It wasn’t until the car’s doors swung open that Womack saw the sheriff’s star painted on one of them. The two men who got out and started toward him were strangers. One was big and burly, with a thick neck and shoulders, the other nearly as tall but lighter and small-boned. They were obviously county deputies. Despite the boots, and the big campaign hats, they lacked the sharpness of state troopers.
The smaller of the two said, “Hold it, Mister.”
There was no doubt about it now. They had been following him. Womack wondered why. He had had the Thunderbird over eighty on the straightaways, but there had been a minimum of traffic, and there was no posted limit. What bothered him now was the fact that he had been drinking.
Stuffing a cigarette in his mouth, to disguise the alchohol on his breath, Womack walked forward to meet them. Lila watched him from the car. Even in the dim light, Womack could see that her face had gone white again.
The deputies halted directly in front of him. The big one shoved his hat away from his forehead, wiped at his face with a balled handkerchief, and smiled through rotten teeth.
Then, before Womack could return the smile, they began beating him with their fists.
7
A half-forgotten recollection of his childhood flashed quickly across Womack’s mind. He had stood this way many times before, on the streets of New York’s West Side tenement section, while fists lashed out at his face. Nothing had changed. Someone was trying to hurt him and he knew only one thing: fight back, fight until he no longer had the strength to lift his arms. He staggered backward. A fist crashed into his face, bringing blood into his mouth, and another fist landed sickingly against his temple. Gravel crunched beneath his feet. There was a muttered curse. He spit some of the blood at a face that bobbed suddenly before him — he didn’t know which — and slammed his own right into the pit of a muscular stomach. He struck out again, blindly, his vision blurred by a sudden burst of pain. He felt a second burst of pain, exactly as before, and went to his hands and knees. He couldn’t see the ground. He was aware of nothing but the pain.
A heavy boot landed against Womack’s ribs. His arms and legs crumpled beneath him. The boot landed again and he rolled over on his back. Pain waved through his eyes. He saw the dark outlines of the two men standing over him.
One of the men was holding something white against his face.
“Come on,” the other one said. “Let’s get the bastard into the car.”
They each took an arm, hauled Womack to his feet, and put him into the back of the car. He was on the floor and he pulled himself to his hands and knees again. He felt very sick. He was aware of the car being put into motion. Then something solid struck the back of his head and he was no longer aware of anything.
Womack heard the voice before opening his eyes.
It said, “What in Christ’s name is the matter with you guys? Can’t you make a simple pinch without getting your dumb faces kicked in?”
Womack opened his eyes — gingerly. The voice belonged to a very fat guy seated behind a battered wooden desk. He had a round, florrid face, and his hair had receded to a few strands over each ear. A badge with the word Sheriff was pinned to the front of his sweat-sopped khakis.
Womack moved his head. The two deputies stood against the far wall. They were looking at the sheriff. The small one held a bloodstained handkerchief to his nose. Blood was splattered down the front of his shirt.
The burly one said, “Christ, Wibber—”
“Don’t Christ me.”
“How did we know the bastard was going to start swinging at us?”
“That’s just it. You didn’t.”
“We did the best we could.”
“Then I’d hate to see your worst.” Wibber shifted his gaze from Womack to the two men. “Now get into some uniforms that don’t look like you been killing chickens in them.”
Wibber waited until the door had closed. Then he looked at Womack and said, “You a tough guy, Womack?”
Womack, tongue-tied by the pain in his head, only sat there.
Wibber went on. “Maybe you think this is some kind of hick town, that we don’t know how to handle tough guys, is that it?”
The base of Womack’s skull was a dull consistency of pain. He sat upright in his chair and said, “It might interest you to know, Sheriff, that your trained apes out there came at me first.”
The sheriff’s western hat sat before him on the desk. He shoved it to one side, leaned forward, and put his weight on his elbows. “Now, why would they do that?”
“I’m hoping the judge will ask that question.”
Wibber smiled mockingly.
“It ain’t funny. Your guys jumped me out there and I’m going to find out why.”
“That’s your story.”
“You’re goddamned right that’s my story.” Womack could feel the anger flooding in over the pain. “It’s the story I’ll tell in court... when I sue you for putting these bumps on my head.”
Wibber held onto an impulse to raise his voice. He said, “You’re not going to sue anybody, Womack. Not in this county. Because you’re getting out of it.”
“Now listen—”
“You listen, Mister.” Wibber looked at him disgustedly. “We got laws to protect the citizens of this town. They’re strict laws and we make ’em stick. We don’t hold with drunks behind the wheel of a car... and we don’t like transients molesting our women.”
So that was it. Womack reached for his cigarettes. He should have known. He had known. But he had been too stupid to heed his own warning. A dame like that — with a too-high price tag — had to belong to somebody big. Maybe, Womack thought, she belongs to this fat bastard with the badge.
“So I’m a sex maniac, eh?” Womack said thickly.
Wibber was silent for a moment, gazing at Womack through small, hard eyes. Then he said, “I don’t know, Womack. Is that what you are?”
Womack blurted out, “Come off it, Sheriff! Quit talking nonsense. Hell, if anything, the broad picked me up. We had a few beers. What’s the law against that?”
Wibber belched, his face tight with pain, and rubbed his stomach. “It’s like I said, Womack, that’s your story.”
There was no use talking. Womack could see that now. The cards were stacked. They had always been stacked against him. He said resignedly, “So I made a mistake.”
“Eh?”
“I said I made a mistake.”
“You bet your sweet life you made a mistake.”
“Okay. Okay.” Womack studied the backs of his hands. They were covered with thin scratches. He said, “It ain’t exactly going to break my heart to leave this town. I wouldn’t be here now if my rig hadn’t broken down. As soon as it’s fixed, in a couple of days, I’ll be moving along.”
Wibber’s stomach seemed to be bothering him. He belched again to make himself feel better. He said, “If you’re smart, Mister, you’ll be moving on right now. Tonight.”
“I can’t do that, Sheriff. And you can’t make me. If you want to lock me up... that’s something else. But you had better make darn sure you can make it stick.”
“Say, listen, don’t you worry about that. I can make it stick. You damn right. We know how to take care of punks in this county.”
“Is this your county, Sheriff?”
“Just what does that mean?” Wibber’s voice was a rough whisper.
Womack paused to light his cigarette. “I was just wondering who owns you, Sheriff.”