Ditzel opened his mouth to protest, but Clyde stopped him with an outstretched hand. “Not my words,” he said. “To me you are Officer Ditzel, an experienced and decorated law-enforcement veteran. But when they haul your ass into court, all that’s going to be forgotten and you are going to be presented as a redneck cop. Believe me. I’ve been over there in Wapsie, and I know how these people think.”
By now Morris had come round with his dog. Clyde looked over at the woman, who was eyeing the box of meat, an arm’s-length away. She glanced his way. He slid his glasses down on his nose and gave her a warning look, then pushed them back up and turned his attention to the officers.
“So what are you advising?” Ditzel said.
“Well, now, think about it. He didn’t buckle up. You nailed him for that. He gave you some guff and you spanked him. You’ve had a good day, my friend!” Clyde reached out and slapped Ditzel hard on the shoulder. “You got all the satisfaction you’re ever going to get. Now, you could take it the next step and spend the rest of the day in front of a typewriter and then get hauled into court and be accused of being a redneck cop and everything else that would follow. Or you could cash in your chips right now while you’re ahead. Let them go.”
“It’d kill me if there was some weed in the bottom of that box,” Morris said ruefully.
“Yeah!” said Ditzel, who had almost given up until Morris had mentioned the drugs. “We gotta get to the bottom of that.”
“There ain’t nothing but meat in there,” Clyde said, and told them briefly of what he had seen at Lukas Meats.
“So that’s a Jew?” Ditzel said, astonished and scandalized.
“I would guess Muslim. But I think they follow the same rules as far as meat,” Clyde said, “so they all buy their meat on the same day, when the Jewish butcher comes to town. That’s where all that meat came from, and if the Lukases have been hiding dope in their meat, then I reckon it’s the Lukases we ought to be checking out with the K-9 unit.”
Providentially, Maggie started to cry at this moment. Clyde brought her round to the front seat of the pickup and snapped her in, then climbed in and watched through the dirty windshield as Morris put the box of meat in the back of the Toyota and helped the woman into the passenger seat. Ditzel removed the man’s handcuffs, hauled him to his feet, and shoved him toward the Toyota. Clyde started the truck, backed up, and swung it out into the left lane, idling forward very slowly as he drove past the scene. The man had a big laceration across his forehead, the kind of thing that always bled like crazy, but by now it had clotted up enough that he could drive the car safely. He seemed absurdly calm as he climbed back into the car, as if he had just stopped in at a rest area to take a leak.
Then Clyde’s view of the scene was eclipsed by the broad body of Lee Harms, still directing traffic, who leaned down and looked into the window above Maggie’s car seat as Clyde went by. “Nice going, Clyde,” he said. “Looks like you got the Muslim vote all sewed up.”
“Vote Banks,” Clyde said weakly, and hung a big U-turn on River Street, headed home to Desiree. He did not feel like getting cinnamon rolls.
July
Chapter Nineteen
The curvy drive leading up to the Wapsipinicon Golf and Country Club had been lined with small plastic American flags thrust into the ground, many of which were already listing badly before the wind that was howling across the prairie. The plastic flags made a brittle rattling sound as they were strafed by the wind. Clyde came around the last one of those curves and saw three men wearing fancy black outfits with bow ties. The sight made him falter; he lifted his foot from the gas, and the wagon’s transmission made hissing and sighing noises as a few bucketloads of hydraulic fluid looked for someplace to go.
“What’s wrong, honey?” Desiree said. Her face was burnished and lovely; she’d spent the last weekend with the National Guard running around in the sun treating fake chemical-warfare casualties. Her arms, back, and the ravishing Dhont deltoids had been concealed by the Army uniform, and she had fretted about their incongruous pallor when she had put on her sundress; but Clyde thought she looked wonderful. He would never dare tell her, though, that she looked even cuter in her combat fatigues. There was something about Desiree’s body rattling around in yards and yards of scrunchy camouflage fabric that sent him over the edge; the green and brown brought out the highlights in her hazel eyes.
“Let’s say Maggie’s sick,” Clyde said, looking into the backseat hopefully. Maggie had vomited on the epaulet of Clyde’s best sheriff uniform not thirty seconds before they had left the house, and even though they had wiped most of it off, the mysterious proteins had congealed to a hard shine. But Desiree had pronounced this a normal vomiting episode, a sign of robust good health; and, indeed, Maggie was, unfortunately, pink-faced and happy.