Silence filled the sheriff’s office like ocean water.
The sheriff narrowed his eyes. “Peanuts?”
“Not real peanuts, packing peanuts. You know, that white Styrofoam shit you get from FedEx.”
“Right, packing peanuts.” His head was starting to hurt.
“Yeah, right. So this retard just jacked a cop car full of packing peanuts. That guy’s got to have the worst luck of all time. He got that Crown Vic up to about forty miles an hour before it looked like a fuckin’ snow globe.”
The sheriff coughed up a sudden laugh against his will. He didn’t want to, but he did. Choctaw joined in.
“I kid you not, boss. This asshole can’t see a damn thing when the peanuts start flying and, boom, straight into a telephone pole across the street. I couldn’t make this shit up if I tried. That’s why there’s a black kid all banged up in cell one and car three is in the shop. That’s what happened, boss. Honest truth.”
“Where’s your friend now?”
“Chester?”
This time the sheriff just waited.
“He’s at my place, scared to death you’re gonna lock him up for obstructing justice, or something like that. At the very least, make him pay for the damages to the car.”
“Well, you can tell him to relax, he doesn’t have to worry about the damages.”
“Thanks, boss, I knew you’d—”
“Because you’re going to pay for them.”
Choctaw deflated like an untied balloon animal. He squinted and studied the sheriff’s bearded face for a hint of sarcasm. Maybe he was joking. He wasn’t.
“Oh, come on, Clayton. It was circumstances beyond my control—”
The deputy was interrupted by a beep on the sheriff’s intercom, and both men listened as the timid voice of Cricket from the front desk crackled out of the speaker.
“Sheriff Burroughs, there’s a federal agent here to see you.”
3.
The sheriff looked at his watch.
“It’s eight-thirty.”
“I’m aware of that, sir.” Cricket’s lo-fi voice crackled over the intercom.
“On a Sunday.”
“I know that, too, sir. Would you like me to tell him to come back tomorrow?”
The sheriff thought on that and wondered if it was possible. Maybe he could just climb out the window.
“Sir?”
“No. No. Send him in.” The sheriff put on his hat and looked at his deputy, who shrugged. A few seconds later the door opened and in walked a handsome man in his mid-forties, maybe younger, with sharp features, dark close-cropped hair, and stormy gray eyes. Cricket, who always wore her hair back, had managed to shake it free and even took off her glasses to smile at the agent before closing the door behind him. Clayton found that amusing. Choctaw shifted uneasily in his chair.
The agent was wearing a dark blue blazer, a matching tie, and a starched white shirt tucked into blue jeans. Wearing a tie with blue jeans spoke volumes about a man, but Clayton gave him points for trying to country it up. Most of these feds never even took their designer sunglasses off when they found their way into Clayton’s office.
The agent stuck his hand out and flashed a pearly-white salesman smile at the sheriff. Clayton thought it made him look like a cartoon shark from one of those kids’ movies, but he stood up anyway. His deputy did not. Choctaw just eyeballed the agent with an expression similar to that of a man who’d just eaten a spoonful of shit.
“Sheriff Clayton Burroughs?” the agent said.
“Unless I’m wearing someone else’s badge, that would be me.” The sheriff shook the agent’s hand and matched his firm grip. Every fed that ever walked through that door felt it was necessary to conduct a dick-measuring contest with a viselike handshake. This G-man was no different.
“And you are?” Clayton said, pulling back his hand and calling it a draw.
“My name is Special Agent Simon Holly.”
“You got ID?”
“Of course.” Holly held out his badge, and the sheriff nodded. Choctaw tried to take a peek, but Holly intentionally snubbed him and tucked the ID back into his blazer.
“Thank you for seeing me this early . . . and on a Sunday.” He winked at the sheriff in an attempt to let him know he was privy to the sheriff’s intercom conversation with Cricket. Of course he was. The building had only two rooms. Clayton thought the wink was an odd thing to do, but he sat back down and motioned for Holly to do the same.
“No problem, Special Agent Simon Holly. I wasn’t doing anything important. My deputy here was just on his way out.”
Choctaw peeled his eyes off the agent slowly, like removing a Band-Aid, and took the hint. “Right, boss.” He made his way to the door, then paused and turned around. “Is this about the black kid I got locked up there in the back?”
Clayton regarded Holly for the answer to that as well.