"Really," I
say, trying to fit as much disbelief and sarcasm as is possible into those two
syllables.
"Yes, sir."
I stare at the
16-year-old boy for a good while, before allowing my eyebrow to lift.
"You're visiting
your girlfriend whose last name you can't quite recall at this time, whose
first name is either 'Stacey' or 'Shelly' depending on when you're asked; and
you're not sure what her address is, but it's -- and let me quote this: 'On a street'."
Long pause.
"Umm ...
yeah?"
"Ah. And as far as romantic gifts go, your lady is
perfectly happy with a gym-bag packed with," I pull each object out one at
a time, "A ski mask, a pair of leather work gloves, and -- goodness -- a crowbar."
The kid is looking at
everything except me.
"We all need to
be honest here, so let me be the first:
You, sir, are a thief. Ah! Let me finish. The fact that you do not have a criminal
history attached to your name merely tells me that you are a here-unto-for lucky
thief. You're not here to visit your
girlfriend, because any girl young enough to be dating you will be at tonight's
Homecoming football game. Where --
coincidentally enough -- much of the rest of the town is located. Which leads us to yourself, wandering the
empty streets all by your ownsome with naught but a bag of burglars tools to
keep you company."
I can hear him
swallow, so I take a step forward, crowding his personal space.
"So, there's two
ways this is going to settle out. The
first is that I take you, and your stuff, back to the office, I call the
football stadium and when a member of West Podunk High School faculty shows up,
I tell them what I think is going on, give them you and your bag of goodies,
and wave bye-bye."
I don't think he
likes that idea.
"The second way
is that I hand you this receipt for your bag of burglars tools, you take your
self back to the stadium and I don't see hide nor hair of you outside of that
stadium for the rest of the evening. Tomorrow,
you bring that receipt and a parent to the office, and I give you back your
crowbar, your gloves and your ski-mask."
I'm guessing from the
nodding that the second choice is a bit more palatable.
"Five blocks
that way. You can't miss the
lights. Scram."
*sigh*
Hopefully, he's taken
enough of a scare to persuade him that the critter life isn't for him. Yeah, and as long as I'm hoping, can I get a
long-legged lingerie model with a bag of grapes? I file the fink card -- excuse me "Field
Interview Card" in the Bloody Idiots file in my briefcase and clear the
call.
It's one of those
lovely fall Panhandle evenings, so about ten minutes later I park the Super
Scooter at the end of Second Street, get out, and start checking doors on what
passes as the Main Business District of Bugscuffle, Texas.
Three doors later, I
smile slightly as a roar echoes lightly around the front porch. A moment later, the sounds of musical
instruments played maybe with a little more enthusiasm than skill follow. Sounds like the Bugscuffle Fighting Rednecks
are doing well this evening.
I push gently on the
door I'm facing -- and it swings open.
*sigh*
Crap.
"Car 12,
County."
"Go ahead,
12."
"I've an open
door at 1201 Second Street. Public
service the Williams and see if they can put an eyeball on Dot."
There's more than a
touch of amusement in Dispatches voice as she replies, "10-4, 12. You want me to roll you some back-up?"
Minx.
"Negative,
County," I say, as I step into the front hall of the Conroe and Conroe
Funeral Home, "I'll be on the portable."
A dollar will get you
a doughnut that I'm going to find the same thing I've found the last umpteen
Open Door calls we've gotten here, but I'm well aware that Murphy hates my guts
-- personally. So my P7 is hidden behind
my leg, finger indexed along the frame as I shine my Surefire through the
business office, the guest rooms, multiple viewing rooms, the Icky Room (brrr),
casket storage, finally to be slipped back into the holster as I find the
small, slim figure sitting all alone in the chapel.
Dot Williams is
dressed in her standard uniform of hot pink sneakers, blue jeans and Hello
Kitty sweatshirt, one foot swinging idly as she gravely regards the awful
plastic gold-painted, flower-adorned abstract sculpture stuck to the wall
behind the altar. In honour of the
evenings football game, a red-and-black football is painted on one cheek, and
red and silver ribbons have been threaded into her ever-present pony-tail.
Eleven-something
years ago, a college kid with a one-ton Western Hauler pick-up truck and a
Blood Alcohol Concentration of 0.22 packed the Chevy S-10 driven by the
hugely-pregnant Mrs. Williams into a little bitty mangled ball and bounced it
across Main Street. The Bugscuffle
Volunteer Fire Department earned their Christmas hams that evening in as deft a
display of the Fine Art of Power Extrication as any department – paid or no –
could hope for. Couple of hours after
the Jaws of Life were cleaned and stored, Dorothy Elise Williams was born.
I scrape my boot
heels on the carpet as I walk around the end of the pew, careful not to startle
the little girl – although, truth be known, I have no idea if Dot has ever been
startled in her life. Or if it's even
possible to startle her – then I sit gently on the bench just within arms reach
and ponder the sculpture.
Yeah. It's bloody awful.
I reach into my vest
and pull out a pack of chewing gum, unwrap a stick and chew for a bit, before
taking a second stick out of the pack and – careful not to look at Dot –
casually lay it on the bench midway between us.
A couple of breaths later, equally casually, and without taking her eyes
off the plastic abomination on the wall, Dot reaches out and takes the sweet,
unwrapping it with ferocious concentration and putting it into her mouth one
quarter piece at a time before meticulously folding the foil wrapper into
little squares and laying it on the bench mid-way between us; where, after a
couple of breaths, I gently pick it up and stick it in an inner pocket of my
denim vest.
Dot is ... odd.
Probably not very
long after I sit down, but considerably longer than I would like (I'm sitting
in a funeral home, after dark -- I've seen this movie) Dot slides a battered
something or other that was probably once a stuffed giraffe ... I think ...
along the pew towards me, maintaining a firm grip on one of it's appendages
with her left hand.
Careful not to touch
the little girl, I grab ahold of a fuzzy limb, and then carefully stand
up. A beat later, Dot stands up, and we
start walking towards the exit.
Dot doesn't like to
be touched, matter-of-fact the only sound I've ever heard the wee sprite make
is an ear-splitting shriek whenever someone who isn't her family touches
her. Learning that lesson left my ears
ringing for days; however, as various and sundry gods are my witnesses, I swear
that if this little girl turns and waves at the altar, I'm carrying her out the
door at a dead sprint -- probably emptying my magazine over my shoulder as we
go -- banshee wails and damage complaints aside. Like I said:
I've seen this movie.
Fortunately anything
Dot might have been communing with seems to lack an appreciation for social
graces -- or simply wishes to spare my over-active imagination -- and there is
no waving.
When we step out onto
the front porch, an elderly man who has been leaning against the guard-rail,
clears his throat. Not really necessary,
but polite all the same.
"Bert," I
say to the owner of Conroe and Conroe Funeral Home, "Thought you'd be at
the game instead of listening to the scanner."
He grins, "I
was. Sitting next to the Sheriff on the
fifty-yard line when I heard the call over his radio."
Ah.
"I doubt that
anything is missing or damaged ..."
He raises a hand, cutting me off.
"Of course
not. Dot would never be that
crass." He gives a formal, Southern
nod off to my left, and I realize that I'm the only one holding on to the
stuffed wossname. Bloody hell.
"Miss Dot. How are you this evening?"
Dot, who is intently
examining a mimosa branch at the end of the porch, ignores him. He smiles, then moves to shut and lock the
door.
"Dorothy Elise
Williams!" On the street, a
Suburban has pulled to a stop, catty-wampus, before disgorging Mr and Mrs
Williams, the latter of whom is heading for her youngest at full speed. "What have I told you about wandering
off, young lady!"
"'Dog, Bert, I'm
so sorry," Cody Williams has taken
off his Stetson, and is wringing the brim.
I'm a little shocked. "We
were talking to the new pastor, and just took our eyes off of her for a second
..."
I wave the stuffed
whatsit at him, "Cody. Put your hat
back on. You look weird without it. No blood, no foul."
Albert Conroe smiles
at him genially, "We've had this talk before, Cody. It's quiet, she likes it, and she's a very
courteous guest. I don't have an
issue."
At the end of the
porch, Mrs Williams has taken her daughter's chin and gently turned her for
eye-contact. There's finger-shaking
going on, and then Dot reaches out and very gently pats her mother on the
cheek, before turning her attention back to the branch. I hand Cody the stuffed thingie, "Take
your family back to the game."
Bert and I stand on
the porch as the Williams climb into the Suburban and take off.
Bert chuckles gently,
"Small towns."
Yep.
LawDog