Chapter Seventeen
______________________________________
Cash
They say anger dwells only in the hearts of fools.
If that’s true, I’m the world’s biggest idiot. Ever since I woke up in the hospital with a hole in my head and then found out what was wrong with my brain, I’ve been pissed.
Sad too. And alternately resigned and bitter and accepting and depressed. But most of all I’ve just beenpissed. Righteously so. Mightily so.
Think tonight proves it. Left to my own devices, I might’ve crushed Todd’s windpipe.
Todd.What a terrible name. It’s like his parentswantedhim to grow up to be a complete and total dickwad.
The urge to pull out my flask and drown everything in whiskey is strong. But I don’t dare. At least not in front of the task force guys.
“So, the way I see it…” The one taking our statements flips shut his notebook. Did he say his name was Officer Ketchum? Ketchall? It was something like that, but I think I heard Maggie call him Rory. “And from what I’m hearing from these eyewitnesses, it sounds like your mouth was writing checks your fists couldn’t cash, Mr. Dungworth.”
Dungworth. That’s worse than Todd.
“You can press charges if you want to, but I suspect Mr. Armstrong here”—the officer motions to me with his chin—“will press charges right back. And honestly?” He makes a face. “My money would be on Armstrong to win in a court of law. You were the one name-calling and throwing the first punch.”
Todd gives me a withering look. Well, I figure that’s what he’s going for. Hard to tell, since his nose has swelled up like a balloon.
“I take your silence to mean youdon’twant to press charges?” Rory asks.
“No,” Todd mutters. Louder, he says, “But only because I came down here on vacation and I’ve already wasted too much time on him.” He points to me and spits outhimlike it’s rotten meat.
“Right.” Rory walks back to his vehicle. “Then all of you are free to go on your way.”
Jean-Pierre hustles the two eyewitnesses back into the bar, winking over his shoulder at Maggie. She gives him a wave of thanks.
“Wait!” Todd jumps up. “You said you’d take me to the clinic!”
I have to smother a grin when Rory doesn’t do a very good job of hiding his disappointment. He’d beenthis closeto making a clean getaway and putting the likes of Todd Dungworth in his rearview mirror.
“Of course.” Rory indicates his vehicle’s back seat. “Hop in.”
Todd is in the process of buckling his seat belt when the sound of a big engine rumbles up the street. It’s coming from a Dodge Ram with a lift kit, huge stubby tires, and a shiny chrome cattle guard.
Luc once explained to me that a Southern man’s ego is directly related to the size of his pickup truck. If that’s true, whoever’s driving this rolling penis enhancer must think he’s second only to God.
I stand and wipe off the ass of my jeans when the truck comes to a stop in the middle of the road. The engine growls off and the driver’s-side door opens. The instant I see a pair of alligator-skin boots, I groan and close my eyes.
This would fall into the category of a shit howdy. That’sanotherthing Luc explained to me early on. Here in the South, even mortal enemies feel obliged to abide by the social contract of acknowledging each other’s existence. Kind of like,Well, shit. I better say howdy.
“Superintendent Sullivan.” Rory hops back out of his vehicle. “What are you doing here? No charges were pressed and—”
Sullivan lifts his hand to hush Rory. His brown sports coat pulls away from his jeans and reveals three things: his badge, his beer belly, and his holstered weapon.
Couple items to note when it comes to George Sullivan. One, he’s a transplant from Galveston, Texas, and takes his raising seriously. Along with the alligator boots, you’ll never see him without his cowboy hat—brown wool in the fall and winter, white straw in the spring and summer. And two, like a true Texan, he carries a six-shooter.
Asix-shooter, for fuck’s sake.
God help him if he ever finds himself in a situation where he needs more than half a dozen rounds.
Then again, the Smith & Wesson .44 Magnum doesn’t hang on his belt for its practicality. It hangs there because he fancies himself a modern-day Dirty Harry, and because a big-bore weapon like that is scary as shit. It’s what spec-ops guys like myself like to call a huge persuader.
