“YES!”
The officer ignored his vehemence. “You’d like us to waste our time tilting with Mike about warrants for cameras and what not.”
Bob sighed loudly. “My phone call.”
Parnell’s attention shifted from his officer to Bob. “Impatient sort of fella, ain’t ya?”
Bob winced again. Everything about Pahrump was beginning to irritate him. “What is that? What is that accent? Why does everyone here sound like they stepped out of a documentary about an Ozarks blood feud?”
Parnell frowned. He looked slightly taken aback, leaning back and straightening up slightly in his car seat. “Well now, that’s just kind of hurtful, sir. Like many folk in this community, I’m from inland Cali-for-nye-aye, born and raised. Bakersfield in my case, and I believe Deputy Buckwalter…”
“Barstow,” Buckwalter said.
“But, like lots of folks from the area, our families come west from Oklahoma.”
“And Texas,’ Buckwalter added.
“And Texas. You’ll find we tend to cling to that independence and southern hospitality,” Parnell said. “When warranted.”
“Don’t take kindly to rudeness, though,” Buckwalter sniffed.
“My phone call,” Bob repeated.
Buckwalter wiped his nose on his sleeve. “Law says we can hold you for forty-eight hours before we even get a whiff of trouble for it. Ain’t that right, Sam?”
“I believe so, Officer Buckwalter.” His officer’s informality clearly bugged him, Bob figured. “Though I imagine it won’t have to come to that, assuming Mr. MacMillan behaves himself.” He nodded Buckwalter’s way once more. “You sure you’re good?”
“Right as rain, boss.”
“Well, I’ll see you back there, then.” Parnell’s cruiser pulled ahead a few yards, before executing a U-turn and leaving the parking lot.
Bob looked up at Buckwalter. He was avidly following the deputy sheriff’s car as it disappeared. Then he looked down at his captive.
“Well now, you just got quite the big mouth on you, don’tcha? That ain’t no local accent, neither. Where you from originally, Big Slim?”
“Michigan.”
“Uh huh. Well… you a long dang way from home.”
The gravel nearby crunched, catching both men’s attention. Two other men were approaching, both in civvies, blue jeans and work shirts.
“Ricky, Zeke,” Buckwalter said.
Ricky stopped five yards short. He had ginger hair and a neat, short beard. He looked like he’d been working hard, his face smudged with dirt, his cheeks burnished by the sun. He took a pack of Marlboros from his chest pocket and lit one. “Who’s the little bitch?” he asked.
“Some vagrant thief out of Vegas.” Buckwalter looked both ways suddenly, as if checking for eavesdroppers. He nodded towards his friends. “You fellers up for a little fun?”
3
They walked Bob towards the two pickups at the back of the lot, a man under each arm, both escorts checking their surrounds for any potential problems, Buckwalter carrying his bag.
They moved him between the two trucks, to an empty space facing the exit, seventy yards away.
“Sure is built solid,” the man on his left arm muttered.
“You want to date him?” Ricky jeered.
“This is really, really stupid,” Bob said. “Surely there are cameras on this lot. And someone could just walk over from the track…”
“Eh… I get along real well with the head of security here,” Buckwalter said, dropping the bag a few feet away. “Came to my wedding. And there ain’t nobody around, like you said, Big Slim.” He clapped Bob on the shoulder. “A man on his own, causing hassle in someone else’s town, showing a guy up to his boss, robbing honest businesses? He’s liable to trip, hurt hisself. Or have a eeh… ah eeh…” He paused, the term not coming to him. “What’d you call it again, Ricky?”
“An epiphany,” his Marlboro-smoking friend said. “Like, a big idea and such. See the light.”
“Yeah… He’s liable to just up and see the light, start confessing to all sorts of things.” Buckwalter crouched beside Bob, garlic breath hot on his cheek. “It’s the strangest thing how that happens.”
On Buckwalter’s belt, his mic phone began to ring.
The county sheriff’s office was part of a vast single-level government complex on East Basin Ave. Like much of the town, its most prominent neighbors were desert scrub and cacti. But there was also an animal hospital across the street, and the Second Amendment Gun and Range next door.
Deputy Sheriff Sam Parnell turned the cruiser’s steering wheel right and navigated the big Ford into the parking lot.
Then he hit the brakes. He keyed the radio mic. “Car 840 to dispatch. Come in.”
The radio crackled. “Dispatch to 840. Go ahead, please.”
“Dotty, you got a description on that gas station robber from this morning? Over.” Parnell had twigged just before he’d reached down to shut off the engine. The guy on his knees had still been almost up to Dobie’s chest, which meant he was probably over six foot tall.
“Ten-four, Sam. We are looking for a Caucasian male, twenties to thirties, five seven to five nine, maybe a buck sixty, carrying a blue Nike soft-sided bag. Over.”
