Fraidy Hole: A Sheriff Lester P. Morrison Novel (47 page)

Marlene sipped her coffee, inwardly cringing, waiting for the inevitable argument.

Big Bill scooted his kitchen chair backward making a screeching sound on the tile, puffed out his chest, and bent over the table as close as his belly would allow. “You will
not
stay here. You will
not
have an apartment. You
will
come with us and you
will
play football at your new school next fall. It
’ll
only be for one season
,
Boomer, a few games.
OU will be on our doorstep
—probably
coach Stoops himself
—begging
you to come and play for them. You know that as well as I do, Son. It’s a lock. Look, when you get your scholarship, you’ll live on campus while your mother and I live in Boise and build the dealership.
By the time you go pro, I will have moved up in this world. I intend to have the biggest Ford dealership in the state before I hit 50. This is what I’ve dreamed of for years. This is my start, my chance to be something besides someone who trots all over a scorching hot car lot conning little old ladies and gullible teenagers to make someone else rich.
It’s a win-win Boomer, for both of us.”
Bill straightened, pushed his chair back under the table.
“This conversation is over.”

If Big Bill had done his homework
a little better
, he might not have been so insistent to move his wife and talented son to the edge of Oklahoma. Somehow, he’d overlooked the population census of Cimarron County, a mere 2475 souls, not exactly the most fertile of markets for selling new cars.
He’d done a Google search, knew that Boise City was a small town,
but with its proximity to four states and plenty of advertising, Big Bill was counting on customers from dozens of
other
towns such as Liberal in Kansas, Lamar in Colorado, Stratford and Dalhart in Texas, and maybe a few from New Mexico. There were tourists as well. Black Mesa State Park, while not exactly a resort by any stretch, still had a lot of visitors to hike the trail to Black Mesa Peak, the highest point in Oklahoma. Word would spread.

The house he picked for Marlene and Boomer cost far more than Big Bill could afford, but damn it, he couldn’t live in some broken-down old house and project the image he fully intended to build. “Bill, Honey,
my d
addy would loan you the money, “Marlene had told him as she did almost every day. “I know he would. All you have to do is ask.”

Screw that. No way would Big Bill Kingston
cave in
and suck up to that jerk. The way Big Bill looked at it, if money got tight, he still had an ace in the hole and that ace had a picture of Boomer Kingston on it. No doubt Boomer would go pro, if not his sophomore year at OU, certainly as a junior. If the boy could get a contract such as
OU quarterback
and
Heisman Trophy winner
Sam Bradford
had
landed, Big Bill might not have to sell another car for the rest of his life. Instead he would spend his time traveling from city to city such as Miami, L.A., or Denver, and watch his gifted son play ball in front of tens of thousands of adulatory fans. It was a comforting thought
.

But
just as when his ACL had snapped on another warm September day almost identical to this one, Big Bill’s dreams became nightmares when Marlene called him at the Kingston Ford of Boise City office. “Come home
,
Bill, right now. Some policemen are here. Boomer’s in trouble.”

And Boomer wasn’t the only one.

Chapter 38

“Boomer? I’m Sheriff Morrison but you can call me Lester. Just put the gun down
,
son. Let’s talk about this.”

Boomer Kingston was scared, confused, and desperate. He was in more trouble than he’d ever been in his life, and entirely incapable of making good decisions. He pointed the nine-millimeter Smith & Wesson at the Sheriff’s head, the barrel wavering in small circles. “Get away from me
!
Leave
!
I’ll shoot you. I will.”

“You mind if I turn this lamp on?” Lester asked, gesturing toward a fixture with a plastic football as a base. “My old eyes are having trouble seeing in this light.”

Lester found the switch and took his hat off, hoping to look less like a man there to take a boy to jail and more like a grandpa who dropped by to talk football with his grandson.

“Mind if I sit down
, take a load off
?”

“I told you to leave,” Boomer said, his voice trembling. “I mean it.”

“Boomer, I’ll be happy to do just that, but give me a minute, okay?” Lester hesitated, waited for a response, didn’t get one, and sat on the foot of the bed.

“You need to calm down and think about this situation,
son
. You’re a smart kid. Hell, you’re the quarterback of the Boise City Wildcats. Quarterbacks are smart. And you are too. Now, let me tell you something. Yeah, you’re probably gonna get written up for speeding and probably reckless driving. No big deal. Lots of kids get traffic tickets. Look, I’ll even forget about that poke in the jaw you gave me. I might have come on a little strong back there at the school. Maybe you were scared and just lashed out. I can understand that. Again, no big deal.
But if you shoot me? Shoot a Sheriff? Well, you can see where that would go, can’t you Boomer? You can’t shoot a police officer
,
have your daddy pay a fine
,
and go on about your business. Doesn’t work like that. Quit while your ahead, son. Hand me the gun.
I’ll write out a little
traffic
ticket, just doing my job, and we’ll both walk out of here. How bout it, Boomer? Make sense?”

A voice erupted from the doorway, angry, “Hey you! What the hell are you doing in my house?”

Big Bill Kingston, ex-OU defensive end, once 280 pounds of muscle and fat, now mostly fat, stepped inside the room, his red face matching the color of his tie with the OU logo. Billy Ray was close behind.

“You got a warrant goddamnit? Why are you hassling my son?”

Lester stood and moved toward the door.
He held up one hand like a school crossing guard with a stop sign on a stick. “Mr. Kingston. Ease off. We got a situation here.”

Big Bill brushed Lester away like he was going for the head of a Texas quarterback and charged into the bedroom. The sight of the gun stopped him.

“Boomer! What the hell you doing with my gun
,
boy? You gone nuts? Here, give me that. Right now!”

Boomer blurted out, “Everything’s over. My life is over. Mostly because I took your advice, like I always seem to do. Yeah, I got drunk. I screwed up
. Again. L
ike I’m forever doing in your eyes. But this was different, that girl …”

“Shut up
,
Boomer!” Big Bill shouted and raised his meaty hand. “You shut your mouth right now, you hear me? Don’t say another word! I’ll slap the dog-shit out of you
!
”

Boomer steadied the gun, feeling a strange sense of calm, and aimed it at his father’s chest. “No. You shut up,” he said, and smiled. Even in the dim light, the slight glaze across the boy’s eyes was the tip off. The grin clinched it. Lester made his move, sprang at the quarterback with a quickness he didn’t know he still had, and took him to the floor.
Before Lester could grab the gun,
an explosion rocked the room. Marlene screamed
from the hallway
. Billy Ray was in the doorway in a shooter’s stance, gun drawn and ready. The bullet missed Big Bill Kingston, barely, plowed through the sheetrock, tore wood from a wall stud, and stopped in the middle of Marlene’s walk-in closet down the hall, but not before making unsightly holes in three of her favorite designer dresses.

Billy Ray
jumped to Lester’s aid,
made a dive for the gun, got
a grip
on the barrel
,
and
jerked
it up and away
from Boomer’s powerful grasp
.
Le
ster held on, straddling the back of the boy
like a rodeo bull. As he tried to bend Boomer’s arm behind him far enough for the handcuffs,
the boy managed to get one knee under his body and made a move to stand.
Cleary outweighed and outmuscled,
Lester drew back a right hand and put all he had into a roundhouse punch that caught the boy just below the cheekbone.
Boomer
folded
and spit blood
, the fight gone.

“That was for the cheap shot back at the school,” Lester muttered.
“Call the city cops
,
Billy Ray. Tell ‘em we got their speeder.”

A shaken Marlene was at the door, her hand to her mouth. “You
’re
taking my boy to jail?”

“Oh yes, Ma’am,” Lester said, pulling Boomer to his feet with Billy Ray’s help.
“We got assaulting a peace officer, unlawful flight to avoid arrest, speeding, reckless driving, attempted murder
on your husband
, and from what I heard just now, the possible murder of Melissa Parker. I reckon that would mean jail for just about anyone including the star quarterback for the Boise City Wildcats as well
as the son of Big Bill Kingston
.”

Marlene opened her mouth but no words came out. Big Bill sat on the bed, head bent over his ample belly, breathing hard.
“After all I’ve done for that boy, now this.”

The sound of sirens penetrated the window. Two black and whites rocked to a halt in the middle of the street and two uniformed drivers, one of them officer John Bowman, bailed out, guns drawn. “Let’s get this boy downstairs before those cops shoot somebody,” Lester said, yanking on Boomer’s elbow.

“Bill, do something,” Marlene whimpered. “Don’t let them take our son out of here like a common criminal.” But the owner of Kingston Ford, the hulk of a man who once tore through offensive lines and wrecked havoc on opposing quarterbacks, felt powerless to do much of anything.

Halfway down the stairs with their prisoner, Lester and Billy Ray were met by the city cops. “Put your guns away fellas, it’s under control,” Lester said.

From the top of the stairs Big Bill yelled, “Don’t worry
,
son; I’ll get a lawyer, the best in the state. Just keep your mouth shut and don’t say a word.”

Back in the street Lester checked the brass nametag and said “Officer Bowman, would you kindly transport this young man to jail.
I find myself without proper official transportation at the moment.”

John Bowman looked at the black Camaro askew in the driveway, front tires on the grass. “Hey, that’s the car that passed me like a bat
out
of hell awhile ago. You were driving weren’t you? Son-of-a-bitch! I would have caught this ki
d,
Sheriff
,
if you hadn’t butted in. You’re out of line, interfering like that, that was city business.”

“Was while he was
inside
the city limits, Officer Bowman.
I only chased him while he was
outside
the city limits.”

“Now see,” John Bowman said, “that’s why our departments do not get along. We can’t get a lick of cooperation from you and…”

“Put him in your car Officer, I’ll see you at the courthouse,” Lester said and turned away. Billy Ray, you drive. I think I’ll stay with my pickup from now on.”

The jail at the Boise City Courthouse had two cells, neither of which had seen an occupant for the last six months. The most recent visitor was a painter that had one beer too many at the Moonshiner Lounge, ran his truck over a fire hydrant, and spilled green paint over a good portion of Harper Avenue.

Boomer Kingston was given his choice of accommodations, Cell One or Cell Two.
Since he did not indicate a preference, Billy Ray guided him into the one that looked the cleanest. The prisoner was directed to strip and pass all his clothes between the bars. He complied.
Lester appeared with the standard orange coveralls and waited until Boomer had dressed before entering the cell.

“Have a seat on the
bunk,
Boomer. We didn’t get a chance to finish our talk earlier. Billy Ray, you read him his rights?”

Billy Ray nodded, “I did, but I need to speak with you privately for a moment.”

“Now?”

“Especially now.”

Lester shrugged, locked the cell door, and followed his deputy to the office.

“What in tarnation is so all fired important
,
Billy Ray?”

Billy Ray shut the door and said, “According to school records, Boomer’s not yet eighteen years old
,
Sheriff. In the eyes of Oklahoma law, he’s still a minor. You question him now, without the presence of his parents or a lawyer, and whatever he says will be inadmissible in court.”