Rain Dogs, page 14
Jack Coleman straightened in his chair. Farmer looked toward Larson and Rice.
“Goddamn hell,” Hilliard said.
He pushed away from the table and headed for the door faster than Tom might have imagined him able.
Outside, in the hall, Tom heard Hilliard say, “We’re looking at it. No need for you to be here now.”
He heard Ryland Wheeler say, “That Johnny Coleman’s car outside? He helping you look?”
Hilliard’s voice, fading: “For God’s sake, Ry. Get on back home to Lois and Trev. That’s where you’re needed. It sure as hell ain’t here.”
Outside the conference room, the voices drifted down the hall. Tom couldn’t hear what they said after that.
Inside the conference room, the fan whirred. The clock ticked on the wall. Nobody looked at anybody else. Nobody said anything.
After a few minutes, Chief Deputy Ron Pavel leaned forward and spoke for the first time all morning.
“Got us all figured out, is that right?”
“Ron,” Jack Coleman said. “Take it easy.”
“I been taking it easy all morning. But I hear what this asshole’s saying.” He looked at Farmer. “Let me tell you something. Wasn’t all that long ago, people still talked about Sandhills law around here.”
Farmer nodded. “I grew up in Montana, Deputy. My father had your job in Custer County.”
“Three cheers for you and him.”
“I’m saying you can spare the lecture.” Farmer touched a spot behind his head. “When I was a kid, my dad used to let me feel the shot pellets in his neck. He got them stepping in on a range dispute. I’m familiar with the dynamic out in these communities.”
“Familiar with the dynamic? How long since you been in Montana, boy?”
“Not long enough. Boy.”
Pavel’s chair banged the wall when he stood. Farmer was on his feet waiting for him. Agents Rice and Larson stirred in the corner. Jack put his hand on Deputy Pavel’s elbow.
“Ron.” He spoke in the same voice he used to chat about the weather or the Kansas City Royals.
Pavel’s eyes flashed at Farmer across the table. When he looked at Tom’s dad, his shoulders loosened. He looked toward the wall and took a moment. When he sat down, Farmer sat down.
“Point is, you don’t hear those stories in Cherry County. Not since Sheriff’s been sheriff.”
“He seems to have his own way of doing things.”
“Yeah, well. Maybe your daddy had my job instead of his, he wouldn’t have caught that load of shot in his head.”
The door opened then. Sheriff Hilliard came in and slammed it shut. He said, “You two finished comparing dicks? I can hear you all the way down the goddamn hall.”
Pavel looked at the wall.
Farmer said, “That was Mr. Wheeler, I take it.”
“It was.”
“What does he know?”
“You mean is your cover busted yet? DEA’s still outfoxing the hicks, don’t worry.” Hilliard glanced at Jack as he took his chair again. “Ry got it out of Cory that maybe Morgan and Trevor got mixed up with someone up north. Wanted to know what I was doing about it.”
“By up north,” Farmer said, “I take it you mean the reservation.”
“Yeah, bud, that’s what I mean.”
“That’d be Harlan Pack.” Farmer looked at Rice and Larson. “We’re aware of him. Where is Deputy Severs now, Sheriff?”
“Guess I have my own way of doing things, but I gave him the day off.” Hilliard leaned back in his chair and folded his arms. His shirt had acquired dark circles in the pits. “I expect he’s still with those relatives of his.”
Farmer nodded. After a moment, he produced another folder and laid it out.
“Here’s what we think, and what we know.”
TWENTY-SIX
The way Tom understood it, the DEA’s going theory went something like this:
After a couple of seasons at Coleman’s Landing, Duane Foster believed he’d found the perfect place to a) hide a big batch of hijacked pharmaceuticals, b) set up a low-profile manufacturing plan, and c) spend the summer using three handpicked local recruits to cook his stash for him a little at a time.
He had miles of open space, with access to far corners of it through the Wheeler brothers, whom he’d met working at the Landing with Scott Greer.
Trevor and Morgan had ears near local law enforcement. Rural industry provided access to quantities of precursor chemicals within driving distance, but not too close to home base. Through Harlan Pack, whom he’d met patronizing the casino, Duane had distribution away from the immediate area. And he had a big finish.
“This winner got one of our other red flags.” Farmer pulled a photocopy of a booking sheet and a mug shot, which he handed across to Hilliard. “Vince Magruder.”
“Cute tattoos.”
“He’s a sweetheart,” Farmer said. “Magruder worked on the dock crew at Midwest for six months in ’98. Same time frame as Foster. Since ’99 he’s been chopping Harleys in Garden City, Kansas. He’s been on our screens since 2001.”
Sheriff Hilliard handed Magruder to Ron Pavel, who handed him to Jack Coleman.
“Through phone records, we know that Foster contacted Magruder at least as early as last year,” Farmer said. “We know that Foster used a debit card in Garden City in January. And we know that he made contact from Mr. Coleman’s establishment once in May.”
Tom noted that he’d become Mr. Coleman now. The great Jack Coleman’s boy was moving up in the world.
Friday night, when he’d called his father, he’d borrowed Scott’s cell phone and walked up to the clearing to do it. Now he knew that his gut instinct had been accurate. The phone lines at the Landing had been tapped since early May, just like the ones at Abby’s place and at the Double Deuce Cattle Company.
“Based on that call, we know that Magruder intends to pass through this area in August.”
“Yeah, well. We get all kinds through here around then.”
“Sturgis,” Rice offered from the corner, referring to the annual Harley-Davidson rally in the South Dakota badlands.
Hilliard looked over. “Thanks again.”
“We believe that Magruder provided Foster with start-up capital for an agreement on a share of the product,” Farmer said. “We think that Foster arranged some kind of percentage on his share with Harlan Pack. We know that Foster already handles a small amount of Pack’s grass trade, so there’s an existing partnership there. With a nice potential customer base on the reservation for new product.”
Jack Coleman said, “How much product are we talking about?”
“Being generous?” Farmer sat back in his chair. “Assuming Foster could manage a reasonable yield from the reduction, depending on market price . . . if I were writing the press release, I’d estimate total street value anywhere from two to five hundred.”
“Thousand?” Pavel leaned back and gave a low whistle.
“Bud, I lost track of how many ways this doesn’t make sense,” Hilliard said. “Starting with Scotty and Morgan and Trev.”
“We believe the accident you had down there was a test batch,” Farmer said. “Foster wanted to make sure they could handle the job.”
“Knowing the federal government tracks what he wanted to steal.”
“Nobody said we were dealing with a mastermind. Foster’s a small-timer with back bills and gambling debts who thought he had a bright idea.”
“And your boy Magruder thought it was a bright idea to hitch his wagon to this genius, I guess.”
“Magruder thinks he’s off the radar. Letting Foster take all the risk. His only known association with Foster was years ago, and then only for a short time. And he’s not in jail for the shit he’s been into since, so he thinks we’re stupid.”
“Sounds mighty goddamn thin to me.”
“Like I said, some of this is theory,” Farmer said. “Recorded fact is the call Foster placed to Magruder from Mr. Coleman’s establishment after the lab accident.”
“Plan B,” Rice said.
Hilliard didn’t look over this time. “And you believe Plan B to be what, exactly?”
“We believe that after the accident, Foster planned to cut his risk, sit on the stash until August, and make a straight transaction with Magruder. Raw drugs for cash. Magruder figures, Foster makes it all summer without getting busted, the coast is clear. Duane figures he and Pack split a straight lump profit, no overhead. Assuming Pack even knows about Magruder. Always possible Duane’s playing both sides from the middle.”
Hilliard sat and looked at the table for a long minute, arms folded across the top of his belly. He finally said, “Hell. Anything else you people don’t know?”
“We don’t know where Foster hid the ephedrine,” Farmer said. “He wouldn’t need a lot of room for it. And you’ve got a lot of room for it out here. We haven’t caught anybody visiting so far.”
Pavel snorted. Hilliard kept his eyes on Farmer.
“Let’s talk about Deputy Severs,” Farmer said.
TWENTY-SEVEN
Studying his reflection in the men’s room mirror, Tom heard the snick of cigarette lighters outside.
Near the urinals, a steel-framed window with reinforced glass had been propped open with a dowel. He heard a slightly nasal voice below the window.
He kept quiet in there.
Tom heard Farmer’s voice answer. He’s not much of a talker.
Tom assumed that made the first voice Agent Larson, the only one of the three who hadn’t spoken back in the room. He went over to the window, stood to the side, and listened.
Rice. Maybe he knows more than he’s giving up.
Maybe. Farmer. But I doubt it. The guy’s a mess.
Larson. He managed to finger you, didn’t he? Larry?
Rice, chuckling.
Farmer. You assholes try drinking with him sometime.
Tom reached toward the nearest urinal and yanked the flush handle. Water flooded the bowl. Pipes rattled in the wall.
Outside: sudden silence.
To the empty bathroom, he said, “Bottoms up, guys.”
Below the window, somebody sighed.
Piss, Terry Farmer said.
When Tom had been younger than Scott Greer, maybe ten years old, he remembered his father coming home to supper one night after working a highway accident all afternoon. Tom only knew about the accident because he’d caught a glimpse of his dad talking to a reporter on the six o’clock news.
Jack Coleman had risen from the table and turned off the kitchen television before Tom had heard how bad the crash had been. He remembered opening his mouth to ask and catching a small shake of the head from his mom.
He remembered that she’d made goulash that night. Mostly, he remembered the look on his dad’s face when he finally gave up, put down his fork, apologized across the table with his eyes, and nudged his plate away with the back of one hand.
By late afternoon, Sheriff Roy Hilliard looked like he’d spent the day working the same accident. And found a relative twisted up in the wreckage.
“Tell you, Jack. Sometimes I think I already lived too goddamn long.”
He’d taken a fifth of Jim Beam from the bottom drawer of his desk and poured three fingers each into three foam cups. Tom couldn’t remember ever seeing his father drink anything stronger than a beer.
“The ones on the open market fight the ones playing contracts. Folks make it along through another tough drought. And the minute prices get moving up, they find Mad Cow or some such thing and the bottom drops out under everybody.”
“I know.”
“Ted goddamn Turner comes along and buys out the hobblers, turns the whole place back to the buffalo.”
Jack Coleman nodded along.
“Even if these younger ones wanted to stay around here, which hardly any of ’em do, half these old ranches can’t support ’em much longer anyway.” Hilliard sipped from his cup. “Now somethin’ like this.”
“I know, Roy.”
Roy Hilliard’s eyes snapped up. “Well goddamn it, Jack, what do you know about it after all? Way I remember, you lit out like your ass was on fire soon as you could.”
Tom’s dad sipped from his cup and said nothing.
Tom sat in the corner, rolling his own cup in his hands. Something dawned on him in that moment, watching his dad, watching Hilliard.
He loved his father. He admired him. On some level, despite all his efforts to grow out of it, he’d always felt a baseline pride in being known as Jack Coleman’s boy.
But he’d never felt they shared anything fundamental in common. Not personally. Somehow it had never occurred to him that the great Jack Coleman, as a young man, had been as eager to pry himself apart from his upbringing as Tom had been. It struck him now.
“Goddammit, Jack, I apologize. No call for that.”
“No apologies. It’s been a long day.”
Hilliard sighed and rubbed his eyes. “Say that again.”
A fan whirred somewhere outside the office. The dispatch radio crackled down the hall. Tom had already drained his cup, and he’d emptied the flask two hours ago. He didn’t feel like bellying up to the desk and asking Hilliard to keep it coming. He didn’t belong here in the first place.
“What’s your thought on Cory?”
Hilliard shook his head. “I’ll be goddamned if I know.”
“I was thinking,” Tom’s dad said. “You know he’s bucking for Patrol.”
“Yeah, I know.”
“He asked me to put in a word.”
“He don’t give up easy, got to give him that.”
“I told him I didn’t think I’d be able to do much for him.”
Hilliard said, “Let’s have it, Johnny. I’m listening.”
“Well, maybe he got wind of all this out of Trev. Foster’s big ephedrine deal. A bust like that would be about the biggest thing to come along around here.”
“No question there.”
“So maybe Cory thinks he’s got his big chance here, Roy. Keep this to himself, then be a hero, make his mark. Write his own ticket somewhere.”
“Hell.” Hilliard thought about it, shook his head. “I don’t know.”
“Maybe he’s tired of waiting,” Tom said.
His dad looked over, eyebrows raised. The sheriff’s chair groaned when he swiveled in Tom’s direction. “Here I was starting to think you lost your voice, bud.”
Tom put his empty cup on the floor beside his chair. “I didn’t tell you everything when I called you the other morning. After Severs picked up Duane out at my place.”
“Well, now’s about as good a time.”
Tom spent a few minutes talking. Sheriff Hilliard listened behind the desk, while Jack Coleman sat quietly in the same chair Tom had taken the first day he’d come to see Hilliard here.
He told them about the garbage bag Severs had confiscated. He told them that Harlan Pack had been at the Landing with Trevor and Scott that night, told them about his own visit to the casino two nights later. He left out the sliced shirt and the part where he lost his guts all over himself.
His dad still didn’t appear pleased with the story. “You went looking for the guy? Tom?”
“Pack caught a beating,” Tom said. “Pretty good one. He said Severs did it.”
Hilliard looked unimpressed. “Said that, did he?”
“The circumstances of our conversation being what they were, I’m not sure he would have felt any special motivation to lie.”
The way his dad looked at him, Tom expected he’d be asked about the circumstances later.
He didn’t expect Sheriff Hilliard to say, “Like to hear what you think about it, Tom.”
Tom thought about the day he’d come home from this office to find Harlan Pack waiting for Duane in the parking lot. The message behind the busted window seemed clearer to him now.
“I think what Farmer thinks,” he said. “Duane dealt a little grass for Pack on the side. He likes the blackjack tables up there, plays the poker tournaments, but I think he pretty much loses what he wins.” He shrugged. “August probably seemed like a long haul without a little supplemental cash flow.”
“Well, that sounds all right,” Hilliard said. “Unless your dad here’s on the right track about Cory. Big picture, wouldn’t make any sense to come down on old Duane for keeping the stoners in reefer out there on the river.”
“No, it wouldn’t,” Tom said. “Not if that was the big picture he was looking at.”
“Well, what else? Protection, I guess you’re thinking.”
“In that case, it wouldn’t make sense to take away the supply.” Tom chose his next words. “Unless you were interested in the market.”
Hilliard knocked back his cup and placed it on his desk blotter. He folded his arms. Tom noticed the sheriff’s funeral shirt had the same button missing as his duty shirt. It must have been a stress point.
“Sheriff, I don’t know. I get the feeling Duane thinks he’s got things under control. He wouldn’t be hanging around if he didn’t. Maybe Severs knows about a big ephedrine deal, maybe he doesn’t. I think he probably just horned in on Harlan’s pot business and now he’s in over his head.”
“Roy told me Cory ran you in a few weeks ago,” his dad said. “Knowing what we know, sounds like he was backing you off, Tom.”
“Maybe. And maybe he was just bent out of shape because you didn’t vouch for him.” Tom shrugged again. “All I know is that Harlan Pack didn’t look like a guy paying protection. He looked to me like the competition.”
Hilliard sat without moving for a long time. Eventually, he let out a long sigh. His chair squealed as he reached out and poured a little more bourbon into his cup. Hilliard looked over the bottle, across the table to Tom’s dad. Jack Coleman shook his head.
Down the hall, the dispatch radio crackled. They heard Cory Severs come over the static. They heard Sandy come back.
Hilliard threw back his shot, crumpled the cup in his fist, and tossed it into the trash can by the desk.
“I goddamn hate doing this today.”
Tom’s dad said, “Probably help if we weren’t here when he gets in.”
“Goddamn hell,” Hilliard said.
He pushed away from the table and headed for the door faster than Tom might have imagined him able.
Outside, in the hall, Tom heard Hilliard say, “We’re looking at it. No need for you to be here now.”
He heard Ryland Wheeler say, “That Johnny Coleman’s car outside? He helping you look?”
Hilliard’s voice, fading: “For God’s sake, Ry. Get on back home to Lois and Trev. That’s where you’re needed. It sure as hell ain’t here.”
Outside the conference room, the voices drifted down the hall. Tom couldn’t hear what they said after that.
Inside the conference room, the fan whirred. The clock ticked on the wall. Nobody looked at anybody else. Nobody said anything.
After a few minutes, Chief Deputy Ron Pavel leaned forward and spoke for the first time all morning.
“Got us all figured out, is that right?”
“Ron,” Jack Coleman said. “Take it easy.”
“I been taking it easy all morning. But I hear what this asshole’s saying.” He looked at Farmer. “Let me tell you something. Wasn’t all that long ago, people still talked about Sandhills law around here.”
Farmer nodded. “I grew up in Montana, Deputy. My father had your job in Custer County.”
“Three cheers for you and him.”
“I’m saying you can spare the lecture.” Farmer touched a spot behind his head. “When I was a kid, my dad used to let me feel the shot pellets in his neck. He got them stepping in on a range dispute. I’m familiar with the dynamic out in these communities.”
“Familiar with the dynamic? How long since you been in Montana, boy?”
“Not long enough. Boy.”
Pavel’s chair banged the wall when he stood. Farmer was on his feet waiting for him. Agents Rice and Larson stirred in the corner. Jack put his hand on Deputy Pavel’s elbow.
“Ron.” He spoke in the same voice he used to chat about the weather or the Kansas City Royals.
Pavel’s eyes flashed at Farmer across the table. When he looked at Tom’s dad, his shoulders loosened. He looked toward the wall and took a moment. When he sat down, Farmer sat down.
“Point is, you don’t hear those stories in Cherry County. Not since Sheriff’s been sheriff.”
“He seems to have his own way of doing things.”
“Yeah, well. Maybe your daddy had my job instead of his, he wouldn’t have caught that load of shot in his head.”
The door opened then. Sheriff Hilliard came in and slammed it shut. He said, “You two finished comparing dicks? I can hear you all the way down the goddamn hall.”
Pavel looked at the wall.
Farmer said, “That was Mr. Wheeler, I take it.”
“It was.”
“What does he know?”
“You mean is your cover busted yet? DEA’s still outfoxing the hicks, don’t worry.” Hilliard glanced at Jack as he took his chair again. “Ry got it out of Cory that maybe Morgan and Trevor got mixed up with someone up north. Wanted to know what I was doing about it.”
“By up north,” Farmer said, “I take it you mean the reservation.”
“Yeah, bud, that’s what I mean.”
“That’d be Harlan Pack.” Farmer looked at Rice and Larson. “We’re aware of him. Where is Deputy Severs now, Sheriff?”
“Guess I have my own way of doing things, but I gave him the day off.” Hilliard leaned back in his chair and folded his arms. His shirt had acquired dark circles in the pits. “I expect he’s still with those relatives of his.”
Farmer nodded. After a moment, he produced another folder and laid it out.
“Here’s what we think, and what we know.”
TWENTY-SIX
The way Tom understood it, the DEA’s going theory went something like this:
After a couple of seasons at Coleman’s Landing, Duane Foster believed he’d found the perfect place to a) hide a big batch of hijacked pharmaceuticals, b) set up a low-profile manufacturing plan, and c) spend the summer using three handpicked local recruits to cook his stash for him a little at a time.
He had miles of open space, with access to far corners of it through the Wheeler brothers, whom he’d met working at the Landing with Scott Greer.
Trevor and Morgan had ears near local law enforcement. Rural industry provided access to quantities of precursor chemicals within driving distance, but not too close to home base. Through Harlan Pack, whom he’d met patronizing the casino, Duane had distribution away from the immediate area. And he had a big finish.
“This winner got one of our other red flags.” Farmer pulled a photocopy of a booking sheet and a mug shot, which he handed across to Hilliard. “Vince Magruder.”
“Cute tattoos.”
“He’s a sweetheart,” Farmer said. “Magruder worked on the dock crew at Midwest for six months in ’98. Same time frame as Foster. Since ’99 he’s been chopping Harleys in Garden City, Kansas. He’s been on our screens since 2001.”
Sheriff Hilliard handed Magruder to Ron Pavel, who handed him to Jack Coleman.
“Through phone records, we know that Foster contacted Magruder at least as early as last year,” Farmer said. “We know that Foster used a debit card in Garden City in January. And we know that he made contact from Mr. Coleman’s establishment once in May.”
Tom noted that he’d become Mr. Coleman now. The great Jack Coleman’s boy was moving up in the world.
Friday night, when he’d called his father, he’d borrowed Scott’s cell phone and walked up to the clearing to do it. Now he knew that his gut instinct had been accurate. The phone lines at the Landing had been tapped since early May, just like the ones at Abby’s place and at the Double Deuce Cattle Company.
“Based on that call, we know that Magruder intends to pass through this area in August.”
“Yeah, well. We get all kinds through here around then.”
“Sturgis,” Rice offered from the corner, referring to the annual Harley-Davidson rally in the South Dakota badlands.
Hilliard looked over. “Thanks again.”
“We believe that Magruder provided Foster with start-up capital for an agreement on a share of the product,” Farmer said. “We think that Foster arranged some kind of percentage on his share with Harlan Pack. We know that Foster already handles a small amount of Pack’s grass trade, so there’s an existing partnership there. With a nice potential customer base on the reservation for new product.”
Jack Coleman said, “How much product are we talking about?”
“Being generous?” Farmer sat back in his chair. “Assuming Foster could manage a reasonable yield from the reduction, depending on market price . . . if I were writing the press release, I’d estimate total street value anywhere from two to five hundred.”
“Thousand?” Pavel leaned back and gave a low whistle.
“Bud, I lost track of how many ways this doesn’t make sense,” Hilliard said. “Starting with Scotty and Morgan and Trev.”
“We believe the accident you had down there was a test batch,” Farmer said. “Foster wanted to make sure they could handle the job.”
“Knowing the federal government tracks what he wanted to steal.”
“Nobody said we were dealing with a mastermind. Foster’s a small-timer with back bills and gambling debts who thought he had a bright idea.”
“And your boy Magruder thought it was a bright idea to hitch his wagon to this genius, I guess.”
“Magruder thinks he’s off the radar. Letting Foster take all the risk. His only known association with Foster was years ago, and then only for a short time. And he’s not in jail for the shit he’s been into since, so he thinks we’re stupid.”
“Sounds mighty goddamn thin to me.”
“Like I said, some of this is theory,” Farmer said. “Recorded fact is the call Foster placed to Magruder from Mr. Coleman’s establishment after the lab accident.”
“Plan B,” Rice said.
Hilliard didn’t look over this time. “And you believe Plan B to be what, exactly?”
“We believe that after the accident, Foster planned to cut his risk, sit on the stash until August, and make a straight transaction with Magruder. Raw drugs for cash. Magruder figures, Foster makes it all summer without getting busted, the coast is clear. Duane figures he and Pack split a straight lump profit, no overhead. Assuming Pack even knows about Magruder. Always possible Duane’s playing both sides from the middle.”
Hilliard sat and looked at the table for a long minute, arms folded across the top of his belly. He finally said, “Hell. Anything else you people don’t know?”
“We don’t know where Foster hid the ephedrine,” Farmer said. “He wouldn’t need a lot of room for it. And you’ve got a lot of room for it out here. We haven’t caught anybody visiting so far.”
Pavel snorted. Hilliard kept his eyes on Farmer.
“Let’s talk about Deputy Severs,” Farmer said.
TWENTY-SEVEN
Studying his reflection in the men’s room mirror, Tom heard the snick of cigarette lighters outside.
Near the urinals, a steel-framed window with reinforced glass had been propped open with a dowel. He heard a slightly nasal voice below the window.
He kept quiet in there.
Tom heard Farmer’s voice answer. He’s not much of a talker.
Tom assumed that made the first voice Agent Larson, the only one of the three who hadn’t spoken back in the room. He went over to the window, stood to the side, and listened.
Rice. Maybe he knows more than he’s giving up.
Maybe. Farmer. But I doubt it. The guy’s a mess.
Larson. He managed to finger you, didn’t he? Larry?
Rice, chuckling.
Farmer. You assholes try drinking with him sometime.
Tom reached toward the nearest urinal and yanked the flush handle. Water flooded the bowl. Pipes rattled in the wall.
Outside: sudden silence.
To the empty bathroom, he said, “Bottoms up, guys.”
Below the window, somebody sighed.
Piss, Terry Farmer said.
When Tom had been younger than Scott Greer, maybe ten years old, he remembered his father coming home to supper one night after working a highway accident all afternoon. Tom only knew about the accident because he’d caught a glimpse of his dad talking to a reporter on the six o’clock news.
Jack Coleman had risen from the table and turned off the kitchen television before Tom had heard how bad the crash had been. He remembered opening his mouth to ask and catching a small shake of the head from his mom.
He remembered that she’d made goulash that night. Mostly, he remembered the look on his dad’s face when he finally gave up, put down his fork, apologized across the table with his eyes, and nudged his plate away with the back of one hand.
By late afternoon, Sheriff Roy Hilliard looked like he’d spent the day working the same accident. And found a relative twisted up in the wreckage.
“Tell you, Jack. Sometimes I think I already lived too goddamn long.”
He’d taken a fifth of Jim Beam from the bottom drawer of his desk and poured three fingers each into three foam cups. Tom couldn’t remember ever seeing his father drink anything stronger than a beer.
“The ones on the open market fight the ones playing contracts. Folks make it along through another tough drought. And the minute prices get moving up, they find Mad Cow or some such thing and the bottom drops out under everybody.”
“I know.”
“Ted goddamn Turner comes along and buys out the hobblers, turns the whole place back to the buffalo.”
Jack Coleman nodded along.
“Even if these younger ones wanted to stay around here, which hardly any of ’em do, half these old ranches can’t support ’em much longer anyway.” Hilliard sipped from his cup. “Now somethin’ like this.”
“I know, Roy.”
Roy Hilliard’s eyes snapped up. “Well goddamn it, Jack, what do you know about it after all? Way I remember, you lit out like your ass was on fire soon as you could.”
Tom’s dad sipped from his cup and said nothing.
Tom sat in the corner, rolling his own cup in his hands. Something dawned on him in that moment, watching his dad, watching Hilliard.
He loved his father. He admired him. On some level, despite all his efforts to grow out of it, he’d always felt a baseline pride in being known as Jack Coleman’s boy.
But he’d never felt they shared anything fundamental in common. Not personally. Somehow it had never occurred to him that the great Jack Coleman, as a young man, had been as eager to pry himself apart from his upbringing as Tom had been. It struck him now.
“Goddammit, Jack, I apologize. No call for that.”
“No apologies. It’s been a long day.”
Hilliard sighed and rubbed his eyes. “Say that again.”
A fan whirred somewhere outside the office. The dispatch radio crackled down the hall. Tom had already drained his cup, and he’d emptied the flask two hours ago. He didn’t feel like bellying up to the desk and asking Hilliard to keep it coming. He didn’t belong here in the first place.
“What’s your thought on Cory?”
Hilliard shook his head. “I’ll be goddamned if I know.”
“I was thinking,” Tom’s dad said. “You know he’s bucking for Patrol.”
“Yeah, I know.”
“He asked me to put in a word.”
“He don’t give up easy, got to give him that.”
“I told him I didn’t think I’d be able to do much for him.”
Hilliard said, “Let’s have it, Johnny. I’m listening.”
“Well, maybe he got wind of all this out of Trev. Foster’s big ephedrine deal. A bust like that would be about the biggest thing to come along around here.”
“No question there.”
“So maybe Cory thinks he’s got his big chance here, Roy. Keep this to himself, then be a hero, make his mark. Write his own ticket somewhere.”
“Hell.” Hilliard thought about it, shook his head. “I don’t know.”
“Maybe he’s tired of waiting,” Tom said.
His dad looked over, eyebrows raised. The sheriff’s chair groaned when he swiveled in Tom’s direction. “Here I was starting to think you lost your voice, bud.”
Tom put his empty cup on the floor beside his chair. “I didn’t tell you everything when I called you the other morning. After Severs picked up Duane out at my place.”
“Well, now’s about as good a time.”
Tom spent a few minutes talking. Sheriff Hilliard listened behind the desk, while Jack Coleman sat quietly in the same chair Tom had taken the first day he’d come to see Hilliard here.
He told them about the garbage bag Severs had confiscated. He told them that Harlan Pack had been at the Landing with Trevor and Scott that night, told them about his own visit to the casino two nights later. He left out the sliced shirt and the part where he lost his guts all over himself.
His dad still didn’t appear pleased with the story. “You went looking for the guy? Tom?”
“Pack caught a beating,” Tom said. “Pretty good one. He said Severs did it.”
Hilliard looked unimpressed. “Said that, did he?”
“The circumstances of our conversation being what they were, I’m not sure he would have felt any special motivation to lie.”
The way his dad looked at him, Tom expected he’d be asked about the circumstances later.
He didn’t expect Sheriff Hilliard to say, “Like to hear what you think about it, Tom.”
Tom thought about the day he’d come home from this office to find Harlan Pack waiting for Duane in the parking lot. The message behind the busted window seemed clearer to him now.
“I think what Farmer thinks,” he said. “Duane dealt a little grass for Pack on the side. He likes the blackjack tables up there, plays the poker tournaments, but I think he pretty much loses what he wins.” He shrugged. “August probably seemed like a long haul without a little supplemental cash flow.”
“Well, that sounds all right,” Hilliard said. “Unless your dad here’s on the right track about Cory. Big picture, wouldn’t make any sense to come down on old Duane for keeping the stoners in reefer out there on the river.”
“No, it wouldn’t,” Tom said. “Not if that was the big picture he was looking at.”
“Well, what else? Protection, I guess you’re thinking.”
“In that case, it wouldn’t make sense to take away the supply.” Tom chose his next words. “Unless you were interested in the market.”
Hilliard knocked back his cup and placed it on his desk blotter. He folded his arms. Tom noticed the sheriff’s funeral shirt had the same button missing as his duty shirt. It must have been a stress point.
“Sheriff, I don’t know. I get the feeling Duane thinks he’s got things under control. He wouldn’t be hanging around if he didn’t. Maybe Severs knows about a big ephedrine deal, maybe he doesn’t. I think he probably just horned in on Harlan’s pot business and now he’s in over his head.”
“Roy told me Cory ran you in a few weeks ago,” his dad said. “Knowing what we know, sounds like he was backing you off, Tom.”
“Maybe. And maybe he was just bent out of shape because you didn’t vouch for him.” Tom shrugged again. “All I know is that Harlan Pack didn’t look like a guy paying protection. He looked to me like the competition.”
Hilliard sat without moving for a long time. Eventually, he let out a long sigh. His chair squealed as he reached out and poured a little more bourbon into his cup. Hilliard looked over the bottle, across the table to Tom’s dad. Jack Coleman shook his head.
Down the hall, the dispatch radio crackled. They heard Cory Severs come over the static. They heard Sandy come back.
Hilliard threw back his shot, crumpled the cup in his fist, and tossed it into the trash can by the desk.
“I goddamn hate doing this today.”
Tom’s dad said, “Probably help if we weren’t here when he gets in.”
