Pretty Shameless, page 3
part #2 of Deputy Laney Briggs Series
“God, look at you.”
“Somebody’s in the holiday spirit,” he snapped defensively.
“Please tell me you bathe yourself at night. It’s so gross the way you sweat.”
“Well, it’s not sweat, Laney. I’ve been waiting for ya outside here, and then it started drizzling and my shirt got all wet.” He wheezed, as he hiked up the khaki trousers, squishing the belt into his belly roll. He looked up at the heavens. “Goddamn, it’s supposed to be Christmas for Christ’s sake.” Elroy clearly wasn’t enjoying this icy drizzle. “There should be snow on the ground and”—he glanced at me—“happy folks. Not slush and a bunch of Scrooges.”
“Yeah, wrap some eggnog and carolers around this shitastic day and everything would be peachy.”
He self-consciously looked down at his sagging gut. “Did you find your dimwit cousin?” he asked.
I flashed him a sourpuss smile. “Nope.”
He kept staring at me, expecting more details. When he figured out that was all he was getting from me, he hocked a wad of phlegm on the asphalt before moving on. “Well, for right now we need to corral Pearl Tompkins,” he said.
I stuffed my gun into my holster and shoved my way past Elroy. “So, someone held the place up?” I hollered at Elroy as I strutted across the empty parking lot.
“Yep.” That was all I was awarded with.
“You reckon she’s still got her sawed-off out?”
“Does a cow have tits?” He spit at the ground.
Pistol Rock had gone the way of the dodo bird when it came to fine living. The Filler-Up happened to be the only place in town to wine and dine besides the Whistling Wind Café. And by wine and dine, I mean you could pick up a couple microwave burritos, a bag of hot Cheetos, and a forty-ounce malt liquor and have yourself a cheap and romantic dinner for two. There was no need to go into my Filler-Up date-night experiences, except that on more than one occasion back in high school Gunner had considered taking his girl—me—to the gas station as a classy dinner date. Some days he still needed a reminder on the romantic lowdown. I turned to see if Elroy was following, and he was still standing where I’d left him, fumbling again with the gun squeezed between his fingers. The troubling thing about Elroy isn’t that he is always accidently calling people with that iPhone strapped to the belt on his hip, it’s that on the other hip he has a loaded gun.
“Elroy,” I shouted. “God help you if it ever comes down to you actually having to use that thing.”
He clumsily crammed the gun down into his holster. “The trademark of a good sheriff is to never have the need to resort to deadly force,” he snapped, sounding like a textbook. Sweat was dripping from his chin as he strolled on by, still mumbling under his breath.
“Then why don’t you handle Pearl and show me how a good sheriff lays down the law,” I cracked, patting him on the shoulder.
“Put a sock in it, Laney.” He huffed and waddled up to the front door of the gas station.
My jeans were stuck to the inside of my thighs. I tugged at them, straightened my uniform blouse, and moseyed on after him. Elroy was prone to pull a chickenshit move. For instance, right now the scaredy-cat’s ass was pressed firmly against the brick wall while he played peekaboo with the door.
“You’re scared of an old woman,” I teased.
“I didn’t grow up with the queen of all bitches,” Elroy snapped, bitterly.
“Sissy,” I shot back, even though everyone knew my mother was meaner than a Black Friday shopper at Walmart.
When I was in high school, Gunner had been an attentive boyfriend, hooking me up with tallboys and Skittles before Friday-night football games and Saturday-night bonfire parties, but surprisingly once I let him tickle the twat, his constant doting had run colder than a witch’s tit. He’s a good guy, but when it comes to Hallmark-quality dinner dates he seems to be all thumbs. Something I’m still trying to rectify.
The gas station had been a shrine to the Dallas Cowboys back in my glory days. Thirteen years later, it still was with silver-star carpet, Super Bowl posters, and a glass front counter offering up a sacrifice to the football gods—a Tom Landry bobblehead. I glanced over at the beer freezers. There stood Pearl Tompkins with her long, gray, braided ponytail, her faded and baggy cotton dress, her lace-up Wolverine work boots, and her sawed-off shotgun propped on her shoulder. And I swear there was smoke coming out of her ears.
“Pearl,” I started, “you okay?”
She wiped her forehead, then dried her palm on the mud-stained cotton dress. “I’m ready to skin a cat, but yeah, I’m okay.”
I looked her up and down and concluded it was best to keep my distance. “You wanna tell us what happened here?”
She pulled a thin-lipped smile, cocking the shotgun and dropping its barrel down next to her thunder thighs. “I’ll tell ya what happened. Them speed freaks took one look at Daisy here and damn near broke their necks trying to run their asses out of here, screaming the name Molly at the top of their lungs.”
“I imagine so,” I replied, admiring the iron spine of that woman. “But who’s Molly?”
She shrugged. “Beats me, doll.”
There were a number of folks, both men and women, who’d been ignorant enough to mess with Pearl Tompkins, and all of them had regretted it later on while sitting in the ER waiting room in Odessa. Whatever dipshit meth-head that had tried holding the place up at least had enough of a head on his shoulders to run. It’s a simple rule in Pistol Rock that we all learn growing up here: don’t fuck with Pearl. I tipped my head back in search of Elroy. Most of the aisles were clear, except for the occasional blown-to-smithereens aluminum Miller High Life beer can. My poor daddy would be heartbroken. Bags of M&M’s covered the burned-toast linoleum floor, and the soda fountain had taken a fair share of buckshot straight through the Mr. Pibb and Strawberry Fanta. Thankfully, for the sake of Pistol Rock, the Dr Pepper survived unscathed. I finally found Elroy in the candy aisle, eye-banging a Kit Kat bar. The man always had food on his mind. I cleared my throat and walked up behind him.
“I think that Kit Kat has had enough foreplay now. Why don’t you go to the bathroom with it and take care of business.”
The candy bar fell to the floor.
“There’s no need to be all bitchy,” he said, trying to maintain some of his dignity. I rolled my eyes at him, then tapped a finger on the cooler doors behind me.
“Pearl, could you tell us what went down here?” I asked, laying the Southern drawl on thick. “All’s that I can make out is that you got one helluva mess to clean up.”
I kicked a boot back into the wall and waited for her to spill the beans. Pearl’s Misty 100’s cigarette was hangdog, stuck like glue to her crackly bottom lip. She narrowed her cloudy gray eyes at me and filled in the pieces.
“Sure thing, sugar,” Pearl obliged, rocking the cigarette between her popcorn-colored teeth. Her hip sagged against the wall, and her knee popped while she prepared herself to run through the day’s events. Before she started, she bobbled the cigarette to the corner of her mouth. “Those dipshits thought robbing an old lady would be easy. Walked in like I was some bitch they could mess with, screamin’ and tellin’ me what to do. I tell you what, though, I sure put the fear of God in them bastards. Once they got a good look at old Daisy here”—she motherly patted the shotgun nestled at her waist—“they fled like the little fuckers they were.”
I looked over toward Elroy, then back at her. “So they took off when they saw Daisy?”
Her lips curled up into a wrinkly smile. “Ran like they was sneaking across the Rio Grande.”
“Then why did you shoot at them?” I asked, bewildered.
“The fear of God, Deputy Briggs,” she said, shaking her head, “the fear of God.” Pearl coughed up a wad of phlegm and spat it on the floor next to my boot. I fought the urge to scream and did my best to maintain a nonchalant smile. I stood there thinking about the reasoning behind that last thing she said. But I quickly snapped out of it when Pearl continued on with the show and tell. “Like I told the fat Barney Fife over there.” She grunted, jabbing a scaly thumb in Elroy’s direction. “Frankly there wasn’t a need for the two of you to drag tail out here. All I wanted was to let you guys know that some dopers had crossed the tracks into our side of town.”
“Really,” I remarked, pissed off and making damn sure Elroy knew who the anger was directed at. It took some patience on my part, but I pulled it together and finished the line of questioning. “Well, did you get a good a look at the guys? We might be able to track them down if we get a description.”
That one caused those dull eyes of hers to suddenly light up like the Vegas Strip.
“Of course,” she exclaimed. “They had on Ropers, old, holey blue jeans, T-shirts with the sleeves ripped off, and brown toboggans with the eyes cut out. And one of them had a Skynrd tattoo.”
Just dandy. That about covered every rural outpost of Texas. Patience is a virtue, I told myself. I jotted down their descriptions, then passed her off to Elroy. He’d been the one who initially took the call, making it his case. Besides, I had more pressing matters to attend to, such as staying out of my mother’s crosshairs. I pulled the brim of my cowboy hat down over my eyes and headed for the door.
“You think you can take it from here?” I called over my shoulder at Elroy, who was on a treasure hunt with his front pocket.
He slapped a dollar and quarter down on the front counter along with the Kit Kat. “Yeah. I suppose so.”
As I was about to push through the door, the sound of Pearl’s voice speaking my name stopped me dead in my tracks. “What was that?” I asked, feeling slightly annoyed.
Pearl plopped another cigarette between her pinched lips. “I was asking if you wouldn’t happen to know anything about what went down at Danny Redbud’s place?” She eyeballed me up and down. “Seeing how you youngins enjoy a friskier lifestyle nowadays, I thought you might know if there’s any truth to the rumors about Redbud floating around. You know, besides that the guy is a ghost.”
Rumor had it that Redbud was the bastard child of some rich guy—although I don’t know anyone who has ever had the privilege to meet the man in person.
I decided to put my best foot forward and push through the queasiness churning in my stomach. “A barbecue,” I said, my voice hitting a high note. “Just another goddamn boring fund-raiser held by a rich prick to pat the good old bastards of Pistol Rock on the shoulder for a job well done.”
As I stormed across the parking lot to the cruiser, I could feel the shit piling up on top of me. Could my life get any worse?
Just as I was opening the car door, I caught sight of a silver Ford F-150 coasting up next to the empty pump. Fuck a duck. I had dodged the poon hound this whole damn holiday season like a politician dodges questions. But he had already seen me standing there, so there was no avoiding him this time. The driver’s side door swung open, and out stretched a pair of long Levi-clad legs. I caught myself staring. Christ! Am I insane? The blue-eyed snake hadn’t even spoken to me yet, and there I was half ready to ride him like a drunken groupie standing on panty row at a Keith Urban concert. He turned, and his eyes locked on mine. Wait for it. And right on cue that gorgeous smile pulled those dimples tight. I couldn’t help but watch his snug oil-stained white T-shirt play tug of war with his tanned, muscled arms. The next thing I knew, I was walking over to him like a fly to a bug zapper. I must be losing my shit.
“Luke Wagner,” I said, standing in front of him, smiling.
“Laney Briggs,” he said back, those dimples getting me all hot downstairs. “It’s been a while.”
And they say sandbox buddies never last. It’d probably been poor decision making on my part sharing that damn shovel with Luke Wagner on the kindergarten playground, because after twenty-two years I still couldn’t seem to shake the good-timing rancher. Most days it sucked how attractive he was…and kind. He held my hand when Gunner chose to bail on our “love affair” and sought relief in Houston. Not to mention last time Luke and I’d remotely been cozy the next morning I’d woken up to a blond-haired, blue-eyed charmer snuggled a little too close for comfort in a motel bed. That night was a fog-induced beer haze. But we didn’t cheat. Well, not that I’m aware of anyways.
The back of my throat clogged shut. “Yeah, it has.”
“I could almost swear you’ve been avoiding me,” he said with the devil’s sparkle in his eyes.
A little harmless flirting never hurt…well, maybe it could sting, but I was in the mood to play along. “Now why would you think that?”
“It beats me.” He grabbed at his rodeo prizewinning belt buckle and hitched it up. There’d been a time when Luke Wagner dreamed big. And for good reason. He’d risen to the top of the bull-rider circuit by the age of fifteen. I still remember watching him ride and the thrill of his victory win. But then the accident happened, and everything changed in the blink of an eye. Now the only resemblance to the Luke Wagner I used to go skinny-dipping with and confide all my secrets to was that half-cocked smile that had the tendency to appear every now and then.
Tragedy could scar even the toughest hearts. I’d experienced such sadness firsthand.
Luke shot me his lady-killer grin, again, then stared me down long and hard before adding, “Just curious, cutie”—the teasing tone apparent in his deep, rough voice—“are you on Santa’s naughty or nice list?”
“So what are you up to?” I asked, changing the subject.
He reached inside his truck, his shirt hiking up, showcasing the deer antler initial-engraved pocketknife strapped to his belt, and then he pulled out his forty-two-ounce thermos. “Refill,” he said, shaking it in front of himself.
Eyeing the thermos, I said, “I hope you don’t want Mr. Pibb.”
His face kind of grew distraught. He’d always been a Pibb drinker. “Why’s that?”
I shrugged. “You’ll see.”
He ripped off his white cowboy hat, strumming a hand through his rumpled, chin-length blond hair. “So, how have you been?” he asked, rolling a toothpick around with his tongue, slowly giving me a rundown with those heartbreaking blue eyes.
It would’ve been poor decision making on my part to not give him the same devoted attention. So I checked out his faded Levi’s one more time. “I’ve been better.”
He flicked the toothpick on the ground, crunching it with his brown boot. “What’s got my favorite girl all upset?”
Damn, the man knew me good. I kicked at a rock and gave him the short and sweet excuse. “Lots of shit.”
“Well, the Mr. Pibb is out, so I’ve got time.” He moved a little closer, putting an arm around my shoulder and letting his breath trickle down my neck. Damn he was slicker than an eighteen-wheeler with bald tires on wet asphalt.
“For one thing, Gunner’s back in town and working a brand-spanking-new case,” I said, staring at the ground pathetically.
“The same asshole that hasn’t called you in days?” Luke cracked.
I jerked myself away from him and slung my arms across my chest. “Yes. That very same asshole. Thanks for reminding me.” Damn, I should’ve known better than to lay it all out on the line with Luke Wagner last Wednesday night over at Rusty’s bar. But beer and dancing boots had a way of making this girl flap her lips.
“I bet old Gunner tore his way through some tail while on hiatus from our little firecracker.”
That was a cold one.
“Tell me. How do you live with yourself?” I asked, drily.
He leaned his smiling face in close to mine, that sinister glimmer back in his eyes. “When you’ve got more money than God, it’s pretty damn easy.”
My eyes rolled into the back of my head. I shifted my weight and shot him the look of death. I could see he was loving this…just our usual friendly banter.
“So you’ve talked to Gunner?” Luke asked, his voice harsh and sounding rougher than a sandpaper belt.
“Yeah.” I rocked from one boot to the other, trying to figure out where this was all heading. Personally I’d already swallowed my allotted dose of bullshit for the day. When I realized he wasn’t gonna let it go, I sighed, saying, “This morning out at Wyatt’s.”
I’d swear on the last beer in my twelve-pack that Luke looked worried. “What’s Gunner doing back in town so early?”
I kicked at the gravel lot. “That ties in to another of my problems.”
The nudge to my elbow got my attention. “What’s that?” Luke asked, practically boring a hole through my head as he searched my face.
Growing up in a small town had its moments; one being nobody’s personal business was sacred. “Wyatt’s missing.”
Luke chewed on his toothpick for a second. “So, he jumped bail?”
“Yep.”
He shook his head. “Then I bet your mother’s all over your ass to find him.”
“Why do you say that?” I asked, surprised.
“She posted his bail, didn’t she?”
“Yeah. How’d you know my mother posted his bail?”
“I’m Mitch Wagner’s son.”
“Enough said.”
We stood there silently for a moment, looking at each other. I again caught myself staring straight into the bottomless depths of his blazing blue eyes. I bit my lip and nervously fiddled with the neck of my cotton top. Finally, Luke broke the silence. “So, Gunner has something to do with Wyatt’s disappearance?”
Well, that question took me by surprise.
“It’s sort of looking that way.”
He arched a brow. “Then Gunner is probably looking for Wyatt, too.”
Damn, did I hate getting grilled. “I suppose,” I replied, just as my phone vibrated, jolting my butt cheek awake. Rooting around the inside of my jeans pocket, I pulled out my iPhone and immediately recognized the flashing number. I swiped the screen on and put it to my ear, all the while holding up a finger to shush Luke. That sparked an odd look. But then all he did was step aside, knuckles stuffed deep into denim pockets, and breathe an agitated whisper.
