“Stranger things have happened,” Loving said. “Even in a nice li’l town like thisss.”
“Nice little town.” Huey made a snorting, hiccuping sound. For a minute Loving was afraid he was going to barf. “Yeah, that’s Magic Valley-Venom capital of the world.”
“Venom? Whassat?”
“Hot new drug,” said the sage Louie. “It’s all over town. ’Specially in the schools. Some of the kids are hooked on it.”
“It ain’t just kids,” Dewey corrected. “I think some of our cuttin’ pals are samplin’ the junk, too.”
“Yer kiddin’!” Loving said. It was a gruesome thought-some chain saw-wielding logger high on drugs. “Why do you think so?”
“Cain’t say,” Dewey said, obviously taking great pleasure in his secrecy. “But I got my suspicions.”
“But where’s the stuff comin’ from?” Loving asked.
Dewey lurched forward. At first Loving thought the man was going to head-butt him. Then he realized it was just his drunken way of directing Loving’s attention.
Loving twisted around, staring in the direction indicated. He spotted a burly man slunk back in a dark corner. He had long black hair that draped down over his bulging shoulder muscles. Hard to see in the low lighting, but it looked like he had an ugly scar over his right eye.
“How d’ya know?”
“I don’t know for sure. But every time he comes up to one of the boys, it’s the same story. Within ten minutes he wants to talk about drugs. Gettin’ high. Doin junk.” He shook his head. “Word’s out on him.”
Ben had contacted Loving before he’d gone out tonight and told him about his new lead involving a suspected drug pusher. Loving hadn’t seen the picture yet, but judging from Ben’s description, this thug could be the one.
As he watched, the big man slid out of his booth and started peeling bills off a fat wad of money. Loving decided to take the plunge. He knew he’d gotten about as much out of Huey, Dewey, and Louie as he was ever likely to, anyway.
“Pleasure talkin’ to you boys.” He slid out of the bar just a few seconds after his quarry.
The night air seemed cool and bracing-a delight after the smoky, dirty interior of the bar. Loving drank in several good deep swallows, purging his brain. He’d need a clear head if he was going to follow this goon without being spotted.
The man was heading east, back toward the heart of town. Fortunately, Loving had already learned the lay of the town, a task that took about ten minutes. He stayed on the opposite side of the street and held way back, staying as far away as possible without altogether losing the man.
Loving’s quarry seemed to be heading somewhere in particular, somewhere in a hurry. Could be any of a million things, Loving realized. But if he could catch this clown making a drug sale, or better yet, making a drug sale to a logger, maybe someone Gardiner knew … well, he might be able to make the Skipper very happy indeed.
The burly man with the long black hair turned left, heading north. Loving waited until he was entirely out of sight, then crossed the street. He quickened his pace, not making a show of it, until his prey was back where he could see him. Once he had the man in sight, he slowed.
The man paused at a street corner, looking all ways at once, as if he expected to meet someone but didn’t know which way he might be coming from.
That could be a problem. Loving started scanning the streets himself. If the man’s rendezvous was coming from the same direction as Loving, or anywhere close, he’d be spotted. He’d have to pretend to be tying his shoe or waiting for a taxi-and hope they bought it.
Hard as he looked, though, Loving didn’t see anyone. Even drug lords get stood up sometimes, Loving supposed. He turned back toward the street corner where his quarry was waiting.
The man was gone. Somehow, while Loving had been distracted, he’d disappeared.
Loving put his feet into first gear and began chugging across the street and down the sidewalk. Had the man spotted him? He didn’t see how it was possible. Maybe he was just always careful. Maybe that was a smart way to be when your chief occupation in life was peddling illegal designer drugs.
Loving raced down the sidewalk, feeling the weight of every downed beer sloshing in his stomach. He was huffing more than he cared to admit, but he made it in less than thirty seconds.
Not that it mattered. There was no trace of the man. Not on this street corner, not on any street corner. Not that he could see, anyway.
He was about to turn away when he heard the sound. It was a tiny sound, an almost inaudible squeaking, like a door hinge turning, or a sneaker pivoting on pavement. Loving whirled, but he was way too late. Something long and hard came crashing down on his head.
Loving gritted his teeth together, wincing. He fell to his knees, trying to absorb the pain. He raised his hands, trying to stop the follow-up blow he knew would be coming.
But he was not successful. He cracked his eyes open just enough to see what looked very much like a baseball bat crashing down between his arms and cracking ominously against his shoulder at the base of his neck.
He cried out, then fell forward on all fours. He hated just sitting here like some lame animal, not trying to escape, but he couldn’t muster the energy to move. He had to concentrate just to clear away the pain, just to think straight.
Which in the long run didn’t matter at all. The bat came crashing down again, this time square on the back of his head, and after that everything, both inside his brain and out, turned to black.
Chapter 26
When Ben climbed the fire escape and entered his office the next morning, he was surprised to find Christina-and Sheriff Allen-already there.
As soon as he passed through the door, the two of them jumped upright. Had they been holding hands? Ben wondered. Surely not. But they were both acting as if they’d been caught in the middle of something.
“Morning, Ben,” Christina said, blowing her hair out of her eyes. “Didn’t expect to see you this early.”
Evidently not, Ben thought. “Did we get the rest of the paper discovery from the prosecutor’s office?”
“Oh. We got it all right. But I don’t think you’re going to like it.”
She pointed toward the opposite wall. Seven near-ceiling-high stacks of bound papers occupied almost a third of the tiny office.
“She’s trying to bury us,” Ben murmured. “Give us more than we can possibly sort through before the trial begins.”
“Right. Probably fifty pages of good stuff, buried somewhere in a morass of garbage. But what can you do about it? Complain that the prosecution has given you too much?”
“I could complain that it came too late and ask for a continuance. But from what I hear, Judge Pickens would be unlikely to grant it.” Ben scrutinized the tall stacks of paper. “Any rhyme or reason here?”
“None. Documents aren’t organized or categorized in any useful fashion. Not even numbered. In fact, the pages of a particular document are often scattered through several piles.”
Ben’s lips pressed tightly together. “Granny really outdid herself here.”
“You haven’t seen the half of it yet.”
Ben frowned; that sounded ominous. He took the top document off the stack closest to him. It took a moment for his eyes to adjust before he realized what Granny had done to him.
“Red,” Ben said, throwing down the paper bitterly. “It’s all been color-copied in red ink.”
Sheriff Allen looked a bit perplexed. “You defense types got something against red?”
“It won’t photocopy,” Christina explained. “At least not on your garden-variety copier. Some of the newer color copiers can do it, but of course we don’t have anything like that at our disposal.”
“Which,” Ben added, “since we’ll need at least three copies of any exhibit we plan to use at trial, makes this tower of trash absolutely worthless to us.”
Allen whistled appreciatively. “That Granny. She sure knows her business.”