Junkyard Dogs Read Online Free PDF Page B

Rawlins at the state prison’s maximum security wing. I’d had him for less than a year but liked him and wanted to keep him. “Why?”
    It took him a moment to respond. “I think I’m better suited working in an environment where I know everybody’s guilty.”
    I smiled. “At least judged to be guilty by a jury of their peers.”
    “Well then, in an environment where I can treat everybody as if they’re guilty.” I didn’t say anything. “Look, I know you’re going to try and talk me out of doing this . . .”
    “No, I’m not.”
    “You’re not?”
    “Nope.” I tipped my hat back and looked at him. “You decide to go, I’ll give you a recommendation that’ll turn the state attorney general’s head, but the only thing I ask is that you give it a few weeks and not make your move too quickly. It seems to me you’ve got an awful lot on your plate right now and—”
    “I’m giving you my two-weeks’ notice as of today.” He turned back to the glass.
    So much for the wise ol’ sheriff routine.
    I closed my mouth, took a breath, and continued to inspect him for remnants of the man I’d hired fourteen months ago. It was a tough business coming to terms with your own mortality, and some people, once they are confronted with its face, never forget its features. “Okay.”
    We returned to the silence, and then he spoke again. “I’ve talked it over with Marie.”
    I thought about Martha and how she’d never adjusted to the life. “Okay.” The word was like a bad taste.
    “You still want me for the two weeks?”
    I thought about all those years, all those times I’d thought about quitting. “You bet.”
    I cracked open my door, and even in the cold, the smell was like a wall.
    I had noticed that Duane had approached the driver’s side of the truck, but Sancho hadn’t. When Duane tapped on the driver’s side window, Santiago started, which made Duane jump back in turn, whereupon he lost his balance and fell onto the frozen ground, which was pooled with a slick of motor oil and frozen rusty water.
    Sancho turned and looked at me. “Jesus.”
    I opened the door the rest of the way, and Dog jumped out. I gave Duane a hand up. There were tattoos on his knuckles and under his thermal hood was a T-shirt with the inscription, MESS WITH ME, AND YOU MESS WITH THE WHOLE TRAILER PARK. The humor didn’t seem to match the young man’s sensibilities, so someone must’ve bought it for him or maybe I was underestimating Duane.
    “You guys here about the hand?”
    I nodded. “We heard it was just a finger.”
    He looked nervous, but then he always looked nervous when we were around. He still smelled vaguely like marijuana. “Yunh-huh, yeah, a finger.”
    I heard a low growl and looked at Dog, who was sitting on my foot. He was transfixed and looking directly at the junkyard’s quasi-office where, in one of the claw-scarred, Plexiglas windows, Butch and Sundance were seated at attention with only their heads showing. They were as big as Dog but not as bulky. He growled again, low enough to quake my own lungs, and I swatted at him.
    “Stop it.” He easily evaded my hand and looked at me, hurt at my admonishment. I threw a chin toward the two Heinz fifty-seven variety wolves. “They’re behaving, so you better be good or I’ll put you back in the truck.”
    I glanced at the two sets of eyes that studied us, aware that even if they were behaving, it didn’t mean they weren’t planning. There was something about the way they sat there quietly that reminded me of what my friend Henry Standing Bear says about the quiet ones being like the Cheyenne, waiting until you were in a compromised position, then moving to action. For now, they were behind closed doors, and I was just as glad.
    “Are you watching the office for your grandfather?”
    “Yunh-huh.”
    “Where’s he?”
    He gestured with a thick hand. “That way.”
    I nodded and started off. “Make sure to keep Butch and Sundance in the office,