CHIEF BALL KEPT his wrath and tongue in check as he contemplated the arrogant federal agent whom he’d just dismissed. Teeth clenched, he stomped out of the village hall, down the white wooden steps, and around the back to the path that led to Maple Avenue, where he lived with his wife.
The federal people had egos the size of the Lincoln Memorial. The younger they were, the more full of themselves they were. And the women were the worst.
Ball waved at his neighbor, who was ushering his two sons to Little League practice. Ball had to be nice to Marco, because the shortcut was on Marco’s property.
Actually, Ball decided, he didn’t have to be nice to anyone. He made up for it by scowling at Scott Salotti, who was mowing his lawn next door.
So they were still interested in Forester, were they? They couldn’t just take “no” for an answer and move on?
“Hi, honey,” said his wife from the kitchen when he came in the front door. “Dinner’s ready.”
Ball didn’t bother answering. He went up to the bedroom and changed out of his uniform.
“Your beer’s on the table,” his wife said when he came into the kitchen. She rose on her tiptoes and kissed him on his cheek. “Something wrong?”
“Just the usual.”
“Village board talking about cutting back the part-timers’ hours again?”
“Nothing specific.” Ball took a swig of the beer, Miller Lite. “I’m going out after dinner.”
“But we were going to watch Survivor together.”
“Another time.”
A pout appeared on his wife’s face. But it dissipated quickly, as they always did.