The voice came from behind him, slightly nasal and nervous. “Now, you all are going to want to put your hands up, real slow, and clasp your fingers behind your head.”
2
Bob glanced over his shoulder. A police officer in a tan tunic and brown slacks was approaching him slowly, slightly crouched, his service weapon braced, his badge gleaming in the desert sun.
He did as he was ordered. Rural cops were, in his limited experience, the height of unpredictability.
The officer crept a few steps forward. “Nye County Sheriffs!” he announced. “Okay now, you’re going to want to drop the bag, then kneel down and put your hands right there on the rail in front of you. Lay ‘em flat, so’s I can see ‘em, and spread your fingers.”
Bob complied. “Like that?”
“Yep.” The officer kept his pistol trained on Bob. He reached down and snapped half a set of handcuffs around Bob’s left wrist, then used the same hand to cuff the other bracelet to the right wrist.
Bob glanced over at the parking lot, then back to the handful of people trackside. Nobody was paying them any attention.
“Now I’m going to go on and search you, there, big fella, and you just stay real still, like,” the deputy said. “You carrying?”
Bob nodded. “FN five-seven in my bag.”
The deputy frowned, puzzled. “Nothing on ya?”
“Nope.”
“Huh. Weird.” He began to frisk Bob’s coat. “Figured you’d just up and get yourself some spending money while out on the road, huh, mister?” the officer suggested.
He took Bob’s wallet out of the coat as he moved into Bob’s line of sight again. His tag read ‘Deputy D. Buckwalter’.
The officer withdrew his license and studied it, then put it back into the wallet.
“Robert MacMillan of Las Vegas, huh? You been keeping busy, ain’t ya, Mr. Robert MacMillan of Las Vegas.”
“I have no idea what you’re talking about,” Bob said. “I can account…”
“WHY… why don’t you just go on and shut it,” Buckwalter said. “Unless maybe you want to go and confess…”
“Confess to what?” Bob said. “I literally got off a bus, walked around town for a while, then came here to check out the track.”
“And in the meantime, you just went ahead and robbed Mike’s Gas Bar, didn’tcha? Didn’tcha!?”
“No, I didn’t.”
“Uh huh, sure. Seems awful convenient, though; you know… you coming into town right on the day he gets robbed by some dude he didn’t recognize—a guy he said was dark-haired, carrying a soft-sided bag. You’ve got a soft-sided bag right there. You want to explain that one?”
He can’t be serious. “You can’t be…” Bob caught himself. The dude was a power-mad yokel nervous about outsiders, clearly. Irritating him wasn’t going to end well. “I get to call a lawyer at some point, right?”
The deputy grinned. Bob’s reflection warped in the man’s mirrored Aviator shades. Buckwalter’s teeth were gapped, a fleshy lump on his lip suggesting he liked dip tobacco. “Well now, sure… at SOME point.”
He crouched and picked up Bob’s bag, opening it and throwing the wallet inside. Then he began to rifle through it.
He withdrew the FN in its speed holster and dropped the bag casually at his feet. “What the fuck?” he grumbled, standing and holding the gun’s grip daintily by one thumb and forefinger. “I seen this piece before online. It’s used by NATO globalist types. Super-small bullets but real accurate.”
“Whatever you say, man.”
“Yeah… you’re darn right. It’s light, too… like a lady gun.” He dropped it back into the bag and it clunked off the cement.
Bob winced slightly.
Behind them, Bob heard brakes squeal, the desert dust creating friction. Buckwalter glanced that way. “HEY THERE, BOSS MAN!” he called out.
Bob turned his head to look northeast, towards the Lockspur Avenue entrance. A police cruiser had pulled up twenty feet behind them, an older man in uniform leaning out the window. “You need a hand there, Dobie?” he asked.
“No, siree, Sheriff! I’m just going to be Mirandizing this here miscreant shortly, then taking him over to the office. Mr. MacMillan up and robbed Mike’s.”
“I heard that.” The older cop squinted at him curiously. “That was just about an hour ago, I reckon. Found him awful quick.”
“Learned from the best,” Buckwalter said. He leaned Bob’s way slightly. “Deputy Sheriff Parnell has twenty years in law enforcement.”
“Uh huh.”
Buckwalter turned back to his boss. “Sure can tell he’s a bad’un just by looking at him.” The officer sniffed.
Bob tilted his head and peered up at him incredulously. He looked over at Parnell. “Is he for real?”
“Aw… don’t mind Deputy Buckwalter. He’s got what you call a flair for the dramatic, I guess. Now… you got something you want to tell us, Mr. MacMillan?”
“Yeah: I’d suggest you check the gas bar’s security camera. If you charge me, I imagine it’s going to come up at some point.”
“You’d like that, wouldn’t you?” Buckwalter sneered.
