Craig Johnson - A Serpent's Tooth - A Walt Longmire Mystery

I looked over to Henry and remembered what he said before we’d entered—it does not make sense, remember that. When I turned back, I could see Gloss had dropped his hand and was starting to raise it toward the underside of his shirttail. There were about six feet between me and him, which was the range in which most sidearm fatalities took place. “You shouldn’t miss from that distance, but then again, neither should I.”

Gloss started to shift his weight. “Look, I don’t know what you’re talking about. . . .” He glanced to my right, where Lockhart was watching him.

I heard a noise behind me—the Cheyenne Nation must’ve stooped to pick up the pistol—but I was pretty sure it was the shotgun that he was aiming in Gloss’s direction.

I cleared my throat. “Now, in these types of situations, if you’re properly trained, the next step would be to distract the assailant just long enough for the primary target to pull his weapon, but I’ve nullified that possibility by having backup, right Henry?”

“You bet your lily-white ass.”

I gestured toward Gloss’s waist. “I’ll tell you what, if you want to get it out of your pants and ready to go, that’s fine by me.”

His lips moved, but it took a few seconds for him to come up with something to add. “Look, um, is this some kind of joke?”

My turn not to say anything.

He shook his head, stared at the long green of the felt, and looked at the ceiling. “I want a lawyer.”

“Place your weapon on the table—thumb and forefinger only.”

He made a show of doing exactly that and carefully placed another high-priced, carbon-steel .45 with some kind of fancy finish on the flat surface.

I reached across and picked it up.

“You want to smell me now?”

It was the wrong thing to say at the exact wrong time, and I made that clear by bringing the butt of the semiautomatic up and popping it into his nose. Blood blew from his nostrils, and his hands went up to his face. Bidarte actually laughed until I looked at him; then he gently placed his hands on the pool table in a position that didn’t look unfamiliar to him.

I glanced at the others. “Anybody else want to join the conversation?”

There were no takers, so I unhandcuffed myself, walked around the table, and yanked Gloss’s hand away from his face so that I could handcuff him to the other probable felon.

Bleeding profusely, he attempted to staunch the flow with his other hand, but the blood was spouting onto the front of his shirt and his voice was muffled and nasal. “We haven’t done anything.”

I gestured with the confiscated pistol. “Oh, you’ve done all kinds of stuff—it’s just a question of whether you’ve done this one thing, and if you have, are you going to be sorry.”

• • •

Vic, never one to miss a party, arrived a few minutes later, and we loaded Gloss and his pal into the back of her unit. My undersheriff glanced in the cage with a smile, noticing the man’s nose, still bleeding through the bar towel that Eleanor had provided. “Jesus, what’d you hit him with, a two-by-four?”

I handed her Gloss’s other gun. “Here, for the collection.”

She studied the weapon. “Another Wilson; you sure this guy’s name is Gloss?”

“No, I’m not, but I figure you’ll be able to tell me by morning.”

She whistled as she studied the sidearm. “A .38 Super, Combat Carry Competition—three grand, at least.”

“Yep, the boys seem to have money.”

“Must be the bake sales.”

“Uh-huh.”

She glanced at them again. “Can we keep their guns?”

“Sure, we’ll have a sale of our own.”

She nodded. “So what’s Double Tough’s condition?”

I stared at her.

She stared back at me.

Of course, Henry hadn’t told her over the phone. I took a breath, just to clear the pipes before trusting the words. “He’s gone.”

Her mouth dropped open just a little bit and hung there. We didn’t get many fatalities in the department; as a matter of fact, this would be the only one—and on my watch.

She sat there with all that training and experience she’d culled from the Philadelphia Police Department stamping down on her emotions, but I’d had a lot of experience with unquenchable fire lately. The tarnished gold eyes sharpened like a straight razor as she turned to regard them. “Oh, you fuckers.”

“Book ’em, run ’em—I want to know everything.”

After a moment, she turned and nodded at the dash. She took a deep breath, reached down, and started the engine. “You will.”

I looked at the group. “Call the Ferg in to help.”

Her beautiful jaw stiffened. “There’s a problem with help.”

“What’s that?”

“Witnesses.”

I stepped back as she laid her own strip up Main, fishtailing sideways as she sped through the intersection at 192 and shot up onto the highway about as fast as her old unit could travel.

I turned and started to walk up the steps almost into the owner/operator of The Noose. “They were here all night, Walt.”

I stood there three steps down and looked her in the eye. “When did they get here?”

“Early—six, maybe six-thirty.”

I sighed.

“Not what you wanted to hear.”

“No.” I stared past her at the lights illuminating the Merc proper. “Looks like you’ve gotten rid of the majority of your books.”

She adjusted her glasses and smiled. “Most of them went to the library, but I’ve got a stack for you in the back.”

I didn’t move. “I find it strange how suddenly you’ve decided to give up the ghost and close your business.”

She didn’t say anything for a moment, but I could see the incredulity growing in her eyes. “You don’t believe me?”

I scrubbed my eyes with the heels of my hands. “I don’t know who to believe.” Forcing her to move back, I started up the remainder of the steps. She moved, but just enough to force me to brush by her, her voice sharp with righteous indignity. “So we’re no longer friends.”

I stopped and stood there. “It’s dangerous being my friend; you might not want the job.”

• • •

Henry was behind the bar with the shotgun lying on the surface; he was drinking what looked to be orange juice.

“Like a day without sunshine?”

He slipped a look at Ronald Lynear and Tom Lockhart at the other side of the bar. “Fights germs.”

Lynear was the first to speak. “We’re going to get them out as soon as you set bail.”

I nodded. “That should be in a few weeks.”

“Then I’m filing a wrongful arrest and harassment charge against your department.”

Lockhart placed a hand on his arm and then slid a piece of paper toward me. “Take a look at this.” It was an ATM slip from the small branch bank across the street, dated yesterday, with a withdrawal of two hundred dollars—the time, six thirty-two. “What’s that look like to you?”

“It’s an ATM slip for what looks like two hundred dollars, but since I have a career in law enforcement, I’m not sure how to count the number of zeros.”

He attempted to control himself. “You see the time?”

“Yep, they teach us how to do that at the academy over in Douglas; they say it’s important.”

“We grabbed some cash when we got to town and came straight over and started drinking and playing pool.” He gestured behind me where Eleanor stood by the door. “You’ve got a reliable witness who tells you the same thing.” He shook his head at me as if I were some child in need of reprimand. “You haven’t got a leg to stand on.”

Shooting a glance at Ronald, I reached over and stole the Bear’s juice. “I’m curious, Reverend, what it is you’re doing in a den of iniquity like this?”