Бретт Холлидей: Mike Shayne Mystery Magazine, Vol. 46, No. 9, September 1982

The deputy, a large, florid and sweating man named George Marshall, plumped his body onto the front seat, pushed the electric door locks and pulled onto Highway 200, heading west. When they got out of town he took off his brown Smokey the Bear hat and wiped his forehead with a large sweat-stained red handkerchief. He looked in the rearview mirror at Reed and said smugly, “They treat guys like you special at Deer Lodge, Cummings. The cons don’t like your kind any better than the guards do.” He grinned.

“I been in worse places,” Reed muttered, “Like that rat-trap jail of yours.” He looked sourly at the steel mesh screen between the front and back seats. Not much chance of getting at the deputy through that, he thought; a chance might come later.

The heat was miserable as the burned landscape whipped by. Naturally Bowden County didn’t see any use for air conditioners in the sheriff’s cars, seeing as summer only lasts a couple of months in Montana. Reed chainsmoked and looked at ranch houses, rusty wire fences and telephone poles. After that first “conversation” neither man spoke.

The deputy stopped at a small restaurant near the west edge of Winnett. The car left tracks in the shimmering soft asphalt. “Okay, Cummings, time for lunch,” he said, opening the right rear door. “Don’t try anything funny. I don’t miss.” He tapped the long-barreled Smith and Wesson revolver on his right hip.

Reed got out stiffly, his leg muscles aching. Even the back seat of a large car gets cramped when you’re six feet two inches tall. They walked into the restaurant together, the deputy holding the screen door open for Reed. The few customers stared, then went back to their meals. The waitress, a bleached blonde in a faded green slack-suit, slopped the water when she came over to the booth they’d chosen in the corner. Reed looked at the menu, which consisted of two mimeographed pages with purple printing. The daily special was pork chops. “I’m not hungry,” Reed murmured without looking up. “Could I just have a Coke?”

“Large or small?” the waitress said, her voice rising.

“Large, please.”

“Gimmee a bowl of chili and a large Coke, too, Ma’m,” the deputy said. The waitress scurried off. “Happens a lot, waitresses acting like that when I’m escorting a prisoner. Wonder what she’d say if I told her you’re...”

“Please,” Reed said, lifting his brown eyes for the first time in five minutes, “she’s nervous enough.” The deputy laughed grimly.

The three customers left within five minutes, all of them looking back at the corner booth on their way out. Reed wished he had the menu to look at again. An old man dressed in faded jeans, a black and red plaid shirt and a sun-scorched cowboy hat came in and sat at the counter. He turned his wind-whipped face once toward the booth, then asked for a refill for his thermos. Reed saw him pull out of the parking lot a few minutes later, driving a battered blue pickup.

“Ah, that was good,” the deputy said, wiping his lips. “Sure you don’t want anything? A long way to supper.”

“No, thanks.” Reed answered. He finished drinking the Coke through a straw. “Can I go to the John now, before we leave?” His mind was racing with possibilities.

The deputy stood just outside the bathroom door. The bathroom had no windows and Reed had a feeling that the deputy knew that all along.

They picked up us 87 just north of grassrange. “If it means anything to you, Cummings, we’re gonna take 191 to Interstate 90; then it’s good highway all the way to Deer Lodge, your new home.”

“Take your time,” Reed said bitterly. “I’ve got lots of it.” I sure as hell do, he thought, twenty years.

Fifteen miles later the deputy braked, then stopped on the road’s dusty shoulder. A blue pickup with its hood up was sitting there, a white handkerchief hanging from the left door handle.

“What’s the matter, old timer?” the deputy said, lumbering toward the old man Reed had seen in the restaurant.

“Damn thing just up and quit on me. Got plenty of gas,” the old man answered, taking off his hat to wipe his forehead on the inside of his raised right arm.

“Lemme see,” the deputy said, peering under the hood. “Sometimes the coil wire comes loose in these old...”

Reed gasped as the old man produced a black sock stuffed with something and hit the deputy expertly behind the right ear with it. The deputy collapsed like a two-hundred pound sack of beans.

“Hey!” Reed shouted, sticking his head out the window. “What’s going on?”

“You Tom Miller? Mister Thompson told me to fetch you outta the law’s hands.” The old man was dragging the deputy toward an outcropping of rock and dried brush.

“Urn, sure I am. Mr. Thompson sent you, huh?”

“Sure did. He can’t see nobody goin’ to jail for not payin’ his property taxes. Come on, get in the truck. Haven’t got all day.” The old man flicked the door lock, then walked around and opened the rear door. Reed climbed out gratefully, not bothering to notice any new stiffness.

“I’d shake hands, except you’re sorta, well, you know,” the old man said, looking somewhere over Reed’s left shoulder. “My name’s Ben.”

“Hi, Ben,” Reed grinned. “I’m... Tom Miller. Sure am glad to see you. Can you get me outta this hardware?” He jingled his handcuffs against the steel ring on the belt.

“Nope. The deputy don’t carry the key. Rules. We hafta saw you outta there when we get to Mr. Thompson. Come on!!”

The pickup ran like an old swiss watch. Ben swung it around and headed back east. He drove with his left hand, the tanned right hand lying loosely on a jar of honey. A loaf of bread lay next to it on the cracked seat cushions.

“Want some bread’n honey? Good for ya.”

“No thanks, Ben. I’m too excited to eat now,” Reed answered. I’ve got to cook up a good story before we get to this Thompson guy’s place, he thought. He’ll know right away I’m not Tom Miller, but maybe I can sell him a line about me evading taxes or something. Once I get these damn handcuffs off, or away from this old fool Thompson sent...

The truck swung right, onto a dirt road. Reed looked through the back window, but all he could see was the brown dust boiling behind. It was a rough road. Reed jounced around inside the cab, his “hardware” keeping him from getting a good grip on anything. They stopped in about ten minutes, in a clearing amidst scrub pine trees and dried-out grass.

“Where are we?” Reed asked, looking around him. An old abandoned building leaned against a tree to the right. To the left, a pile of dirt. Straight ahead, the road disappeared around a hill.

“Well, here we are,” Ben said. He stopped the engine and got out, flicking the settling dust with his hat.

“I asked where we are,” Reed repeated angrily. “Is this where we meet Thompson?”

“Sure is,” Ben answered as he opened the passenger door. Reed swiveled in the seat and jumped to the ground. “Take it easy, son. We got twenty minutes ‘til he gets here.”

Reed wandered around the clearing while Ben rummaged in the junk in the back of the truck. Rough country, he thought; be tough to walk out of here with the handcuffs still on.

“Meet Mister Thompson,” a voice said firmly behind Reed. He turned. Ben was standing ten feet away, a shovel leaning against one hip, the jar of honey tucked under one arm. The other arm held a submachinegun which was pointed directly at Reed. “This, Mister Cummings ,” Ben continued, “is what is known as a war souvenir. Highly illegal of course, but Mr. Thompson has his uses at times.”

“But Miller...” Reed sputtered, backing up and edging around the hole next to the dirt pile.