The Old Gray Wolf (3 page)

Unfazed by this less-than-gracious reception, Mr. Hooten observed that his throat was “dry as Mojave sand” and observed that a beer would do him no end of good. Sadly, he did not have “two dimes to jingle in my pockets.”

The honest citizen was trying to decide whether to (1) buy the odorous, odious fellow a brew and make the best of the situation or (2) to advise the smelly bum to take a hike to the Salvation Army HQ and get a shower, when the aforementioned Bertha—who had been wiping a table with a wet dishrag—materialized behind LeRoy Hooten and inquired what the matter was.

What Hooten did next exhibited poor judgment, but in his defense it shall be stipulated that he had just arrived in town on the back of a flatbed truck that was used to haul cattle to market. That convenient conveyance smelled of livestock dung, urine, and other unidentifiable secretions. The effects of this means of transport had not served to enhance his admittedly meager intellectual powers.

Turning, the vagrant glanced at the large woman, and said with a supercilious sneer, “Get lost, fatso—me'n the gentleman are talking about beer.”

Bertha was almost overcome with gratitude. Her bouncer's skills had not been exercised much of late, and now Fate had provided fresh material of the choicest kind. In the interest of not pandering to the unsavory cravings of those who enjoy gratuitous violence, the gory details shall not be dwelt upon. Suffice it to say that B
4
grabbed Hooten by his grimy shirt collar with her left hand, the equally grimy seat of his trousers with her right paw, and before you could say “Look at 'er go!” had given the malodorous pestilence the old heave-ho through the swinging doors, which continued to swing for some seconds after LeRoy Hooten's startled expression had encountered the cement sidewalk and (following a yard-long skid on hard-frozen snow) his thick skull had impacted with a red fire hydrant that did not budge.

This summary ejection from the premises (though merely an average performance for Miss Bertha) was welcomed with enthusiastic approval from her audience, including a heartfelt “Bravo!” Also a “Way to go!” and a “Bertha's number one!” to which high praise the performer responded with a grateful, girlishly shy smile. She felt immensely blessed to have an upper-class clientele that was capable of appreciating the finer nuances of her art. The lady's charming modesty served only to encourage her admirers, who began stomping their cowboy boots and hooting earthy salutes to their heroine. There were also shrill whistles, boisterous howls, and raucous laughter that could be heard half a block away.

But not by Mr. Hooten, who was unconscious on account of a concussion, which is no laughing matter. Despite the blood leaking slowly from a tiny artery in his brain, the injured man returned to his so-called senses within about a minute. No one noticed when, with the support of the helpful fireplug—beside which vagrants and loiterers were not allowed to park—the dazed man managed to push himself to his feet and stumble away in a state of confusion, which he summed up succinctly:
Where am I and what's going on?
His first guess was,
I musta fell out of an airplane and landed in this little burg.
Being an analytic sort, Hooten took into account the fact that he was chilly.
I bet I'm in Maine—or maybe Minnesota.
He was not so disoriented as to totally misunderstand his predicament:
I'll freeze to death if I don't get something to eat and find me a warm place to sleep.
This was a reasonably accurate estimate of his predicament, and one that is bound to arouse at least a tad of sympathy. But not to worry; the plucky ne'er-do-well knew just the remedy:
I need some hard cash
. As he staggered past a greasy-spoon diner and glanced at a
DISHWASHER WANTED
sign in the window, his course of action was a no-brainer:
I'll bump into some rich sucker and pick his pocket.

The unfortunate malefactor did not know where he had landed. Though there were perhaps a dozen citizens in Granite Creek, Colorado, who could be categorized as rich, not one of them was a sucker, and poking your fingers into any of these bad hombres' pockets was a good way to lose them. But, as it happened, not one of Mr. Hooten's dexterous digits was in the least danger of being lopped off by a bone-handled Bowie knife. Within minutes, he would select a victim from that supposedly less-dangerous gender and commit a felony that was related (first cousin) to that venerable craft of picking prosperous gentlemen's pockets.

 

CHAPTER FOUR

A SUITABLE SENTIMENT FOR AN EPITAPH

As they motored down Copper Street in Moon's Expedition, neither the lean, keen-eyed Indian behind the steering wheel nor Scott Parris (in the passenger seat), nor sweet little Sarah Frank (in the backseat), nor Charlie's aunt Daisy Perika (seated beside Sarah) took any notice of Mr. LeRoy Hooten, who—in search of a promising pocket to pick—was headed in the same direction as they were, though not at the posted speed limit of twenty-five miles per.

Accustomed to his role as chief of police, Parris barked an instruction to his part-time deputy and pointed. “Pull in at the Smith's parking lot.” Suddenly remembering that he was a guest in Moon's car, he added quickly, “If it's no trouble.”

“Not a bit.” Wanting some elbow room, the amiable rancher selected a space about fifty yards from the few dozen vehicles that were clustered near the supermarket's entrance.

As if she had intended to pick up a few things herself, Daisy snorted. “Why didn't you park in the next county?”

Ignoring his relative's caustic remark, Moon addressed his buddy: “You intend to do some last-minute shopping?”

“Yes I do.” Parris was unbuckling his seat belt. “I was just adding up all the times you've fed me at the Columbine, and all I've ever brought with me was a big appetite.” Free of physical restraint, he opened the car door. “Tonight, I'm providing the dessert.”

“That's very thoughtful,” Moon said.

“And it's about time,” Daisy snapped. “I've baked you enough pies to keep a big family of hogs fed and fat for a year.”

Parris leaned to gaze at the feisty old woman. “I was thinking about some ice cream.”

“In this weather?” She feigned a shiver. “Just
thinking
about ice cream is enough to freeze my gizzard.”

“Then I'll get a couple of pies that we can warm up in the oven—”

“Store-bought pies taste like warmed-over cardboard,” she muttered. “I wouldn't feed one to a starving coyote that came scratching at my door.”

Parris was determined to please. “So what would you like?”

“I'd like for you to close that door before I get a bad case of frostbite!”

Scott Parris had known the tribal elder for too many years to take offense. Tipping his felt hat with a boyish smile, the beefy cop shut the car door and began his downhill stroll to the supermarket.

Realizing that there was nothing to be gained by upbraiding his irascible auntie, Charlie Moon held his tongue.
I'll get some ice cream and pie, too.

Twenty-year-old Sarah Frank could not resist lodging an oblique protest. “I think Mr. Parris is very nice to buy ice cream for—”

“Hah!” Daisy shot back. “You'd think rabid foxes was nice until one of 'em put the bite on you.” This off-the-wall assertion was an effective conversation stopper.

Pleased with her witty self, the aged combatant settled back into the cushioned seat and sighed with unconcealed satisfaction. She was promptly rewarded with a slight twitch in her lower back, which part of Daisy's anatomy was wont to gave birth to excruciating muscle spasms. Sure enough, the twitch sharpened to an agonizing pain. Was this the just reward for her misbehavior? Perhaps. Daisy Perika grimaced.
Before this happened, I was having a good time.

That was it (a Suitable Sentiment for an Epitaph):

BEFORE THIS HAPPENED

I WAS HAVING A GOOD TIME

But these words were not suitable for Daisy's gravestone.

Then for whose polished granite slab?

A pertinent question, and one whose answer eludes us. But only for the moment.

Of this much we may be assured: before the first gray glow of dawn, one pretty tough customer will be in the market for an inscription on her (or his) tombstone.

 

CHAPTER FIVE

A CAUTIONARY TALE

The caution referred to is directed particularly to those young folk who aspire to a satisfying career in law enforcement. (Bless their innocent hearts.) But who among us has not occasionally daydreamed about wearing the spiffy uniform, toting a deadly weapon, and tearing around town on a government-provided motorcycle? Not to mention the intellectual stimulation of detecting a sly crime-in-progress, the visceral thrill of the subsequent chase, and the soul-filling gratification of arresting a dastardly criminal—thus saving some upstanding citizen from suffering an act of mindless violence and/or the loss of valuable personal property. And add to those rewards the heartfelt appreciation of said upstanding citizen who has been served and protected by the courageous, clear-eyed constable on patrol.

Ninety-nine percent of the aforementioned youths will, of course, yawn at the forthcoming lesson (provided free of charge) and return their slack-jawed attention to the latest computerized diversion wherein the cherished goal is to maim or kill the maximum number of digitally simulated fellow creatures. But for that one-in-a-hundred young whippersnapper who will pay close attention—the Granite Creek chief of police is about to demonstrate the folly of youth's vain ambitions.

HIS
UNEXPECTED
ENCOUNTER
WITH
THE
CRIMINAL
ELEMENT

As Scott Parris slogged his way slowly across the snowy supermarket parking lot, the off-duty policeman's mind was occupied with thoughts about this evening's dessert. Mrs. Parris's little boy had never met a pie he didn't like, and he could not make up his mind about what kind.
I'll just close my eyes and grab a couple off the shelf.
Which left the matter of ice cream.
Two half gallons will be more than enough for the four of us.
The uncomplicated fellow would have been happy to settle for chocolate and vanilla, but there were about two dozen flavors to chose from, and that plentitude obliged him to make a carefully considered decision. Nearing the Smith's entrance, he was mulling over the relative merits of strawberry, butter pecan, and peach. Not an easy choice: each of these flavors was a taste-bud-titillating treat. Parris's pleasant mullings were interrupted by the muffled patter of hurried footsteps somewhere behind him. Instinctively, the cop glanced over his shoulder—to spot a slender figure dressed in black who was high-stepping it along the slippery parking lot.
Where's that Gomer goin' in such a hurry?
He turned to get a better look, just in time to see the sprinter snatch something from a grocery cart parked by the left rear fender of a sleek Cadillac. Something white.
It's a purse!
The woman whose handbag had been pinched was occupied with a fidgety little girl and several bulging plastic bags that she was stuffing into the Caddy's trunk—which was why she had not noticed the brazen theft.

Write this maxim down in blood and commit it to memory:

On or Off Duty, a Gritty Ex-Chicago Cop

Does Not Hesitate
to do His Bounden Duty.

In less time than it takes to tell about it, Scott Parris was on a dead run after the purse thief. Sad to say, Charlie Moon's best friend was well past the flower of his youth, and carrying about sixty pounds more than the young man he was chasing. Add to that the fact that the grade was slightly uphill and what it summed up to was No Contest—the skinny criminal was putting an increasing distance between them. By the time Parris was within a stride or two of the Cadillac, he was puffing like an overloaded pack mule ascending La Veta Pass. Too winded to think and relying entirely on instinct, he wished that he …
had a rock to throw at that thieving bastard
. But he did not, and popping a shot at a petty perpetrator's back was not strictly kosher, so the cop improvised right on the spot by grabbing the nearest object at hand, which was a can of black-eyed peas from a lady's shopping cart. (That's right—the very same lady whose purse had been snatched.)

On this occasion, unlike the last, both the mother and the daughter were aware of the blatant thievery.

Blissfully unaware of their wide eyes and gaped mouths, and recalling his days on an Indiana high school football team, Parris got a firm grip on the can with his trusty right hand, slowed to a light trot, and prepared to assume the classic stance and make that once-in-a-lifetime pass.

Outraged, one of the victimized citizens (Momma) yelled, “You bring that back, you big fat thief!” The other (sweet little Betsy Lou) commenced to jump up and down and scream shrilly, “Call the po-leece, Momma—call the po-leece!”

Was Scott Parris jarred by this verbal abuse? Not a bit. Your sure-enough, steely-eyed quarterback does not allow himself to be distracted by murderous threats from the hulking defense, much less flustered by rude yells from the bench, away-team fans with bloodlust in their hearts—or the opposition's wild-eyed cheerleaders who would dearly love to beat him to death with pink pom-poms.

The GCPD chief of police stopped dead still, raised the hefty (sixteen-ounce) can of black-eyed peas over his beefy shoulder, made a hasty estimate of where his uncooperative receiver would be when the missile arrived—and
let 'er fly
. Being a realist about his athletic prowess, Parris figured his chances of hitting the target were about one in twenty. Which, given the dismal twilight visibility and the decades that had passed since he'd last launched the ol' pigskin, was somewhere on the yonder side of optimistic.