The Backwoods Part 3

"Er, I mean, once she turns eighteen," Trey added in haste.

"That's what I thought you meant. Christ, ten minutes ago you were runnin' your mouth all about how G.o.d helps us out if we obey His laws." Sutter chuckled. "You sure lost your religion quick enough, l.u.s.tin' after that Squatter."

Trey roused to object. "I was just speakin' figurative, Chief," he said, p.r.o.nouncing the word as figgur-tive, "as men will do when they're amongst themselves, but in my heart-and I say this 'cos I know it's in your heart too-men married in the eyes of the Lord wouldn't even think of havin' any carnal knowledge with no gal other than his lawful wife, no matter what age she is. I asked Father Darren 'bout it once."

"About what?"

"About l.u.s.t in the heart, and he said that since all men was born in original sin, we're all guilty of l.u.s.t-can't help but be-'cos it's all in our genes. So it's okay to eyeball a hot gal now and again, 'cos it's a manner of appreciatin' the beauty G.o.d gave to women."

Sutter's eyes narrowed. "Father Darren said it's okay to eyeball other women?"

Trey raised a finger to finish his point. "As long as you know in your heart that ya wouldn't really have s.e.x with her once it got down to bra.s.s tacks. I know you'd never cheat on yer fine wife, June, and I sure as s.h.i.+t'd never cheat on Marcy. Don't matter that they both gone to fat and got t.i.ts hangin' down to their thighs. That's 'cos G.o.d blesses us in our love."

Sutter sighed.

"Anyway, Chief, that's what Father Darren means in a nutsh.e.l.l. It's okay by Him that you look at other chicks every once in a while as long as ya'd never really hobn.o.b with 'em."

Well, that's sure good to hear, 'cos I still got half a hard-on in my pants from lookin'at that little thing, Sutter thought sourly.

Trey grinned. "And look at it this way, Chief. That little piece a' eye candy got your mind off your money problems, huh?"

The recollection of those b.r.e.a.s.t.s, those curves, and those legs waylaid him. "It got my mind off 'em, but I still got 'em, Trey."

"Patience is a virtue, Chief. Says so in the Bible. G.o.d smiles upon a patient man. . . ."

Sutter shook off the after-imagery as he pulled into the convenience store, where a gleaming, brand-new Humvee occupied one of the parking spots, tangerine orange and ten coats of lacquer. A s.h.i.+fty-looking black guy in his mid-twenties, in baggy pants and gold chains, had just hung up the pay phone and was coming back to the car, giving them the eye.

"f.u.c.ker's got more gold chains than Mr. T.," Trey observed with a smirk. "And look at the watch on the son of a b.i.t.c.h. Looks like a Rolex."

"We know where he gets that kind of money," Sutter remarked. His own watch cost $7.95 at the drugstore. "And look at those rings on him, too. f.u.c.ker's all decked out like a Harlem pimp."

In the Hummer's driver's seat sat a long-haired white kid with scruff on his chin, and similar gold chains and watch.

"We know what these sc.u.mbags are all about, so keep on your toes," Sutter said. "I'll take the rapper and you take the white guy."

"Gotcha, Chief. Thumb snap's off." He grinned at his boss and released the snap on his holster. "We ain't had a tussle in a spell. I'm ready."

"You keep your dander down unless ya need it." Sutter hit his own thumb snap; then he added, "And it can't hurt for us to mitt up."

"Roger that," Trey a.s.sented. They each slipped on their pair of Bianchi elastic-stretch sand mitts with nude trigger fingers and heavy-duty leather sand pouches reinforcing the knuckles and palms. Ideal for punching through doors or busting a sc.u.mbag's face without consequently busting one's own knuckles.

Sutter moved his own considerable bulk out of the car. He blocked off the black guy before he could get back to the Hummer, while Trey leaned against the driver's door, arms crossed.

"Is there a problem, Officer?" the black guy asked a bit haughtily. His T-s.h.i.+rt read, RAPPIN AND CAPPIN, and he had a tattoo of an AK-47 inked over one apple-sized bicep.

"Oh, there's a problem," Sutter confirmed. "Turn around, hands flat out on the roof, and spread 'em. No sudden movements. Don't f.u.c.k with me."

"The f.u.c.k?" the white guy complained.

"Pipe down, Kid Rock," Trey said, "or I'll pipe ya down."

The black guy glared. "I haven't done anything wrong! You're just shaking me down 'cos I'm black!"

"Don't give me that racist jive," Sutter said back. "I don't give a s.h.i.+t what color a man's face is. The only kind of black man I call a n.i.g.g.e.r is a black man trying to sell crystal meth to kids."

That was all the black guy needed to hear-"crystal meth"-before he realized he could either run his a.s.s off or do three-to-five for possession and distro of Cla.s.s II narcotics with another five tacked on for attempted distro to a minor. He chose to run his a.s.s off.

s.h.i.+t!

He bolted off the car. Sutter, since he was not exactly dextrous nor physically fit, being obese and close to sixty, managed to get a handful of T-s.h.i.+rt, which sufficed only to slow the guy down around the comer of the car, whereupon the T-s.h.i.+rt tore away.

As for Trey, he didn't appear to even break a single bead of sweat when in some impressive synchrony he- Whap!

-landed a solid fist right smack-dab into Kid Rock's forehead, then- "Holy Jesus, man, that hurts like a motherf.u.c.king motherf.u.c.ker!"

-emptied half a can of GOEC-brand chemical spray into his eyes and bleeding, split-open face.

"Got ya covered, Chief," Trey said next, sidestepping forward. He moved fast enough to cut off the black guy before he could get clear. Then- Thud.

-palm-heeled him once in the solar plexus.

Which sufficed to circ.u.mvent the attempt to flee.

"Getcha a case of beer for that one, Trey," Sutter said approvingly, then lumbered over. "You simmer down the long-hair while I read this suspect his rights." The black guy was sprawled out belly-down on the pavement, bug-eyed, barely able to move. He was sucking wind. Sutter promptly stepped on the back of his head, treating his face to a little dermabrasion the hard way. The guy flip-flopped on the pavement, shrieking like a little girl who'd just been scared out of a carny house of horrors.

Kid Rock had managed to stop screaming long enough to make the very unwise decision to attempt to drive off. Hair hanging in blood-drenched strings, he jerked his hand forward, touched the keys in the ignition, was about to start the car, when- "Holy Jesus, mother of G.o.d, you gotta be f.u.c.kin' s.h.i.+tting me!"

-Trey emptied the rest of the GOEC into his eyes.

Sutter dragged a dozenish bags of crystal methamphetamine, aka "ice," out of the black guy's pockets, not to mention a pipe, and-of all things-a 1964 Topps Mickey Mantle baseball card. Sutter pocketed the card, then allowed the point of his steel-toed black oxford to come into direct proximity with the area of s.p.a.ce that was occupied by the black guy's s.c.r.o.t.u.m. That took the rest of the zing out of him.

Finally got me another Mantle card for my collection . . .

The cowbell on the door clanged. Pappy Halm, a well-known Agan's Point local and the store's proprietor, hobbled out front, aghast. He clacked toward the scene on his cane and objected in his typical loud rail, "What the h.e.l.l ya doin' Chief? I seen ya in the winder! All that fella done is make a blamed phone call! What right ya got to beat him down like that?"

Sutter showed him a handful of ice. "This walkin' piece a' s.h.i.+t here and his hippie buddy are selling these hard drugs to kids. Just tried to sell some to a fifteen-year-old not five minutes ago."

"Oh, yeah?" Halm replied, then cracked the end of his cane hard up into the black guy's crotch. Now the guy was gasping, screaming, and blubbering all at the same time.

"Want me to cuff Kid Rock, Chief?" Trey asked.

"Naw." Sutter dragged the black guy up. "If we write this one up and take 'em to county detent, I'll miss dinner. And you know how fierce the wife b.i.t.c.hes at me when I miss dinner. f.u.c.kers'd be out on bail in the time it takes me to fart."

"Roger that."

"But we better look the vehicle over. Check that guy's pockets and under the seat." Sutter opened the Humvee's back door for a quick search. Jesus . . . He found a tackle box full of more ice. "Bet there's a thousand bucks' worth of dope in here," he said.

Trey peeked between the front seats. "More'n that, by the looks of it. Just think of all the kids they'd be selling it to. And look at what the hippie was carryin'." He held up a small pistol.

"Jesus. These guys."

Sutter shoved the dizzy black guy back into the front seat, but before he closed the door- Crack!

-he raised his fibergla.s.s nightstick high over his head and whacked it down across the guy's thigh. The thighbone snapped like a stout bough.

Trey whipped out his own billy. "A limp to remember us by. The same for this one?"

"Naw. He's gotta drive. But I think a Southern-style haircut might do him justice. f.u.c.ker must think he's in Lynyrd Skynyrd."

Trey twirled a finger around a lock of Kid Rock's hair, pressed his other hand against his head, and yanked as though starting a lawn mower. The kid barked a righteous yelp when a clump of hair popped out of his head along with a square inch of scalp.

Sutter's temples pounded in sudden disgust as he looked at the s.h.i.+ning vehicle and the gold chains on the wheezing black man. "It ain't f.u.c.kin' fair, ya know? I ain't an ungrateful man, and I ain't greedy either. But I got my problems just like any hardworkin' man. Them two mortgages I was telling you about are bleedin' me dry, car insurance just gone up again and so did county property taxes, not to mention the d.a.m.ned Ay-rabs keep jacking the price a' gas. Got a wife that eats more than the Redskins defensive line, G.o.d love her, and who runs my credit cards up like she's Bill f.u.c.kin' Gates's wife insteada the wife of a small-town police chief, and now the blasted AC up 'n' broke, so that's gonna cost me out the a.s.s . . . so I am pinched to the max. I'm so broke I can barely pay f.u.c.kin' attention, and then look what we got here." He glared intensely at the shuddering black guy and his accomplice. "We got two piles of walkin,' talkin' garbage wearing gold jewelry and drivin' a brand-new Hummer, and how'd they get the kind of bread for all that?" He looked at the bags of crystal meth. "By sellin' this s.h.i.+t. Yes, sir, these pieces a' s.h.i.+t live large and got enough cash to choke a f.u.c.kin' horse, and what do I got? Enough debt to choke a f.u.c.kin' horse." He slammed the Humvee door, made a fist of his right sand mitt, and said directly to the black guy, "We don't take kindly to people sellin' drugs in our town, so listen up."

He pinched the guy's cheeks together. "You 'n' your buddy are gonna turn this jalopy around and drive outta here, and you ain't gonna stop till you're plumb out of this county, and you're never, and I mean never, gonna come back here again, and if we ever, and I mean ever, see you anywhere near Agan's Point in the future-"

Whap!

He rammed his sand mitt right into the guy's mouth.

"-we might have to rough ya up a little."

The black guy was spitting out teeth. Kid Rock convulsed behind the wheel, backing the Hummer up and spinning wheels out of the lot.

Trey rubbed his hands together. "All in a day's work, huh, Chief?"

"d.a.m.n straight. And I snagged myself one h.e.l.l of a Mantle card. p.i.s.ses me off, though."

"What's that, Chief?"

Sutter dropped the tackle box and rest of the drugs into the garbage. "A small fortune worth of dope, and those punks probably sell that much s.h.i.+t to kids every d.a.m.n day."

"Sure they do."

"Driving around in a brand-new fifty-grand Hummer-"

"That tricked-up model? Sixty, sixty-five at least."

"Yeah, and we drive clunkers. Gold chains, too. s.h.i.+t. Only thing I can afford to wear around my neck is a line of sweat. Ain't right."

"No, it ain't, Chief." Trey crossed his arms with a look of concern. "But I'd say we done a lotta good today. Ain't no drugs gonna be sold by them fellas fer a while. And . . ." Trey paused to reflect on something. "Let me ask you somethin', Chief."

Sutter scratched his belly, trying to shake off the irritation. "Go ahead."

"Is stealin' from a thief really stealin'?"

"Huh?"

"If a fella breaks the letter of the law but the only person he victimizes is a lawbreaker himself, is that really a crime?"

Sutter didn't get where this was coming from. "Well, you told me Father Darren said l.u.s.ting after another woman ain't really l.u.s.t so long as you wouldn't really get it on with her. So I guess . . . no, it ain't."

"I didn't think so neither, 'cos, see . . ." Trey reached in his pockets. "While you were checkin' the backseat, I took the liberty of lightening up those boys' wrists-"

"The Rolexes?" Sutter queried with some excitement.

"Yeah, Chief, the Rolexes." Off of two fingers, Trey dangled two genuine Rolex Submariners. He pa.s.sed one to Sutter. "No doubt it was drug money those guys used to buy these."

Sutter inspected the watch with a gleam in his eye. "No doubt."

"So we could sell these fine watches and give the money to the charity of our choice, or we could even-"

"We could even wear the f.u.c.kin' things ourselves," Sutter finished, and put the watch on. Perfect fit. "It's legitimate for officers of the law to own accurate timepieces."

"Roger that." Trey put his on too, admiring it. "And one more thing. Since we agree that l.u.s.tin' after a chick you wouldn't bone ain't l.u.s.t, and stealin' from a criminal ain't stealin' . . ."

Sutter's eyes widened.

"Look what my fingers found in Kid Rock's pocket." Now Trey held a wad of bills. Mostly hundreds showed when he fanned the stack. "A little more than two grand here, Chief, and tell me if I'm wrong, but this here pile of cash is pure drug profits. It ain't money those fellas earned mowin' lawns."

"It's ill-gotten gains procured during a critical police procedure, Trey," Sutter embellished. "We'll split it."

Trey handed over the whole wad. "Nope. You take it, Chief. You buy you 'n' your wife the brand-new air conditioner you need. You asked G.o.d fer help, and He just answered your prayer. Me? I'm fine. When I need some help, I'll ask the Lord myself."

This s.h.i.+tty day just turned really fine, really fast. Sutter pocketed the money with some haste. "I'll remember this, Trey. Thanks."

Trey grinned. "Don't thank me. Thank the Lord."

I d.a.m.n straight will. . . . "We'll drop the gun off next time we go up to county. And right now?" Sutter looked at the Qwik-Mart. "Coffee and doughnuts on me."

"Make way fer the law!" Pappy Halm celebrated behind the counter. "Our fine boys in blue! Agan's Point is d.a.m.n proud to have such brave officers protectin' us!"

"Proud enough to slide us free coffee and doughnuts?" Trey asked.

"h.e.l.l, no! What do I look like? f.u.c.kin' Santa Claus?" Halm winked. "But refills are half-price."

"You're all cla.s.s, Pappy."

Sutter wended to the doughnut display and began to tong out a box of cream-filled and glazed. "Guess that poor black fella'll have to sell some of his gold to cover his dental bill."

Trey guffawed. "Yeah, and Kid Rock'll have to comb his hair funny to cover up the permanent bald spot."

Pappy Halm slapped his thighs. "They picked the wrong guys to f.u.c.k with today!"

"Never seen a worse pair of sc.u.mbags in my life," Trey added, eyes cruising over the mag rack full of Hustler, Penthouse, and Playboy.

"Speaking of sc.u.mbags . . ." Sutter noticed a copy of the town's weekly paper, the Agan's Point Messenger, and the blaring headlines: LOCAL MAN MURDERED. He picked it up and scanned over the short article about the mysterious death of Dwayne Parker. "d.a.m.n near forgot about this. Feel so bad for Judy-the poor dumb girl don't even realize that Dwayne wasn't no good for her."

"Wasn't no good for anyone or anything," Trey pitched in. "There's a bad seed in every crowd."