“I’ll update you after the investigation.”
Daddy is waiting outside the locker room when I emerge in full uniform. He has the expression of a man who heard the call and is attempting not to smile.
“Not a damn word.”
“Haven’t said nary a word.”
“You’ve got your smug face on again.”
He falls into step beside me as we cross Heck’s Kitchen. The crowd barely notices the uniform. Half of them know me. The other half have already been arrested by somebody wearing one.
I glance toward the bar without meaning to.
Whiskey is gone.
I tell myself I’m relieved.
Outside, the night air hits the sweat still cooling beneath my uniform shirt. The parking lot is packed with motorcycles, muddy pickups, and at least three vehicles that shouldn’t legally be on the road. Cigarette smoke drifts beneath the yellow security lights while music from inside vibrates faintly through the old courthouse walls.
My department-issued Ford Police Interceptor Utility waits near the edge of the lot beneath a flickering lamp, the CAD screen glowing through the windshield with my next call already waiting.
Daddy stops beside the driver’s door.
“Let Lester handle it. You just wrestled for twenty minutes, and you’ve got a split lip.”
“You ought to be proud I’m diversifying my income.”
“You’d make more taking extra patrol shifts.”
“Yeah, but nobody buys posters of that.”
He gives me a look, then steps back enough for me to open the door.
“Call if you need backup.”
“For the ham?”
“For whatever started the fight.”
“In this county, it’s probably a coupon or somebody’s meemaw getting called a whore.”
He almost smiles.
I climb behind the wheel and reach for the door, but Daddy catches the top edge before I can pull it shut.
“Twila.”
Something in his voice makes me stop.
The humor is long gone.
“What?”
“Stay away from the Kings tonight.”
I glance back toward Heck’s Kitchen. “Already left.”
A motorcycle fires up somewhere beyond the row of trucks. The engine growls across the lot, then fades toward the highway.