Crystal Meth Cowboys (20 page)

"Allrighty," said Larry and returned to the kitchen.

Wes sank back into the corduroy couch. Larry's saucerlike stare had gathered up his guilt, focused it and bounced it back. He was about to betray his partner, no two ways about it.
Except
was it really betrayal if he later told his partner what he had done as he absolutely intended to? They were cops. If cops didn't follow the rules, who would? Except the rules dictated that Wes tell the Chief of Police what he was about to say, not the Mayor-elect.
Except the Chief had promised their immediate termination if they continued their meth investigation and telling the Chief about their discovery would force him to carry out his threat and probably tell the current Mayor who, if Bell was right, would tip off the drug thugs who would then run on down the road. Rules, Wes concluded, were a tricky thing.

"Wes, how
are
you?" said Florence. She was wearing a black and white houndstooth skirt, a long-sleeved white stand-up collar cotton blouse, a choker of pearls with matching earrings and house slippers. She perched her pert derriere on the lip of the grimy overstuffed chair and tugged at her skirt. "Alas it's too early for a drink and I've got meetings all afternoon…how about a nice cup of English breakfast tea? Larry, would you brew us two of your English specials? Do you like it sweet?"

Wes shrugged.

"Give it the works, hon," said Florence, reaching out as if to touch his arm from six feet away. Larry didn't reply. But he stopped doing what he was doing in the kitchen and filled the kettle.

"I'm so glad you called. I asked you to keep me posted but I didnt really think you would. I know how you cops are, one for all and all for one and all that but, really, I've never understood why this is so hard for some people to grasp, we're all on the same team here!"

Wes snugged himself back into his corner of the couch. Florence was certainly wound up this afternoon. "I agree completely," said Wes, agreeing completely. "But, well, I have to insist in advance that this conversation remain confidential."

Florence shook her boyish cut. "I do love the way you talk. You'd make a great press secretary." She shivered from head to toe. "Someday. When I run for governor. Anyway, to answer your question, that's a given. You're
talking to your good friend private citizen Florence Jillison and no one else."

Water molecules pinged hollowly inside the tea kettle. Wes leaned forward and lowered his voice. "We, Bell and I, have strong evidence, physical evidence, that indicates a methamphetamine lab is operating inside the grounds of the diatomaceous earth plant."

"Whoaa," said Florence, all eyebrows and eyelashes. She looked inward for a moment, blinking furiously. "What?" she said. "What evidence exactly?"

"Uh…well…"

"Doesn't matter," said Florence, holding up her hands, rearing back. "So long as it's nailed down."

"It's nailed down. We've got lab results."

Florence rolled her tongue around her mouth. "Well then," she said. "That's that. Have you told the Chief?"

"No," said Wes. "Bell's afraid if we tell the Chief we would be fired for freelancing or, at least, pulled from a case we have developed from day one and risked life and limb to pursue to its ultimate conclusion."

Florence shot a look at the kitchen. The tea kettle was whistling furiously. Larry picked up the kettle and the whistle sputtered out. "Have you or Bell actually seen this lab operating?"

"No."

"And you naturally feel that you should be rewarded, not punished, for, how do you say,
conducting
an investigation that could lead to the biggest bust in Wislow since temperance preacher Ezra Jenkins got caught making sour mash in his corn crib."

Wes laughed, relieved that Florence was doing the talking for him. "Absolutely."

Florence sat back in the overstuffed chair, resting her arms on the armrests. Wes thought it a poor throne for such a regal woman.

"And you were wondering if I would, shall we say,
encourage
the Chief to let you and Officer Bell lead the investigation from here on in."

"At this point I'd settle for us not getting fired."

Florence frowned. "Don't talk like that. A case this big is as much politics as law enforcement. And in politics, at the start of negotiations, you always ask for everything you want."

"I can always get another job. What I really want is for Bell not to get the axe. I know he's a little rough around the edges but, Christ, the guy was born to be a cop."

Florence surprised Wes by saying, "I agree with you."

"There's a further complication." Florence nodded for him to continue. Wes paused to gather his words. "Bell thinks that Lester Krumrie may be in on it, providing political cover for John Aubuchon, otherwise why would Aubuchon risk it?" Florence Jillison put a hand to her mouth. "If he's right then…well, you'd somehow have to convince the Chief not to tell the lame duck Mayor that John Aubuchon was being investigated."

Florence pursed her lips and pressed the tips of her fingers together.

Larry appeared, holding two steaming mugs. Florence slid a copy of
Vanity Fair
across the blanket box. Larry set the mugs down on a picture of Demi Moore. "Enjoy," he said.

Wes thanked him. Florence said, “Shit! I plain forgot. Wes forgive me all to hell but I've got to call Joyce at the Shelter." She braced her hands on her knees and stood up. "I'll be back in a flash." She snagged her husband's arm before he could slip away. "Hon, entertain our guest for a second."

Both men recoiled at this very unpleasant prospect but Florence scuffled off in her slippers before they could object. "As you wish, Perlina," said Larry to her back.

Wes Lyedecker sucked up a lot of air through his nose, then released it very slowly. He studied the cast iron fireplace tools. A black leather billows sealed with bright brass studs hung from the tool stanchion by a strip of cowhide. He checked his sytems. He was awake, alert and sober. He had heard what he had heard.

Larry sat down in the overstuffed chair. Wes took a sip of tea, burned his mouth and said, "Perlina?"

“My wife's nickname,” said Larry Tenace. “In Spanish it means ‘little pearl'.”

Wes tried to think what to do, which was not easy in the glare of Larry's concave stare. Florence didn't know her nickname was the biker's dying word. Wes should just sit tight until she was finished with her phone call and act as if nothing had happened. But who was she really calling? You don't interrupt a meeting about Wislow's crime of the century to call Joyce at the Shelter. Larry Tenace kept his eyes on Wes Lyedecker. Wes checked his watch. "I really should be going," said Wes, hands on his knees.

Larry Tenace did not object.

Wes shot to his feet, said, "Tell Florence I'll call her," and crossed the living room in three strides.

-----

The dogs didn't bark from the backyard like they usually did when Wes climbed out of his RX-7 and headed up the driveway to Bell's house. He grabbed for the tiny brass knocker, then hammered his fist on the door. He tried again to compose his statement to Bell, but his brain was moving way too fast. He would just have to blurt it out, admit that he'd been a traitorous scumwad, apologize profusely and tell Bell what he had heard.

Wes pummeled the pressboard door. Wes had been invited over for pre-shift coffee twice before. Bell always watched the 1 PM Star Trek reruns while polishing his boots, badge
and nameplate. And bullets. Bell should be home. Probably on the throne. Of course Bell would want to launch immediately when he heard the news. What was his rookie partner, having shared evidence with a civilian and jeapordized the entire investigation, going to say then?

The door opened. "He's out walking the dogs," said Sherri, holding up mud-covered surgical gloves. "I'm potting geraniums." Wes followed her down the entry hall. "There's a spot of coffee left."

"No thanks," said Wes, standing by the counter as Sherri peeled off her gloves in the kitchen sink.

"Sherri, was Tom armed? When he went out?"

"He's always armed."

"Was he in uniform?"

She slid Wes a sideways glance. "And risk messing up his boots?"

"Is his assault rifle still here?"

A shadow flickered across her pretty Indian Maiden face. "Why?"

"
Is-it-here
?"

Wes trotted after Sherri as she tore down the bedroom hall and into the guest room that faced the street. She slid open a closet door, revealing a rack of faded dress shirts, old uniforms and a Russian-made SKS resting in the corner, bayonet retracted.

Wes cogitated. Of course the SKS was here. Bell wouldn't enter the Dept. of Evil in broad daylight carrying an assault rifle. Sherri mashed her lips together, fighting back questions, being a good cop wife.

"Where does he keep his kevlar vest?"

Sherri led the way to the master bedroom. She dug through Bell's tightly-packed side of the closet. "It's usually right here, next to his uniform."

Wes helped her search through the wall of clothing. No vest. Bell never wore his vest off duty, hated the damn thing. But Bell couldn't possibly have launched by himself,
not after agreeing to give Wes twenty-four hours to think about it. Unless Bell had second thoughts about putting his rookie partner in harm's way once again. Unless this was his answer to Wes Lyedecker's question. What kind of partner do you think I am?

“I need to use your phone." Sherri pointed to an extension by the bed. Wes sat on a pillow and dialed.

"Wislow dispatch," said a female dispatcher he didn't recognize.

"This is Officer Lyedecker, 12 Frank. I suspect that…that is we definitely
have
an officer in need of assistance," said Wes, awed to hear himself sound the universal battle cry of law enforcement.

"I'll connect you to the watch commander."

"No, I don't have ti…" Shit a fucking brick, thought Wes as Sherri stared at him with her hand to her mouth and the phone system played an instrumental version of
Rainy Night in Georgia
. He prayed that the watch commander was Sgt. Carruth.

"Sergeant Harrick."

"Sergeant, it's Wes Lyedecker."

"Yeah?"

"Sir, we have an 11-99 situation. My partner, Officer…"

"I know who your partner is."

"Yes. He's on the grounds of…" What the fuck was the name of the company anyway? "…the plant, diatomaceous earth plant and in grave danger."

"How? From who?"

"From heavily-armed drug dealers."

"You witnessed this?"

"No, sir."

"He 21'ed you?"

"No, sir. But it's true nonetheless and we need to get everybody out there
immediately
."

Wes heard a nasal rumble shudder down the line. He waited impatiently. PsychoSarge said, "Shit, he's not even on duty till three o'clock."

"Sir, I don't see how…that's not the…here," said Wes to Sherri as he handed her the phone. It was time to go. Bell had to have a weapon stashed in the house somewhere. Well, of course. The SKS.

Wes grabbed the assault rifle from the closet, checked the clip and ran into the back yard. The day was rainwashed to a spanking shine from a brief squall the night before, the sky blue, the sun high and hot. An extremely lousy day for covert action. Wes searched the side of the house for a ladder. He heard Sherri raise her voice in anger.

Wes ducked through a side door to the garage. The Firebird sat waiting for its master's return. He jerked his head around, searching corners and spied a step ladder leaning against the wall. He opened the dryer but found nothing but socks and underwear. He checked the washer and extracted a soggy king size sheet. He scuttled back to the back yard, wet sheet in one hand, ladder in the other.

Sherri stood on the patio with her arms crossed. She watched Wes plant the step ladder in the gravel next to the cinderblock wall. "Are they coming?" he shouted.

Sherri started across the lawn. "I wouldn't hold my breath," she said. Wes thought sarcasm a strange response under the circumstances. "Wes, what the fuck is going on?"

Wes climbed the ladder. He placed his plant foot on the top step, his right foot on the step below. He was wearing his stiff black oxfords, pleated gray flannel slacks and burgundy Polo shirt with banded sleeves to show off his biceps. He had cancelled his mental note to buy a more comfortable pair of work shoes after the slick-soled oxfords saved his life.

"We-ess," said Sherri, rushing to help steady him on his shaky perch. "
Tell
me."

Wes rose up and looked over the rolls of concertina wire that topped the ten foot wall. He couldn't see much past the thirty foot swept-back fir trees on the other side.

"Wes, godammit I…" said Sherri. Wes silenced her with a gesture. He thought he'd heard a barking dog.

"Gotta go," he said and flung the soggy sheet over two rolls of razor wire. Steel teeth bit right through it. He tossed the dragging tail of the sheet over the same coils, got the same result.

"I'll get you a blanket," said Sherri, releasing him and starting off.

"No! No time," barked Wes. "Just hand me the gun." Sherri picked the SKS off the grass and passed it up."And brace the ladder." Wes flexed his body and bent his legs at the knee. "I'm gonna pole vault this motherfucker." Sherri dug her feet into the gravel and wrapped her hands around the ladder.

The top of the wall was even with Wes Lyedecker's knees, the top of the razor wire just above his waist. When he heard a baying dog and a burst of gunfire from inside the compound Wes planted his plant foot and propelled himself off the top step, slammed the rifle butt down on a coil of concertina wire and sliced the shit out of his left shin as he vaulted over the wall and dropped twelve feet to the grounds of the Department of Evil.

Chapter 21

Wes Lyedecker landed with a
poof
in a soft pile of white dirt. He climbed eight feet to the top of the mound, crouched down and surveyed his surroundings. This part of the Department of Evil looked like a Christmas card. Everything was white, save for two 200 foot long green-water condensing ponds, one directly below, the other running parallel some 50 feet to his right. A hundred yards ahead a row of pine trees sealed the area from the smokestack and funnel tanks of the processing plant.