Crystal Meth Cowboys (16 page)

Wes looked up just as the hoped-for urination commenced. He wished for his surgical gloves. The Mayor was peeing everywhere but in the cup. Bell slipped behind the Mayor and placed a hand on either shoulder. He attempted to aim him in the right direction, but every twist of the Mayor's body resulted in an equal and opposite oscillation. For approximately one ten-billionth of a second Wes Lyedecker considered grabbing the obdurate organ and directing the stream. He glanced down at the plastic cup. Still empty. There certainly seemed to be a lot of bodily fluids involved in police work.

"Yo Braintree," barked Bell. "Get in the game!"

As a linebacker Wes Lyedecker's greatest talent had been his ability to anticipate. He didn't run to the ball, he ran to where the ball was going to
be
. This skill helped him now as he arched his back, extended his arm gingerly and collected the three fluid ounces of urine required by
the State of California to accurately determine the level of alcohol intoxication for a DUI conviction.

Wes backed away and shook his free hand dry. He raised the shimmering cup. Bell was pleased. The liquid was crystal clear, a sure .10 or better. Mayor Krumrie emptied his bladder on the concrete floor and the bloody suspect next door howled as if he were being disemboweled with a screwdriver.

Officer Bell smiled at his rookie and said, "Welcome to the glamorous world of law enforcement."

Chapter 15

"You ever hear the story of Peapicker the dog?" asked Bell, arching his eyebrows innocently.

"Oh, Jesus," groaned Sherri, lowering her head. She and Bell were sitting at one end of a long table of twenty people in the cozy banquet room of Mario's Italian Village in Conklin, a tiny traveler's stop of a town on the 101 freeway fifteen miles east of Wislow. The police contingent were clustered around them. Wes Lyedecker was there in coat and tie, as were Cyril Reese and Sgt. Carruth. But, as Bell had noted happily, no top brass were in attendance. Florence Jillison sat at the head of the table, resplendent in a forest green off the shoulder satin sheath accented with ruby drop earrings and matching choker. She was flanked by Larry Tenace, a well-respected public defender who was also her husband; Jackie Dilyay, the current director of the Rape Crisis Center, looking slightly electrocuted in a recent perm; Lester Van Duyn, the tiny, silver-maned chairman of the Wislow Senior Citizen's Council; and Yolanda Baldwin Jones, the buxom matron who presided over the Battered Women's Shelter with a baleful eye. Other Wislow dignitaries and campaign volunteers filled the middle of the table. They were celebrating Florence Jillison's stunning victory over Boss Hogg.

"This is a true story, happened down in Texas," said Bell to the smiling cops at his end of the table. "O'ccers respond to a multiple-victim shooting out in the boonies. They roll up and find two good ole boys a-bleedin' all over the farmhouse and this old hound dog a-whimperin' in the corner."

Bell paused and leaned forward on his elbows. The other cops inclined their heads. "Turns out," said Bell in
a voice just loud enough for the dignataries further up the table to overhear, "That this dog, Peapicker, was the subject of their dispute." Bell raised his head and chuckled to himself at what he was about to say. Sherri sat back and watched the inevitable unfold.

"It seems that Farmer A had trained ol' Peapicker in a very particular way. And Farmer B, well, he came by to borrow a back hoe one evening when he caught him a glimpse of ol' Peapicker in action,
orally copulating
ol' Farmer A and doin' a mighty fine job of it at that. Well…ol' Farmer B, he sez to himself, he sez, 'It shore is mighty lonesome out here on the lone prarie. I thank I jes better best steal me that dog!' So Farmer B, he gets him a nice big juicy Porterhouse and he
lures
ol' Peapicker away from his master's house in the dead o' night."

Bell tweaked his volume up another notch, aware that he now had the full attention of the table. Wes was mortified, sure that Bell had finally crossed Florence Jillison's threshold of tolerance. And had selected a supremely inappropriate time and place to do so.

"
Wellll
now, Farmer A he trudged on home from the fields at sundown the next evening, looking forward to a little, you know, relaxation. And he was one very distressed peckerwood to discover that ol' Peapicker was gone! He searched high and low, then rushed next door to ask Farmer B if'n he'd seen ol' Peapicker anywheres around. And
whut
do you think he saw?"

Bell xylophoned his eyeballs up one side of the table and down the other. There was no conversation, no chewing, no coughing. And several people had postponed breathing. "Damned if ol' Peapicker, the hound dog he had raised from a pup, wasn't
ministering
to ol' Farmer B."

In less than a second Bell sat back, spread his long hands skyward in a gesture of surprise, leaned forward and made his hand into a gun. "
Boom
. Boom, boom, boom, boom, boom, boom, boom,
boom
.
Boom
!" Bell stopped to sip his
beer. "Both men survived. Ol' Peapicker was incarcerated in the local pound till a suitable home could be found. And doncha know…" Bell paused again to set up the punch line, and to draw every last ounce of focus onto himself. "That dog pound was a-
flooded
with calls from concerned male citizens eager to give ol' Peapicker a happy home."

Only a few nervous titters escaped from the crowd. Bell recognized the problem instantly. Sometimes a secondary punch line was needed to unlock a laugh that had been building for a long time. It didn't even have to be funny, so long as it gave the audience time to fit all the pieces together and respond as one.

"Turns out, the local Sheriff had to adopt ol' Peapicker just to keep the peace!" added Bell, releasing a wave of uproarious laughter from the cops that surged nervously through the dignitaries and rolled toward Florence Jillison at the head of the table. Wes could hardly bring himself to look. But Florence Jillison laughed along with the rest of them, even tapping the table once or twice. Her husband Larry Tenace raised his upper lip and exposed his teeth.

Bell planted his feet, stood up and hoisted his beer. "Ladies and germs, I give you, the
new…
Mayor of Wislow!" The dignitaries toasted and clinked and cheered, relieved that they could now return their focus to its proper place. Florence arose and waved playfully, as if riding a float in a parade. The group settled back as she cleared her throat.

Wes looked around. In Boston the room would have been choked with reporters. But here the only outside witness to the Mayor-elect's acceptance speech was a Salvadoran busboy holding a pitcher of water. And he didn't seem the least bit interested.

"I don't know when I've had such an…unusual introduction," said Florence, eliciting more nervous laughter from the crowd. "But truly…" Florence took a beat to dignify her features. "I do consider this a new
beginning for Wislow. A very much needed changing of the guard. No more business as usual. No more government
to
the people, but government
by
the people. This will truly mark a new year for Wislow. And you know what they say on New Years Eve." Florence hoisted her wine glass. "Out with the old, and in with the new!"

Everyone at the table stood and applauded. Florence spread her bare freckled arms and funneled the adoration into her bosom. Wes sneaked a peak at Bell, who clapped vigorously, a trembling smile on his lips and even, could it be, a fat drop of moisture at the corner of his eye.

-----

The bar in Mario's Italian Village was decorated in cowboy chic. Bell, Sherri, Florence, Larry Tenace and Wes Lyedecker sat around a rough-hewn table covered in polyurethane. They were all that remained of the victory celebration. Florence was answering the question that Bell had posed. How in the hell did you pull it off?

"Dumb luck I guess. Sounding the right note at the right time. Riding the tide of change. I don't really know."

Wes waited to see if Florence would mention the TV commercial that had saturated the airwaves the last few days. Bell was obviously angling for a public pat on the head. Wes hoped she wouldn't bring it up. Florence caressed the stem of her wine glass absently. The blonde streaks in her hair shown pale white in the flickering gas light of the wagon wheel fixture hanging by a chain above their heads. Wes thought she looked exhausted. Then she raised her chin and her face came alive.

"But I
do
know that these two gentlemen provided the initial breakthrough with their very powerful radio commercial on my behalf," said Florence. Though seated, she seemed to beam down upon them from above. Bell patted his
shaggy mane. The group muttered their approval. Wes, embarrassed, turned away to find Florence's husband staring at him.

Larry Tenace had the square-jawed pale-browed face of America in the 1930's. Clean shaven, every hair in place, but befuddled by the deepening depression that was dragging his nation down. This befuddlement was captured in enormous corneas of the most heartbreaking robin's egg blue. Wes had not been aware that Florence was a married woman. He hadn't done anything to feel guilty about in any event. So why did he feel Larry's oversized eyeballs boring a hole in his forehead?

"What do we call you now?" asked Wes, just to be saying something.

"Excuse me?" said Larry Tenace, blinking his eyes back into focus. He had been looking at Wes but not seeing him.

"What do we call you now? Now that your wife is Mayor?" Larry retained his puzzled look. Wes continued. "In Boston they call Hillary the 'Presidential Partner'."

Larry nodded at this. "I hadn't given it much thought," he said. "I guess 'First Lady' will be good enough for me."

Larry Tenace said this without a trace of bitterness or irony, a simple declarative sentence. Either this man has the dryest sense of humor in America, thought Wes, or he's a 51-50.

"OK," said Bell to Florence. "Here is my list of ninety-four non-negotiable demands. Chaffeur driven squad cars…"

"Of course," said Florence.

"A drop-dead gorgeous masseuse in the men's locker room for those tense neck muscles after shift…"

"Absolutely!"

"
And…"
Bell leaned forward. "…the
day
you're sworn in I want Chief Frank Sunomoka's head on a pike in the center of the town square."

Florence scolded Bell with a look but he nodded and leaned forward, the intent of the demand quite clear beneath the joke. Florence sat back and appeared to consider the proposition. At last she shook her head. "We don't have a town square."

Bell said "
Doooooohhh
" as Sherri and Wes laughed and Larry Tenace looked befuddled. Wes looked around for the waitress with the pony skirt and petticoats. He stood up. "Can I get anyone anything?" he asked.

Sherri ordered another Brandy Alexander, then grabbed his sleeve and inspected him critically. "You look thin. Are you feeding yourself?"

Wes shrugged, reclaiming his arm. "Best I know how."

Sherri turned to Florence. "Doesn't he look thin to you?" Florence braced her hand on the laminated table and craned her neck upwards. "Thinner than he was," she concluded after a long moment of appraisal that, for Wes, unspooled outward into the expanding universe for eon upon eon of skull-cracking self-consciousness.

"You should come and live with us," said Sherri.

-----

"OK, fact of the matter, no bullshit, here's the deal - cops should never live near civilians in close quarters," said Bell, standing in the middle of his small U-shaped kitchen. Sherri was noisily searching for something in the dining room as Wes and Florence sat on counter stools under the twin beams of the track lights. The rest of the house was dark.

"Once they find out who you are, they start out keying your paint job. Then it's late night hang-ups, dead mice in your mail slot, 'PIG' scrawled on your front door, all leading up to a drunken, extremely nasty, blood-spattering, so-bad-you-can't-believe-it late-night shootout in the apartment house laundry room."

Sherri returned carrying a graceful bell jar containing a thick decorative candle. "Tom had this screaming heebie-jeebie fight with a neighbor lady in the laundry room of our old apartment," she said.

"Hey, che was madddoggin' me, mang. Che was gibing me the evil eye, the…"

"
Ojo malo
, we know," said Sherri, setting the bell jar down on the kitchen counter. She lit a match after several tries and tilted the bell jar towards her. The match head danced around and around inside the bell jar before it touched the wick. Bell rolled down the track light rheostat as a tongue of flame sputtered shadows on the wall. The scent of jasmine filled the air. "There now, there now, there now" said Sherri. "That's better, don't you think?"

"Much," said Florence from her seat beside Wes.

The candlelit intimacy of the scene gave Wes a jolt. "I already signed a six month lease at the Lei Lani," he said to fill the silence.

"BFD. You're a cop," said Bell. "They'll be glad to be rid of you. Nobody but old ladies and Mormons wanna live next door to a cop."

Wes stared at the flickering candle. What
was
all this? If Bell had invited him to move in Wes would have dismissed it as too much beer. But Sherri had asked him first. And women, he knew, were very territorial about their living space. "Geez, I…I'm flattered, I really am," Wes heard himself say. "But I really don't understand why you would…"

"We need the geet," said Bell from the kitchen. He watched his wife refill Florence's glass with trembling hands, watched her turn to Wes with the bottle and giggle when she saw Wes was drinking beer, watched her take a wicked pull from the bottle. Nobody was paying him the least attention. "Geetus, jack, snaps, samoleons, swag, long green, what makes the world go round."

"Wes," said Sherri. "Your hands are
freezing
. Just feel his hands."

Florence gathered up Wes' chilly hands in her warm silken ones. "They're much too cold," agreed Florence in a husky drawl just this side of slurring. "Much."