little eyes narrowed in puffy slits.
“He’s dealing drugs now,” he said. “Right here in town. Right now.”
“Drugs, huh?” Phil jeered. “Cody Natter? In Crick City? So what kind of drugs is he dealing? Laughing gas out of empty whipped cream cans?”
“No, funny man,” Mullins said. “He’s dealing PCP.”
— | — | —
Four
When darkness fell, Scott and Gut’s spirits rose. Well, at least Scott-Boy’s did. All of a sudden, Gut wasn’t feelin’ too good…
A little later, they had a big dust drop to make; they’d be making a big pick up of product—in this case, pure, distilled PCP to later be turned into “flake”—and drop it off at one of the primary points just out past Lockwood. It would be their biggest run yet and, hence, their biggest payoff.
Gut ordinarily would’ve been pretty keyed-up at the prospect of making such a fine grab of money for so little effort. But…
He drove the big pickup with authority, down the Route and out of town. It was feigned authority, actually, though he tried hard not to show it. Somethin’ bad in the air tonight, his thoughts swayed. And he felt sure it didn’t have anything to do with their dope run later.
They weren’t due to make the pickup for another couple of hours; they had time to kill, in other words, and Gut knew too well how Scott liked to kill time.
“Hey, Scott-Boy? What say we do somethin’ different tonight ‘fore we make the pick up.”
Scott Tuckton was lounged-back in the big bench seat, swigging his can of Red, White & Blue. It was a warm, balmy night, and everything was perfect. A high, bright moon. Cold beer. Crickets makin’ a ruckus. Warm air rushed in through the open windows while Elvis crooned “Blue Moon” on the radio.
A perfect night, in other words, for killing.
“What’choo mean different?” Scott-Boy inquired, stroking his sideburns. “We’se goin’ on a razz first, ain’t we?”
