finish the job.”
Patrick pinched the bridge of his nose as if to clear his mind of suffering, a gesture he’d perfected on television. Zap Owler muttered under his breath and went back to his short stack.
Weaver was pissed off. He slapped the table hard enough to make the coffee slop out of his mug. He was composing a statement and it was going to be short and to the point. At which moment, a merry jingle sounded: The front door swung open and Danny Adelman walked in. Zap Owler shrank himself until he was hidden behind the rest of the patrons.
Betty appeared to take Danny’s arrival as her cue, addressing Danny but speaking to Weaver: “Okay, mister, here’s one of our local heroes right now, Sheriff Danielle Adelman: She done three tours of Iraq, got wounded but she won’t say where. You tell ’em, Danny, you think America ought to walk away from all the sacrifice we made or you think we oughtta finish the job?”
Danny took in the room, scanning the faces that turned in her direction. She moved a lot like Weaver, Patrick thought. Same way of speaking slowly. She took off her hat and leaned on the counter.
“Sacrifice? It doesn’t look like anybody here is suffering much.”
Betty squeezed herself in behind the counter.
“You know what I mean. The usual?”
“One egg sandwich. However Wolfman likes it.”
“He finally in the lockup?”
“Lemme know when it’s ready.” Danny strolled on over to Patrick and Weaver.
“Sorry to barge in on you like this. I saw that land yacht outside and I figured it belonged to one of you gents.”
“It’s ours.” Patrick looked extremely guilty. Weaver gave her the Lone Ranger smile. Patrick blurted: “How did you guess?”
The sheriff considered this.
“That’s an expensive bus, and you got the most expensive clothes in town. Thing is, you’re taking up too many spaces. Got to park it up the road well off the shoulder. But take your time. Up here the shoulder goes down five hundred feet in some places.”
Betty called up Danny’s order. Danny put her hat back on. “You all havea great day,” she said, and walked to the door with the go-bag. Then a string of firecrackers went off in the street, and Danny flinched involuntarily, half-ducking back through the open door. Wounded on the inside , Patrick thought. Maybe that was Weaver’s problem, too.
Back in the station, Danny strapped on her walkie-talkie with the shoulder microphone, told Dave to get some rack time and be back on second shift at 8:00 P.M . (he welcomed the overtime), and pushed the sandwich in its paper bag through the bars of Wulf Gunnar’s cell. The man was still heavily asleep on the narrow cot bolted to the wall. To hell with him. Nick was supposed to take radio duty at the communications center now, but he was on his way back from his tour of the neighborhood. Danny resisted the urge to look in the bathroom mirror, contenting herself with a glance in the reflection on her office window. Then she went outside again.
Forest Peak was only an hour from downtown Los Angeles, traffic permitting, and might as well have been in another country, it was so smalltown and quaint—so it made for a convenient day-trip getaway from everything L.A. No palm trees, only evergreens. Snow in the winter. The hip, ironic Angelenos enjoyed Forest Peak for its guileless Americana; for others, the town was a reminder of where they came from—other small towns in other places, left behind for the biggest big city. Then again, many folks simply liked the fresh mountain air.
The crowd was picking up: babies on fathers’ shoulders, kids with balloons, Los Angeles bottle-blondes with their Gucci shades and fifty-dollar tubes of sunscreen, lots of Latino families from the flatlands, some with five or six kids. There was a guy on stilts dressed as Uncle Sam, probably hired by Gordy to attract business to the hardware store. The band played on. It might have been “Lady Marmalade” they were playing, or a
Patrick pinched the bridge of his nose as if to clear his mind of suffering, a gesture he’d perfected on television. Zap Owler muttered under his breath and went back to his short stack.
Weaver was pissed off. He slapped the table hard enough to make the coffee slop out of his mug. He was composing a statement and it was going to be short and to the point. At which moment, a merry jingle sounded: The front door swung open and Danny Adelman walked in. Zap Owler shrank himself until he was hidden behind the rest of the patrons.
Betty appeared to take Danny’s arrival as her cue, addressing Danny but speaking to Weaver: “Okay, mister, here’s one of our local heroes right now, Sheriff Danielle Adelman: She done three tours of Iraq, got wounded but she won’t say where. You tell ’em, Danny, you think America ought to walk away from all the sacrifice we made or you think we oughtta finish the job?”
Danny took in the room, scanning the faces that turned in her direction. She moved a lot like Weaver, Patrick thought. Same way of speaking slowly. She took off her hat and leaned on the counter.
“Sacrifice? It doesn’t look like anybody here is suffering much.”
Betty squeezed herself in behind the counter.
“You know what I mean. The usual?”
“One egg sandwich. However Wolfman likes it.”
“He finally in the lockup?”
“Lemme know when it’s ready.” Danny strolled on over to Patrick and Weaver.
“Sorry to barge in on you like this. I saw that land yacht outside and I figured it belonged to one of you gents.”
“It’s ours.” Patrick looked extremely guilty. Weaver gave her the Lone Ranger smile. Patrick blurted: “How did you guess?”
The sheriff considered this.
“That’s an expensive bus, and you got the most expensive clothes in town. Thing is, you’re taking up too many spaces. Got to park it up the road well off the shoulder. But take your time. Up here the shoulder goes down five hundred feet in some places.”
Betty called up Danny’s order. Danny put her hat back on. “You all havea great day,” she said, and walked to the door with the go-bag. Then a string of firecrackers went off in the street, and Danny flinched involuntarily, half-ducking back through the open door. Wounded on the inside , Patrick thought. Maybe that was Weaver’s problem, too.
Back in the station, Danny strapped on her walkie-talkie with the shoulder microphone, told Dave to get some rack time and be back on second shift at 8:00 P.M . (he welcomed the overtime), and pushed the sandwich in its paper bag through the bars of Wulf Gunnar’s cell. The man was still heavily asleep on the narrow cot bolted to the wall. To hell with him. Nick was supposed to take radio duty at the communications center now, but he was on his way back from his tour of the neighborhood. Danny resisted the urge to look in the bathroom mirror, contenting herself with a glance in the reflection on her office window. Then she went outside again.
Forest Peak was only an hour from downtown Los Angeles, traffic permitting, and might as well have been in another country, it was so smalltown and quaint—so it made for a convenient day-trip getaway from everything L.A. No palm trees, only evergreens. Snow in the winter. The hip, ironic Angelenos enjoyed Forest Peak for its guileless Americana; for others, the town was a reminder of where they came from—other small towns in other places, left behind for the biggest big city. Then again, many folks simply liked the fresh mountain air.
The crowd was picking up: babies on fathers’ shoulders, kids with balloons, Los Angeles bottle-blondes with their Gucci shades and fifty-dollar tubes of sunscreen, lots of Latino families from the flatlands, some with five or six kids. There was a guy on stilts dressed as Uncle Sam, probably hired by Gordy to attract business to the hardware store. The band played on. It might have been “Lady Marmalade” they were playing, or a
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