CHAPTER 52
Bucky thought about what Kindra had said. Was she right to believe there was a greater good than turning in a killer? Daddy said corporations and crooked politicians had destroyed the lives of common fishermen. The citizens of Defiance were those same kind of folks. Bucky came to Defiance to one day become mayor and do good for the town and its people. Would turning in Gustafson mess up those goals?
He scooped up his dirty clothes to take to the Laundromat, and, while stripping the bed sheets, knocked over a picture of his kid sister. She had on a Robin Hood Halloween costume. Smiling, he dusted the picture with his sleeve and put it back.
By the time he returned from the Laundromat, he knew what he’d do. Alsop said he had integrity, and that he himself admired it. But he also said that in politics you’ve got to make judgments. Nourishment for one fella may poison another. The mayor’s television speech was the same garbage, and so was Doc Little’s message to Kindra.
Bucky had thought, after talking to Alsop, that if he were in office, he’d do things differently. But maybe he didn’t have to wait until then. He opened his Carnegie book. To win friends and influence people, one must be true to oneself. He closed the book. Tomorrow he’d tell Chief Trigger everything.
***
Thud, thud, thud! “Police! Open up!”
Bucky’s eyes flung open. The clock hands pointed to one twenty, and someone was pounding on his door with fists, not knuckles.
A man’s voice boomed, “Ontario! Open the door!”
“Hold on.” Bucky’s voice felt gritty with sleep. He rolled out of bed and stumbled to the front door. He opened it a notch, and it bashed against his forehead. “What the fuck!”
Mr. Johnston, Doc Little, and Chief Trigger barged past him.
“You’re in a heap of trouble, asshole,” Chief Trigger said.
Johnston began turning on lights.
Bucky’s heart thudded against his breastbone. “What trouble?”
Chief Trigger yanked up a chair. “Put your ass down.”
Bucky heard Johnston or Doc Little opening kitchen cabinets.
“You think you can waltz into the Tulsa police station, impersonate a police officer, and walk out with whatever the fuck you want?”
“You’re crazy, I didn’t impersonate anyone.”
The chief grabbed a fistful of Bucky’s T-shirt and raised him off the chair. “Get lippy, and I’ll knock you through the goddamn wall.”
Bucky decided right then that Chief Trigger was not the man to confide in about Gustafson.
Johnston placed a hand on the chief’s shoulder, and the chief backed up. “Bucky,” Johnston said, “you’re a good man. I’d hate to see you find more trouble than you’re already in.” He pulled a chair around, sat, and straightened out a few wrinkles in Bucky’s shirt. “Let’s do this the easy way. Hand over the item you took from the Tulsa Police, and I think I can persuade Chief Trigger not to arrest you.”
Dammit! The minute Kindra left, she must’ve scurried over to Doc Little’s and blabbed her head off. He spread his hands. “I don’t have it.”
“Come on, now,” Johnston said with a smile, “we’re all friends and want to do the right thing.”
These bastards want to protect their buddy Gustafson and let dead Kansas take the fall. Bucky said, “Kindra convinced me not to mess with a case that’s officially closed, so last night, I threw it over Half Chance Bridge.”
“You lyin’ son of a bitch!” Chief Trigger stepped forward and swung a roundhouse punch, knocking Bucky to the floor. “You’ll be pricing crutches pretty quick.”
Johnston knelt beside him. “You don’t want to do this. You have a real future here, a chance to become a respected member of the community.”
Doc Little ran his hand down Bucky’s photographic enlarger. “Kindra said you see yourself as a businessman, someday a councilman, even mayor.”
His head throbbing, Bucky glared at him, too angry to consider his future. “Kindra told me you’d help her get into a good nursing college, but if she told about her grandfather being a murderer, no school would have her.” Bucky turned to Johnston. “Is that what it takes to be a respected member of this community, dishonesty and manipulation?”
“Now be nice,” Johnston said. “Tell us where it is. Believe me, it’s the best thing.”
Bucky got to his feet and spread his hands. “Honest, it’s gone.” He heard a crash and turned. His enlarger lay in pieces on the floor. “Hey, that was expensive!”
“You’ve had your chance, Bucky,” Johnston said and nodded to Chief Trigger.
A blurred fist crossed Bucky’s vision, and he slammed against a wall before the pain set in.
Trigger stomped over to Bucky’s bed and flung it upside down. He grabbed the picture of Bucky’s kid sister from the nightstand and drew back his arm.
“Okay! It’s in my car--assholes.”
***
The morning was gray and cold when Bucky dragged himself to work. He felt hollow as a dug-out canoe. A throbbing jaw, itchy left eye, and broken bed made for a crummy night’s sleep. He wanted to tell Alsop about his wonderful evening, but he wasn’t in. Wanted to tell him what he thought of the people governing this town. Pretty damn disgusting.
The food truck had just left when Sam dropped by Bucky’s desk, scooted up a chair, and placed a cup of something on the desk. He looked at Bucky’s black eye and nodded. “Must’ve been a high doorknob.”
Bucky didn’t want to explain. “Found myself in the middle of a bar fight while taking pictures.” He peered into Sam’s cup. “What’s that, soup?”
Sam crinkled his face. “When have you seen me eat soup? It’s chili.”
Bucky shot a glance toward Alsop’s empty office. “Where’s the boss?”
“Attending a special city council session.”
The words felt like something driven against Bucky’s chest. Were they talking about him? “They’re probably discussing their next pay raise. You know how big shots are. Say, what’s that joke you wanted to tell me about a guy robbing a bank?”
Sam grinned. “A guy goes into a bank and says, ‘Give me all your money, this is a screw up.’ The teller says, ‘Don’t you mean stick up?’ ‘No, screw up. I forgot my gun.’”
Alsop entered his office and closed the door.
“That’s a good one, Sam. I gotta go.”
Bucky hurried over and opened Alsop’s door a crack. “Can we talk?”
Alsop waved him in. “The council wants me to fire you. Have a seat.”
Bucky’s knees buckled and he collapsed into a chair. “You’re kidding?”
“Fuck the bastards. Don’t worry about it.”
“You mean--you mean I’m not fired?”
“Hell no, I’ve got a business to run.” He pointed to the showroom. “Now get out there and sell cars.”
“Wait a minute, Cal. Jesus, can we talk about this?”
“Look, no one tells me what to do. I’ve got Jo-Dee, and I’ve got my business. If it takes kowtowing to the old guard of this town to become mayor someday, then they can shove it.” With a wry smile, he added, “Of course, I’m only thirty-three. Those old farts won’t be around forever.”
***
The sun had fought its way through the clouds all afternoon, and Bucky was making good time getting to Tulsa. Feeling had returned to his jaw. Mostly painful. He wondered if every council member wanted Alsop to fire him, or just some.
The highway swept him right into town about two fifteen. He parked in front of the Fourth Street police station and approached the same desk sergeant he’d met when he picked up the foot impression.
“My name’s Bucky Ontar--”
“What do you want now?” he grumbled.
“I need to see Sergeant Grady.” Since Grady had expressed such dislike for Chief Trigger, Bucky figured he might be just the kind of person to report Gustafson to. Bucky would’ve talked to Willow, but she had said she was going down to Oklahoma City.
The sergeant reached for his phone. A minute later Bucky mounted the stairs to room 202.
He opened the door. Several cops sat at desks. The officer with jet-black hair and a snappy mustache that curled up like bird wings glanced up from his typing and motioned him over with a head jerk. The man wore a blue uniform that fit him the way a stall fits a horse. He had a weightlifter’s burly physique, a hard, no nonsense face, and fast fingers. “I’m Grady,” he said. “Have a seat. Be with you in a minute.”
Bucky sat listening to the rat-a-tat-tat of Grady’s typewriter, to the bell, to the shift. Line after line. Finally, the ratcheting sound of paper being yanked from the typewriter. Grady dropped the paper in the out box and leaned back in his chair. “Now, what can I do for you?”
For the next twenty minutes, Grady twirled his mustache and listened, while Bucky told him his belief about Gustafson cutting Will’s brake line and all the subsequent events. He admitted not knowing Gustafson’s motive, but believed the impression would match his shoe.
When Bucky finished, Grady got to his feet. “I’ll take care of it,” he said, like a magician about to wave a magic wand.
Thrilled at Grady’s willing assistance, Bucky stammered, “Wa--what’s going to happen?”
“The Garfield County Sheriff will get in touch with you. Go home and wait.”
Bucky liked that idea. A county sheriff would probably have more authority than just a policeman. He could barely believe this fantastic turn of events. Finally, he would talk to someone trustworthy, a cop who would do the right thing and hopefully put Gustafson away.