The police station outside of Goodwell was of modest construction, built on the cheap. Two desks filled the open interior, a small two-drawer by the front door and a larger metal one in the back next to the sole window. Two fans helped circulate the air that struggled through the vents, pushed along by a decrepit air-conditioning unit.
A vintage cell sat to one side, its swinging door left open. There was hardly ever a reason to close it, even when it was occupied with the occasional drunk. “Best to leave it open and let ’em get to the bathroom” were the words of the police chief who had taken up residence at the big desk several decades ago.
He went by the name Red, even though he didn’t have red hair, and his skin was a dark, leathery tan rather than of Indian descent. No one really knows why that name stuck to him, it just did.
He had passed the sixty-year mark awhile back—how long ago was anybody’s guess—but he still had the strength of his youth in his body, which was not fit, yet not all soft.
The desk where he sat was light of paperwork, as nothing really happened out this way. And that was the way Red liked it best. There were two framed photographs sitting next to the phone: his wife, who had died ten years earlier, and an old black-and-white picture of Red and two of his buddies from the war. Red stood between the two shirtless Marines, wearing a dirty white T-shirt, the modesty his mother taught him following him all the way to Khe Sanh. The pictures were all he had left of the three people in them.
Across the room sat James, a local kid turned cop, who was decades past a kid. Tall and wiry, James had never fully grown into his body. A bit on the timid side for Red at times, but he was simple and honest, did what he was told, and could be trusted for even the most mundane task.
Two old farts growing old together in misery’s outpost.
James looked back at Red. “Sure is hot today, eh, Red?”
“Just like every day I suppose.”
“Said it’s supposed to be up past 115 today.”
“Yup.”
James stood up and looked out the front door. Same barrenness, same view. “Well, I guess I might as well go make a round. Not much here to do.”
Red glanced up from the papers he was reading. “Take it easy, James.”
“I will. Probably swing in and see Gladys, see what she has on tap for today.”
Gladys ran the local greasy spoon, the only restaurant in Goodwell.
“Tell her I said hi.”
“Will do, Red.” James grabbed his hat and opened the front door. The heat from outside slapped his face and took his breath away.
“Man, that’s hot,” he mumbled as he stepped into the furnace, causing Red to chuckle at his deputy.
Red had another deputy out on the road, Officer PJ Morey. She was young and pretty and did not fit in with James and him. Sugar to his overcooked jerky. He didn’t really need another cop out here, but as a favor to PJ’s old man, he took her in so she wouldn’t go looking for a job in Vegas. Officer Morey was the bright spot in Red and James’s day, even though they would never admit it to anyone. She brought a sliver of happiness to the dry desert boredom.
The radio on James’s desk came to life, and Red got up to answer it.
“Red, you there?” said a feminine voice, trying to sound harder than was possible.
“Here, PJ. What you got going on?”
“Not much. Nobody’s out today. Too hot, I guess.”
“You’re not going to make your quota then?” Red joked.
“I guess not. James out?”
“Yeah, he’s heading over to get some free food. You should join him.”
“Gladys’s air-conditioning working today?”
“Yup.”
“Sounds good. You should join us, Red.”
Red smiled at himself at the foolish notion that he was getting asked out. “Naw, you two relax over there. I’ll see you both tomorrow.”
“All right.”
He strolled back over to his desk and sat back down, staring blankly out the window at the western desert and mountain range.
Yup, it sure was a hot one today.
Just like any other day.