“I guess the shark went after that bloody foot for a while, chewed it pretty much right off from what I hear, and old Earl, drunk as hell, he just sank like a rock, and that was that. His friends couldn’t help much ‘cause they were trying to stop the boat from being tossed into the rocks. And that was the last they saw of him, until the Coast Guard found him a week later, all tangled up in those Indians’ nets.” He paused. “And that ain’t all.”

Fat Ernst poured another shot.

Ray whispered, “I guess when they brought him back up to the surface, things had been chewing on him. Things had been eating him from the inside. Didn’t find no holes though. So that meant that these ocean critters, they crawled into his insides through his … his orifices, and I ain’t talking about his goddamn mouth, neither.”

And right then the front door bounced off the wall and Slim walked in, wearing his cowboy hat and a soaking wet oiled-canvas duster. He looked like someone had spit in his socks and he’d been wearing them for a few days now. He pointed at Deputy Ray. “Been looking for you. Where the hell have you been?”

“Sheriff’s got me running around all over the place. I haven’t—”

Slim shook his head, stalking across the floor, leaving another trail of mud where I had just finished mopping. “Don’t give me any of that horseshit. This is serious. I’m talking about a goddamn hit and run.” He shoved his finger into Ray’s narrow chest and pushed the deputy back against the bar.

“Now you go out there and arrest them Sawyer brothers. I don’t care how you do it, but I want them in jail by tomorrow morning, or I swear to God I will have your fucking badge.” Slim looked like he’d not only rip the badge off of Ray’s chest; he’d cheerfully eat it as well. “When I’m through with you, you won’t be able to get a job guarding a goddamn garbage can, you got that?”

Ray swallowed, and that Adam’s apple bounced up and down like a punching bag. “Yessir, sure. I’ll go talk to ‘em. Don’t you worry.”

“I don’t want you to talk to ’em. I want ’em in jail or dead.” Slim straightened and took off his plastic-covered cowboy hat. He pointed it at Ray, shaking little drops of rainwater onto the floor. “Hell, I’d prefer dead.”

Ray nodded vigorously, as if he might just decide to drive out to the Sawyer brothers’ house right now and start shooting.

Slim turned to Fat Ernst. “And if you see those punks—seems like they’re here every goddamn time I drive by—you’ll let me know, right?”

“Of course. We’re friends, aren’t we?” Fat Ernst mumbled around his half-chewed cigar, then grinned. “How about a beer?”

“Can’t tonight. I have to go pick up the new casket myself ’cause Hutson’s still in the hospital. Besides that, the whole goddamn back fifty acres is underwater, and on top of everything else, I got two dead steers I got to take care of.”

Slim pulled a well-used handkerchief out of his back pocket and blew his nose forcefully, his entire body shaking with effort. I figured that snot must have been buried deep, like in his intestines. After briefly and automatically checking the contents, he stowed the piece of cloth safely back into his pocket. Then he jammed his cowboy hat back on and pointed at Ray again. “I ain’t kidding about those goddamn Sawyers. They best be in jail tomorrow or, so help me God, you’ll live to regret it.”

Ray nodded again. “Yessir. You got it.”

As Slim took a step toward the door, Fat Ernst lurched to his feet and raised his hand. “Hang on, hang on. Before you go rushing off, I got a … a business proposition for you.” Fat Ernst broke off and looked at his hand, like he wasn’t sure how it got there and now he didn’t know what to do with it. He casually let it drift down to scratch his belly, pretending to ignore it.

Slim merely crossed his arms and waited, rain dripping from his cowboy hat.

“See, I’ve got a little supply problem …” Fat Ernst eased aroundthe bar and approached Slim. His voice dropped to a murmur. “I’m almost out of meat here.”

Slim began to answer, but Fat Ernst kept going, saying, “It’s those goddamn bastards over at Costco. They got the orders screwed up again. Of course, I already paid ‘em.”

I knew for a fact that Costco refused to sell Fat Ernst anything until he paid off what he already owed them.

Slim said, “So?”

“Well, I was thinking we could maybe, you know, cut some sort of a deal. Something a little better than what Harris is paying.”

Slim shook his head and cleaned out the inside of his nose with his thumb. “Sorry. Ninety-five cents a pound. Same as always.”

“Okay, okay. But I’m thinking I could maybe, you know, pay you back a little later …” He grinned widely at Slim. Slim grinned right back. Both of them stood there, grinning away and showing lots of teeth. I felt like somebody ought to take a picture.

“I’m afraid I can’t do it. I got expenses,” Slim said finally.

The grin never left Fat Ernst’s face, but I could hear air faintly hissing out from between his clenched teeth. “Aw, hell, that’s okay. I understand. We all got expenses.” He stuck out a beefy hand. “Maybe next time we can do some business.”

Slim took the hand and shook it twice, and that should have been that, but I got a bad feeling it was just getting started.

CHAPTER 8

Around ten, Junior kicked the front door hard enough that the needle tracing its way over “Ghost Riders In the Sky” jumped and played the chorus twice. He stood in the doorway, grinning fiercely, and shouted, “Freeze, cocksuckers. This is a stickup.”

Nobody moved except me. I had been wiping down the tables, trying hard to look busy. Actually, I was just killing time. When the door slammed into the wall and Junior appeared there like some sadistic jack-in-the-box, I put the pool table between me and Junior.

I know it wasn’t the cool thing to do, to run like a frightened rabbit, but I couldn’t help myself. I never knew what to think when it came to the Sawyer brothers. Hell, I wouldn’t put it past them to try and hold up Fat Ernst. But Junior just laughed and grabbed a stool at the bar. His pompadour looked solid, as if he’d used about a gallon of hairspray along with some motor oil and industrial glue. I tried to act casual and started wiping down the nearest table.

Fat Ernst finally tore his gaze away from a fishing show on the television and shouted, “Close the door! You born in a barn?”

“Nope. I was born in the kitchen. Bert was the one born in the barn.”

As if summoned by the mention of his name, Bert staggered through the front door. His entire right arm was encased in a crude plaster cast. He was grinning too, but his eyes rolled loosely around in their sockets as if they weren’t attached to anything. He raised his left arm in greeting and lost his balance in the process, nearly falling onto the pool table.

“What the hell happened to you?” Fat Ernst asked.

“Broke my arm!” Bert said proudly, brandishing his cast.

“No shit? Figured it was your leg.”

“Aw, don’t mind him,” Junior said, making himself at home at the bar. “He was bitchin’ and moanin’ all day, so we swung by the vet’s, and he set that sucker real good and gave Bert some horse tranquilizers.” He looked over at Bert, still leaning against the pool table. “He’s as right as rain now. Ain’t that right, Bert?”

“You goddamn got that right,” Bert said in a matter-of-fact tone. He managed to stagger toward the bar and drop onto a stool.

“You fellas fucked up my deal with Slim today,” Fat Ernst said tiredly. “He was too damn pissed for business.”

“Slim’s always pissed about something.”

Ray pulled himself to his feet and stuck his chest out. “Been meaning to talk to you boys about this morning.”

“Shut your hole, Ray,” Fat Ernst snapped. “Better yet, get the fuck out. We’re closed. You too, Heck. Out.”