Don Pendleton - Stand Down

“You heard me. She isn’t going anywhere with you.”

Everado turned back. “And I suppose you think she’s going somewhere with you.”

“Nope. She’s staying right out here, in public, until one of her parents comes and gets her. I’ll be nearby, just to make sure nothing bad happens.”

This time the young Mexican got right up into Bolan’s face, so close he could smell the well-dressed punk’s cologne—a pungent, sharp fragrance. “You got a hell of a lot of nerve to come into our town and start givin’ orders. Do you have any idea who I am?”

Bolan didn’t back down an inch. “I sure do.”

His confident answer caught the youth by surprise, and Bolan kept going. “You’re a kid from south of the border who got lucky. Your grandparents scratched out a living in Mexico, so your parents wised up and joined Cristobal for a way out. You’ve never known a hard day in your life. You’ve never worked twelve, fourteen, sixteen hour days, only to eat, sleep and get up to do the same thing again, six days a week. You grew up with a spoon—not a silver one, just a regular one—in your mouth, so you’ve never had to do anything hard in your life, ever. You’ve assumed a status that you’ve done nothing to earn, and wear it like you have the right. But anyone who looks at you for more than two seconds sees straight through that. They can see right to your soul, see the aimless, ambitionless kid driving a fancy car and wearing designer clothes, and walking around like he knows what’s going on. What those people really see is a boy who has absolutely no idea of who he is, where he came from, or what he’s doing with his life.”

Bolan leaned in close to the youth’s ear, speaking so only he could hear his next words. “And deep down, I think you also know that—and it scares the hell out of you.”

Much like his girlfriend’s face a few minutes ago, Everado’s expression changed from surprise to incredulousness to anger at hearing Bolan’s assessment. “Fuckin’ asshole!” He reached for Bolan’s shirt, while the other young men crowded around them, hands reaching out to snare the interloper, as well. Bolan was a moment away from breaking fingers and moving on from there when the whoop of an approaching police siren made everyone’s heads turn.

As soon as the rest of the young men heard the siren, they pulled away from Bolan, leaving him none the worse for wear. He noticed Everado’s expression turn dark at seeing the car, and the young man muttered a curse under his breath.

The approaching sheriff’s cruiser came to a stop in the parking lot, and a Hispanic deputy got out of the car. Bolan eyed the newcomer warily. Even with his mirrored aviator shades on, he resembled the youth close enough to be a relation, which meant the situation could turn bad really fast. The man slung a nightstick into the holder at his side, then took his flat-brimmed hat from the seat beside him and put it on before walking over.

He nodded at Bolan. “Sir.” Then he turned his attention to Everado and the rest of his boys, all of whom were looking anywhere but at the two men. “Everado, what’s going on here?”

The young man stared at Bolan for a moment, then looked away to spit on the ground. “Nothing—sir.”

“Got an anonymous tip of a fight going down in the parking lot at Rollins’s place. Now you boys wouldn’t know anything about that, would you?”

The group all muttered negative replies.

The deputy turned to Bolan. “Sir, was there any sort of altercation here that you’d like to report?”

Everado spoke up then, “But, Rojas—”

The deputy turned his mirrored sunglasses on the young man, causing his words to die in his throat. He turned back to Bolan. “Sir, you are?”

“Matt Cooper.”

The deputy didn’t write it down, but Bolan was more than willing to bet he’d made a note of it. “Again, did anything go on here that you would care to report?”

“No, thanks. I just thought I saw a misunderstanding, and had come out to see if there was anything I could do to help.”

“That what happened, Everado?”

The young man had turned from hard case to indignant to sullen in the span of a minute. He nodded. “Yeah.”

“All right, then. Glad to know you boys aren’t causing trouble.” The deputy leaned over to spot the girl against the convertible. “Connie? I’m sure school isn’t over till the end of the month.”

The girl rolled her eyes and stared off into the distance.

The deputy’s voice turned steel-hard. “Come over here, girl.”

She stared at him, then slowly walked over. Everado’s mouth opened as if he was about to say something, but the deputy turned his gaze back on the young man, and he shut it with a snap.

Connie stood in front of him. “What?”

The man nodded toward his cruiser. “Get in. I’ll take you back to school.”

Like her boyfriend, Connie was about to try to argue, but the lithe deputy’s stance made it clear he wouldn’t be having any of it. “Goddamn it,” she muttered as she stamped around the cruiser to the passenger side and got in, slamming the door closed.

The deputy turned to the group of young men. “And I better not get any more reports with any of your names in them, else I’m coming after all of you, you hear? Now you all get gone.”

Casting resentful looks back at Bolan, who had just stood and watched the whole affair, the youths got into the Mercedes-Benz. Everado started the car and backed out, then drove sedately off.

Deputy Quintanar—Bolan caught his name tag as he turned—watched until the youths were out of sight, then turned back to Bolan. “On behalf of the rest of the folks here in Quincyville, I’d like to apologize for what happened. They’re what passes for the resident hell-raisers around here, and have to be reined in now and again.”

Bolan nodded. “Boys will be boys, and all that.”

Quintanar cocked his head. “No, not quite. I imagine his father will be talking with him about this very soon. You know how small towns are—nothing’s ever really private.”

“I guess so.”

“Hope you enjoy the rest of your time here.” The deputy turned to go back to his car.

“Oh, Deputy…” Bolan waited until the man had turned half around before continuing. “It’s probably none of my business, but I noticed the large house on the hill with the police tape around it. I’m kind of an amateur crime buff. Can you tell me what happened over there?”

Deputy Quintanar stared at him for a few seconds before walking back over. “I hope you won’t misunderstand my response, Mr. Cooper, but you’re right—it is none of your business. However, if you must know, one of our most prominent citizens and his wife were shot and killed last night. We’re going to find whoever did it, don’t you worry. Now, why don’t you go back inside and enjoy the rest of your meal?”

“Suppose I’ll do just that. Thanks.” Bolan walked back to the diner door and turned to watch the cruiser pull away. Walking back inside, he was surprised to be greeted by a smattering of applause, started by Elaine behind the counter, then spreading throughout the place. Bolan noticed several men who didn’t join in the accolade, either glaring at him or averting their gaze altogether. He understood how they felt—although he wasn’t sure whether they were jealous of it or embarrassed that they hadn’t stepped up—but he wasn’t thrilled with the reception, either. Waving a hand halfheartedly at everyone, he went to his stool and waved Elaine over. “Thought I might finish my lunch.”

“Damn straight you will—on the house. Luke, another blue-plate special!” A few minutes later a heaping plate filled with enough food to choke a grizzly bear appeared in front of him. Bolan eyed the platter, then looked up at Elaine, who stared at him expectantly. “Dig in, honey.”