A Drink With the Sheriff
“Is your car simple?” Bob Judd, the county Sherriff, is leaning across the table staring hard into my eyes.
“Holy shit, Bob, where the fuck did you come from? Where are we?” I look around. Some kind of over-priced restaurant. Gotta be Daytona. There are scraps of steak on the plate in front of me. There’s also a half empty bottle of Macallan Rare Cask on the table between us. Ruthie’s.
“Son, have you gone wet brain on me? I just wanna know if your car is simple. Can I just get in it and drive it home?”
“Well, yeah, but why?”
“I’m being indicted, boy, don’t you watch the news? I gotta sell the Porsche or lose it and you’re the only other fucker I know with a whale-tail and the ability to appreciate the good stuff. Not that you’ve been kickin’ that much ass lately.’ He grabs the bottle and takes a healthy swig. He plants it back exactly between us, a little hard. I grab it by the neck and do a shot myself. That or maybe get shot. I look over at the entrance and there they are, two beefy guys in Walmart plainclothes. They are both looking at me.
“Bob, I know you’re having some political trouble but what’s that got to do with me? And listen, sir, I’m broke. Really broke. I couldn’t afford the down payment on your 930 even if you gave it to me.”
“Too bad, ya little fucker, ‘cause that’s exactly what I’m gonna do. She’s yours. Just don’t wreck her before I come back for her, which will be five-to-twenty years, depending on how the Grand Jury turns out. Ha!” He grabs the bottle and slugs down a murderous amount of very expensive Scotch whiskey.
“Bob, you know Molly over at the Crooked Angel?”
“I wish I did, son. That was you and Cromwell, I thought.”
“Once upon a time, sir. But these keys go to a Jeep out back that is still in her name.”
“That old piece of shit we busted ya in five years ago? Damn. I guess some things never change.”
“Yeah. Well, good luck with that Grand Jury deal. “ I take the keys to the Porsche and walk out the back entry. The plainclothes guys stand up but I see Sherriff Bob call them off with a tired wave of his hand and for just a moment I am sorry for him; sorry for Old Bob and all his misdeeds and somehow, like a distant echo from somewhere far away, I am also sorry for myself. There have been misdeeds there, too.
