Lee Goldberg: King City

“You know it for a fact,” Wade said and wondered how long ago Guthrie had found that out for himself.

That’s when Mandy came out of the kitchen holding a plate in each hand. She laid them down in front of Wade.

The six buttermilk pancakes were hot, fluffy, and huge, with a ball of butter nearly as large as a scoop of ice cream melting on top. And this was the short stack. But he wasn’t going to complain. The six strips of bacon were thick and meaty and had a smoky aroma.

Wade was practically salivating as he tucked a napkin under his collar. “You should serve this with a side of Lipitor.”

“Would you like some maple syrup with that?”

“What does my body language tell you?”

She poured syrup on the pancakes for him and set the bottle down next to his plate. “You respect tradition. Pancakes and maple syrup go together, so that’s how you’ll take it. Besides, you wouldn’t have put on that napkin if you weren’t afraid of dripping on yourself.”

“You should have been a detective,” he said.

Wade took a bite of his pancakes. They were the best that he’d ever had, thick with buttermilk and yet so light they were like flavored air. The maple syrup was sticky sweet and natural; he could almost taste the bark that the sap had bled through. He quickly had another bite.

“How about you?” she asked.

“Been there,” he said. “Done that.”

“Is that why you’re here?”

“Don’t you already know the answer to that question?”

“There are limits to how much you can learn from studying someone’s body language.”

He did some studying of his own, looking for signs of insincerity in her expression. What he saw was a woman who was relaxed and amused, in no hurry to do anything else but stand there talking to him. “Don’t you read the paper or watch the news?”

“I’ve been away for a while and I’ve been preoccupied since I got back. Are you somebody I should know?”

“I hope so,” he said, instantly regretting his words and hoping she wouldn’t take them as a suggestive come?on.

Then again, he thought, maybe it wouldn’t be so bad if she did.

Before he could find out one way or another, he heard the sound of breaking glass, followed by whoops, hollers, and loud metallic thunks coming from outside.

Mandy looked past him to the street, her smile doing a fast fade, her entire body tensing up. Her father reached for Old Betty.

Wade took another bite of his pancakes, swiveled in his seat, and looked outside.

The gang of men who’d been standing across the street from the station before was now gathered around his Mustang, attacking it with tire irons and crowbars.

Wade didn’t really care about the Mustang. He’d fantasized about trashing it himself several times. What he wanted to do was finish his pancakes, resume the light banter, and send the gang a thank?you note, but he knew that wouldn’t help establish his authority in the neighborhood.

This was a direct challenge that had to be met with a strong response, or he might as well turn in his badge.

Wade reluctantly pulled off his napkin and dabbed his lips with it.

“Excuse me for a minute,” he said and got up from his seat.

Mandy looked at him incredulously. “You’re not going out there, are you?” He nodded. “Aren’t you going to wait for backup?”

It was pointless to call for help, and he knew it. If any cops actually came, it would only be so they could watch on the sidelines and cheer his opponents on.

This was exactly the kind of confrontation the department was hoping for when they’d banished him here. He didn’t need them here to see it.

“I’m all there is,” Wade said and headed toward the door.

“Do you mind paying before you go?” Guthrie asked.

Wade turned and gave him a look. “You don’t think I’ll be coming back?”

“I ask everybody to pay before they leave the restaurant,” Guthrie said. “Especially the customers who are likely to get gunned down in the street.”

Wade took out his wallet, picked out a ten?dollar bill, and handed it to him. “Thanks for the vote of confidence.”

“I’m a pragmatist,” Guthrie said.

“So am I,” Wade said.

“Pragmatists are survivors,” he said.

“I hope you’re right.” Wade walked outside.

The gang was still taking swings at his car with their tire irons as he strode casually into the intersection. They saw him coming and looked to the Escalade parked up the street for guidance. They got some kind of signal from the shark?eyed Indian in the driver’s seat and resumed trashing the car, looking at Wade defiantly as they did it.

Wade drew his gun and fired four shots in rapid succession at the Escalade, blowing out the two front tires and putting two bullets into the front grill.

The Escalade slumped forward on its haunches and hissed like a wounded bull.

The gunshots were still echoing in the air when the driver’s?side door flew open and the Indian jumped out. There was a gun in his hand, which he held down at his side. His muscled arms and shoulders were covered with elaborate, interwoven tattoos.

There was a loud clatter as the six men around Wade’s Mustang dropped their tire irons and crowbars and drew their guns.

But Wade kept his attention on the Indian. The others wouldn’t do anything without the nod from him.

The Indian looked at his flat tire, then walked around to the front of his Escalade to examine the perforated grill, an aftermarket piece of chrome mesh that must have cost a lot. It was ruined now.

The Indian turned and faced Wade.

“You killed my car,” the Indian said, his lips drawn into a snarl, giving him a furious glare.

The expression was scary looking, but it seemed to Wade as if it were meant more for an audience than for any one individual. The glare might have made other people wet themselves, but the theatricality of it diminished any impact it might have had on Wade.

“Guess that makes us even,” Wade said.

“You’re a fucking dead man,” the Indian said, the gun still held loosely at his side, but his arm twitched as he wrestled with the decision of whether or not to start firing.

“My advice to you is to drop the gun and walk away,” Wade said.

“There’s one of you and seven of us,” the Indian said.

Wade shook his head. “It’s only five.”

“How do you figure that?”

“Because if you and your friends don’t drop your weapons by the count of three, I’ll shoot you in the head and then I’ll kill the guy with the loose pants.”

The men at Wade’s car traded looks among themselves.

“Which one of us is that?” one of them asked.

Wade didn’t turn to see who had spoken. He kept his gaze locked on the Indian.

“You’re full of shit,” the Indian said.

“One,” Wade said.

The Indian looked Wade in the eye. What he saw there wasn’t confidence or bravery or a willingness to die. What he saw was that a decision had been made. He saw rectitude.

Or all he saw was a reflection of his own doubts.

“Two,” Wade said.

The Indian dropped his gun. Wade kept his gun on him and glanced at the men by his car.

“Three,” he said.

They dropped their weapons too, following the Indian’s lead. But Wade also saw relief on their faces.

Wade shifted his gaze back to the Indian, who was snarling. It seemed like a much more natural expression for him than the last one. He thought about telling him but decided the Indian wouldn’t appreciate the observation.

“This isn’t over.” The Indian raised his right hand, made a gun with his fingers, and mimed firing it at him.

“You know where to find me.” Wade tipped his head toward the station but kept his gun aimed at the Indian. “Stop by anytime and we can discuss it.”