Bull Mountain (17 page)

“Hey, buddy, watch your—” The look of recognition registered on Big Joe Dooley’s face before he finished his sentence. “Sorry, Sheriff, I didn’t see you there. My bad.” Joe was known to get a little rowdy. Clayton and Choctaw both had locked him up in the drunk tank once or twice to let him sleep it off before sending him home to his wife and
kids, but otherwise, the big boy was relatively harmless.

“S’okay, Joe.” Clayton hailed Nicole, who immediately stopped what she was doing, smiled a big pearly smile, and poured the sheriff a ginger ale from a squatty green bottle under the bar. Clayton’s most recent usual. She slapped a bar napkin down and set the soda in front of the sheriff, then took notice of his swollen eye and split
lip. Her pretty smile contorted into a pretty grimace.

“Ouch,” she said. “Holy cow, Sheriff. How does the other guy look?”

“Much better than me, I’m afraid.”

“You want me to make you an ice pack for that?”

“That’s okay, Nicole.”

“It’s no problem. I got clean rags in the back. I could fix you up.”

“Nah, it’s just a scratch. I’ll be okay. Busy night tonight, huh?”

“It’s
a busy night every night, sir.” Nicole leaned forward on the bar with both elbows, maybe not so unintentionally creating a perfect view of her sun-freckled cleavage. Clayton did his best not to look. She didn’t make it easy. Her big green eyes would stop traffic even without all the eye makeup she shrouded them in, but girls her age never believed that. She was a looker, but a good girl. Clayton
liked her. Big Joe made no attempt to reel in his slack-jawed stare and shifted his cumbersome weight on the bar stool to lean toward her and Clayton’s conversation. “You think I could get a beer, or do I have to be wearin’ a silver star on my shirt, too?”

“Just a second, Joe,” Nicole said without looking at him.

Joe frowned an exaggerated drunken frown. “I been waiting here almost ten
minutes, girlie.”

This time she did look at him. “Look around you, Joe. It’s a little busy. I’ll be right with you.”

Joe shot a quick glance at Clayton, then mumbled something shitty into his empty glass. Clayton assumed it would have been a lot louder if he hadn’t been sitting there. He ignored him and took a sip of the ginger ale. That wasn’t going to do it.

“I’ll be back shortly,
Sheriff. Are you hungry? Uncle Hollis’s got some country fried steak left over from the lunch rush.”

“No, thanks, Nicole, but . . .” Clayton paused. Nicole lifted an eyebrow. “. . . you
could
bring me two fingers of Knob Creek. Straight up.”

Nicole, caught off guard, narrowed her eyes at the sheriff. “Um . . . okay,” she said, and turned to get the bottle down from the mirrored shelf behind
her. Big Joe Dooley dug his pudgy elbow into Clayton’s recently bruised ribs, causing him to wince with pain, but Joe didn’t notice. He pointed to Nicole up on a step stool reaching for the bourbon. The bright colors of the floral tattoo that covered the small of her back teased out from a sliver of skin above the low waist of her jeans.

“Now, that there is an ass. Right, Sheriff?”

Clayton
said nothing and again avoided taking in an eyeful of the half-his-age ass in the air.

“I could sit right here and wait on a beer forever,” Joe said, “if I could watch her swing that shit-cutter around all night.”

That made the nerve above Clayton’s eye twitch. “Shut the fuck up, Joe.”

Big Joe crumpled his nose like he’d just taken a whiff of fresh dog shit and honestly searched his
brain for a reason why another man would take offense to that statement.

Nicole stepped down, oblivious, and poured the whiskey into a clean glass in front of Clayton. He nodded a “thank you” and she winked a “you’re welcome.” A short narrow man who looked like he was carved completely out of seasoned leather waved a twenty-dollar bill at Nicole from down the bar. She held a finger up to Clayton
and sashayed off toward her tip money. Clayton closed his eyes and held the glass to his nose. It smelled of oak, vanilla, and bad decisions. The moment ended abruptly with another shot of pain up his side. Big Joe landed another elbow to Clayton’s ribs, spoiling the sheriff’s first sip. Bourbon dribbled down his beard and spilled onto the bar. He put the glass down.

“I hate to see her leave,”
Joe said, leaning across the bar, his eyes glued to Nicole’s backside. “But I love to watch her go.”

Clayton used his napkin to mop up the spilled drink and felt the heat rise under his skin. “I thought I told you to shut up, Joe. In fact”—Clayton turned all the way around into the big man’s face—“why don’t you get your fat ass up and find somewhere else to sit as far away from me and that
girl as possible.” Clayton’s voice was louder than he’d intended, but that’s what happened when he drank. A few heads turned. A few conversations stopped. Confusion spread over Big Joe’s face like a rash.

“Goddamn, Clayton, I was just cuttin’ up.”

“Move your ass, Joe. Now.” Clayton sat up a little straighter and bowed his chest out. There wasn’t much to it, but it looked a lot bigger to
most with that star pinned to it. Nicole came back and set a fresh beer in front of Joe. She looked as confused as he did. Joe picked up his frosted mug and gave Clayton a drunken half-assed toast, in the process managing to spill beer down the front of his shirt.

“Yessir, Mr. Sheriff, sir.” And off he went, sloshing beer on himself and the floor.

“What was that about?” she said.

“Some folks live their whole lives without an ounce of class,” Clayton said, and took a long pull of hundred-proof bourbon, letting it sit on his tongue. Nicole wiped up the spilt beer.

“Well, don’t worry, Sheriff, he’s harmless.”

“He’s an asshole.”

Nicole leaned in close to Clayton’s ear. “Hell, Sheriff, show me a drunk who ain’t.”

3.

Clayton was on his third drink when Special
Agent Simon Holly took Big Joe’s vacated seat. He just sat there, smiling that shark smile of his, until Clayton came up out of his rocks glass and took notice. He squinted hard at Holly, either to focus his eyes or to make sure he wasn’t seeing things. Maybe both.

“Evening, Sheriff.”

“What are you doing here, Holly?” Clayton said, turning his attention back to his glass.

“My travel
agent said this place was one of the top attractions to take in while visiting the mountain paradise of Waymore Valley, Georgia.”

Clayton just stared blankly, his eyes slowly disappearing into his face. He wasn’t up for cheery sarcasm.

“Sorry, Sheriff, I can see you’re in a mood. I’m staying at the motor inn across the street. I saw your deputy drop you off a little while ago, so I thought
I’d come break some bread. Tough night?”

“Why?”

“Your face looks like shit.”

“Yeah, well, you can take a little responsibility for that.”

Holly put his smile away. “You spoke to your brother?”

“Well, we didn’t do much speakin’.”

“I take it it didn’t go well?”

“That’s one way to say it. Brother shit. I don’t think he’s going to listen to reason.”

“I have no doubt
you will find a way.” Holly motioned for Nicole, who smiled even bigger than normal when she saw him.

“Well, hello there,” she said. “And just who might you be?”

Holly just smiled, leaned back on the stool, and let the sheriff make the introductions.

“Nicole, this is Holly. He’s a federal agent sent here to complicate my life. Bring us both one of these.” Clayton tapped his empty glass.

Holly held out a hand. “It’s Simon, and you better make his water.”

Nicole cupped his hand with both of hers and leaned in close, making sure Simon got an eyeful of the same award-winning cleavage she’d showed off to Clayton earlier. She spoke in a whisper. “I was just about to call his wife to come get him.”

“I got him,” Holly said, and winked at her.

“Cool,” she said, and off
she floated to the other side of the bar. Holly leaned forward and watched her move. This time, Clayton did, too.

“Your day go any better than mine?” Clayton said.

“We had an incident off Highway 27 near a place called Broadwater. I was close, so they put me on it.”

“An incident?”

“Yeah, looks like a hijacking gone wrong. We got one body.”

“Who bought the farm? A hijacker,
or hijackee?”

“Hijacker, we’re assuming, unless he was jogging along the highway with an assault rifle and a clown mask. The scene was scrubbed clean before the state boys got there, but we impounded an empty moving truck, and we think there might have been bikes involved. We found a broken Harley side mirror, and the skid marks are consistent with someone laying one down.”

“Bikes,” Clayton
said. “Is it related to our thing?”

“I’m not one hundred percent, but I’ve got ears in Florida that tell me they were moving a bundle of cash this way. It fits with the schedule they keep. But nothing is cement right now. The staties are dragging ass on telling me anything else.”

“That’s because half the state patrol is in Halford’s pocket. That whole area around Broadwater is a dead zone.
Did you ID the dead guy?”

“Yup. No ID on him, but we ran his prints through IAFIS . . . Um . . . IAFIS is a national database of—”

Clayton held his hand up. “I know what IAFIS is.”

“Right. Anyway, we got a hit. The guy’s name is Allen Bankey. Does that name ring any bells?”

Clayton thought about it. “Nope.”

Nicole appeared and set two glasses of water down on the bar and a
fresh bourbon for Holly. He smiled and nodded politely. Once Nicole bounced away, he kept talking. “He’s ex-military,” Holly said. “We think he was part of a crew but got left after he went down. Surprisingly, the guy’s file is pretty clean except for a bullshit statutory rape charge from a few years back.”

“How is a rape charge bullshit?” Clayton said, looking at his water like it was some
kind of alien artifact.

“The girl was sixteen, but you’d never know it looking at her. The sex was consensual. The parents let it go, knowing their daughter was no prize, but the state picked it up and the next thing you know, boom—G.I. Joe is a lifelong registered sex offender. It happens all the time.”

“And now he’s dead.”

“As Elvis. You’re sure you don’t know him?”

“Never heard
of an Allen Bankey.” Clayton swallowed the water in two gulps. “But bring the file by the office tomorrow and I’ll take a look.”

“Done,” Holly said, and guzzled half his drink.

“Hey, Sweet Tits,” roared a voice at the other end of the bar. Clayton looked over and shook his head. Big Joe Dooley was back, looking to fill his glass and blowing kisses at Nicole. Clayton pushed up off his stool
and put on his hat. “I’ll be right back.”

Holly saw Clayton steady himself from the alcohol-induced head rush but made no attempt to help him. He watched curiously as the sheriff crossed the room and grabbed Joe Dooley by the scruff of hair on the back of his thick, sweaty neck. Before the big boy could react, Clayton pushed down hard and slammed Joe’s forehead into the copper-plated bar.
The crack of bone on metal reverberated through the room and knocked over several glasses to both sides of them. People scattered and jumped out of the way, making space for the big boy to fall, but Clayton didn’t let go. He held Joe’s face there against the bar to anchor himself until he could twist one of Joe’s arms up and behind his back. Holly smiled. He was impressed that the sheriff could hold
his own as drunk as he was. He used the moment to fish a few Percocet from his pocket and washed them down with the rest of his bourbon.

“I thought I told you to watch your mouth,” Clayton said.

Joe answered the best he could from the position he was in. “No, you didn’t. You . . . you . . . told me to move . . . I did.”

“I told you to stay clear of Nicole.” Clayton pushed down hard,
smearing the left side of Joe’s face flatter against the cold metal. Nicole stood back, wide-eyed, with both hands covering her mouth. Holly almost laughed out loud.

“Well, goddamn, Sheriff,” Joe said through the side of his mouth not smashed down against the bar. “How am I supposed to get a drink around here? She’s the only one working.”

“Not my problem.”

“This is bullshit. I ain’t
done nothing wrong.”

“Maybe I just don’t like the way you talk to women, Joe.”

“Maybe I don’t care what you think.” Joe was getting over his fear of the badge now, being more in fear of town-wide embarrassment. Clayton could feel him starting to buck. He leaned in. “Say you’re sorry.”

“Fuck you.”

That’s when Holly saw the lights go out in Clayton’s face. He’d seen that look before
on the faces of a lot of men he’d had to put down. The sheriff went full dark. Holly knew he would. Clayton yanked down hard on Big Joe’s neck and kicked his legs out from underneath him. Joe hit the floor hard. Falling bar stools collided into the few remaining patrons, who quickly made for the exits. Clayton used a size-eleven cowboy boot to kick Joe over flat on his back, and then used that
same boot to step down on his face. “Fuck who?”

Holly sipped his water and stood. He was amazed at how fast it had happened. He’d almost written Clayton off as a sloppy drunk. Nothing like what he’d expected him to be, but he was wrong. He didn’t even realize how wrong until he saw Clayton’s gun drawn and pointed at Joe’s head. He never even saw him draw it.

“Whoa, Sheriff,” Holly said,
stepping into the fray. “That’s enough. Put it away. Let him up.”

“Apologize,” Clayton said again, not letting the big man move.

“I’m sorry, Sheriff, I’m sorry.”

Clayton thumbed back the hammer. “To the girl, fat ass. Apologize to the girl.” A dark stain spread over Big Joe’s crotch as he pissed himself.

“I’m sorry, Nicole. Jesus, I didn’t mean anything by it. I’m sorry. I’m so
sorry.”

Holly put both his hands up in front of Clayton as a form of surrogate surrender for the man on the floor. “Put it away, Sheriff. Put the gun away and let him up.”

Clayton switched his rabid glare from Big Joe to Agent Holly, who kept his hands up and repeated slowly, “Put . . . it . . . away.” Clayton finally did. He slid the Colt into his holster and took his foot off Joe’s face.
The big boy scuffled away across the floor toward the door. When he got outside, a few people in the crowd helped him to his feet. For a moment he looked like he was going to say something, but Holly stopped him with three words. From the door, he pointed one finger at Big Joe and said, “Don’t. Just go.” Big Joe took the advice.