Walkin’ into my office was like déjà vu—times three. Three men in suits, one of ’em sittin’ at my desk, all with shades an’ attitudes. I said, “I ’spect you got your reasons for bargin’ in here like you own the place.”
The one in my chair showed me his federal ID an’ said, “ATF.” He was wearin’ a gray suit an’ flat-heel shoes.
I said, “Yeah. So?”
“We want your file on that John Doe homicide you reported.”
“You mean ATF agent George Arnold?”
That set ’em down a peg.
“What do you know about it?” the one in the brown suit axed.
“I know someone killed him an’ dumped his remains in a ditch.”
“Effing state cops,” Brown Suit said.
The third man had on a blue suit, I guess so civilians could tell ’em apart. Brown Suit grabbed the front of my uniform—just like a bad guy in the movies—an’ said, “We don’t have time for games.”
I stared at his hand ’til he let go. “Who writes your dialogue?”
He looked ready to punch me out, but Gray Suit told him, “That’s enough.” To me, he said, “We would appreciate your cooperation.” It looked like his jaw hurt to say it.
“Well, when you put it like that, what kin I do for you?” I pretended I wasn’t the only one standin’—in my own office.
“We really need to see your file on the case.”
I shrugged. I noticed the cat whisker I’d closed in the file cabinet drawer was missin’. They wouldn’t’a axed for the file if they’d been able to locate it. I fished it out of my OUT tray, where I’d left it earlier, an’ dropped it on the desk in front of Gray Suit. He skimmed it an’ glanced at all the pi’tures. “What’d you do with the negatives?”
“I forget.”
He stuffed the file back together an’ stood up. “Well, when you remember, put ’em in a safe place. We’ll be back.”
I was glad I’d thought to make copies of the file. I said, “Don’t forget to bring a court order.” I waited ’til he was clear of the desk, then sat down an’ put my feet on it. When the first one was out the door, I said, “Bye the bye, there was a fella in here last week callin’ hisself Arnold.”
That got ’em. They stopped an’ turned ’round together, like a small flock of pigeons. Gray Suit said, “What did you say?”
I repeated myself.
“What did he look like?”
“Kinda like you. Male Caucasian, six-two, two-hundred pounds, mid-forties. He had on snakeskin boots, though.”
The three of ’em looked at one another. “What did he want?” Gray Suit axed.
“Said he was lookin’ for Ash Jackson.”
“Why?”
“Didn’t say. Told me to mind my own business.”
“Where do we find this Jackson?”
“Can’t say. Ain’t seen him lately. ’Course with so many folks out lookin’ for him, it’s no wonder he’s made hisself scarce.”
“What would you guess this impostor wanted with him?”
“I dunno. Maybe Ash owed him money.”