"You French?" de Gier asked.
"Not French French, local French."
"American."
"Yes, everybody is American. But I'm French. They don't like us here; they say that we are niggers but we've been sandblasted so the color doesn't show."
"What's wrong with black?"
"Black isn't white," Leroux said. "Take my cuffs off. Bastard put them on too tight."
"In a minute."
Leroux leaned forward. The sheriff had left the glass partitioning open. Leroux's chin rested on the barrel of the shotgun that was clipped to the two front seats.
"I can bite your neck off."
"Don't bite my neck off," de Gier said. "It'll be another charge. You have enough already. Did you steal the car?"
"Borrowed it."
"Will the owner say you borrowed it?"
"Sure. Charlie only wants his car back, and I won't give it back unless he gets my chain saw fixed."
"You'll give it back now. Are you drunk?"
Leroux grinned slyly. The Oldsmobile was still ahead. There were houses on both sides of the road now, and the dainty steeple of a clapboard church pointed at the clear, pale blue sky. Great elms flanked the street. A store sign glided by: ROBERT'S MARKET. TWO pickup trucks were feeding off the pumps under the awning of the store. An old woman pushed a rusty supermarket cart through the caked snow on the sidewalk. A fat black dog limped behind the woman.
"Jameson," Leroux said. "Good old Jameson, nothing but trouble. I haven't made money, not even in the summer. Broke my leg and the bill from the hospital is still on the shelf. They'll be pulling the house from under me soon. It's a good thing they're feeding the kids at the school or I'd have them whining around me. There's a deer in the freezer for the holidays, but they eat a deer in a week and there'll be another week after that one. If the judge fines me heavy it'll be all over."
The cruiser turned sharply, following the Oldsmobile. A small sign, overshadowed by a twisted pine, said JAIL. The sheriff stood next to the cruiser.
"How is our friend? Quiet now?"
"I'm quiet, sheriff."
The sheriff opened the rear door. Leroux didn't move.
"I'll be real quiet, sheriff. Take them off."
The handcuffs snapped free.
"Walk."
"Yes, sheriff."
"Bernie McDougal," a fat man said and shook de Gier's hand. "Good to meet you, you did some work, that's good, loafers get very cold here. Shall I take him, Jim? I couldn't raise Bob's cruiser, but you had enough help."
"All yours."
Leroux was led to the rear of the building. The big man was rubbing his wrists. There was the clang of a metal door and Bernie came back. He wore the same uniform as the sheriff but there was a plastic disc above the left tunic pocket: "Chief deputy."
"Are you going to hit him, Jim?"
"Speeding," the sheriff said. "Fifty-mile limit, he was doing eighty but maybe we'll drop it to sixty-five. That'll be a twenty-dollar fine. He won't have much more."
"Drunk?"
"He wasn't too drunk."
"Stolen car?"
"Phone Charlie. Tell him we found his car and to bring the key. Leroux used some silly wire. It may short-circuit the system. Charlie won't want to press charges, but we should talk to him about Leroux's chain saw. Leroux is a logger in winter. He needs the saw. If Charlie has broken it he should do something."
"Coffee?"
"Yes," de Gier said. "Coffee. Is there a place to eat nearby?"
"By my guest," the sheriff said. "We have a cook in the jailhouse. What's he got, Bernie?"
"Pea soup and there's bread in the oven. No eggs but there's bacon. Four frostbitten green peppers from the greenhouse but enough lettuce. Tomatoes. Clam chowder."
The sheriff nodded. Bernie went back into the jail and returned with a barefoot young man with long shiny brown hair.
"You had your bath?"
"Yes, sheriff."
"Won't have a dirty cook. Did the bread rise?"
"Yes, sheriff. But you got the wrong yeast. I don't want little chunks, I want the little bags."
"Chunks are cheaper. Meet the sergeant."
De Gier and the young man nodded at each other.
"The sergeant is our guest. A police officer from abroad. Call him 'sergeant.' His name will give you a sore throat. Sergeant, this is Albert, second man of the BMF gang. He'll be out tomorrow, but we have another cook. How is he shaping up, Albert?"
"His soups are better than his stews."
"He'll have to learn."
The meal was served on the room's only table. It was a big room, pine paneled on all sides and with a high roof carried by dark brown rough beams. Half a dozen rifles and shotguns were chained to a rack on the wall. A modern radio transmitter and receiver stood on a shelf next to two old black telephones. Uniform jackets and stiff high felt hats hung from hooks near the door leading to the jail. The sheriff unbuckled his gunbelt and lowered it carefully into a drawer under the table.
"You want a gun, sergeant? I can let you have one, but you'll have to wear it so that it shows. There's a law against hidden guns here and I can't make you a deputy. Only Americans can serve in a sheriff's department. I can call the general-maybe there's an exception to the rule I don't know about."
"No, I don't want a gun."
"Good, you shouldn't need one. I hardly ever touch mine. It antagonizes the locals. They've all got guns too. If I pull mine it may give them ideas. What were those chops you used on Leroux? Karate?"
"Yes."
"You good at karate?"
"No, I am trained in judo. It's a gentler method, but the suspect was big and I thought I might lose my footing if I moved around him."
"Yes," the sheriff said, cutting the bread, then pushing a steaming bowl of soup across the table. "I really thought you had killed the motherfucker."
"Motherfucker," de Gier said and held up his plate so that Albert could serve the salad. "Does the suspect have a perversion?"
"Not that I know of. It's just a term. We deal with two types: subjects and motherfuckers. Everybody is a subject until we have a charge against them that will stick. Charges make them motherfuckers. And the judge may change their status again. If he confirms the charge they become prisoners."
"I'm a prisoner," Albert said. 'Take this pepper, sergeant. It looks a little black on the edge, but it's okay."
"What did you do?"
The sheriff stopped eating. "I'll tell you what he did because he won't tell you. He did very well. Old Bernie likes a good chase and he likes to make the cruiser jump, and Albert, here, he knows that. So Albert does a number of things. First he comes to see us, all meek and pleasant-like, and he says his motorcycle is stolen. Just disappeared. One minute it's in front of Robert's Market, sitting quietly in the sun, and the next minute it's gone. Very strange, for Albert's motorcycle is some outlandish contraption and nobody knows how to start it but Albert. But anyway, it's gone and Albert comes to see us. It's a red bike, easy to spot. Then Albert goes and gets himself a big beard made out of twine or something, and he hangs it over his face and gets some funny clothes and puts them on, and he finds his bike where he has hidden it, and he races up Main Street. Just as Bernie is coming out of Bern's restaurant. Bernie jumps for his cruiser and tries to yank its door open. The door is stuck. Bernie puts his foot against the cruiser and gives a mighty heave and the whole door comes out, on top of Bernie, who's sitting on the sidewalk. Okay. Bernie gets up and into the cruiser. He starts the engine. Fine. But the shift is locked in park. Bernie gets mad and tries to force the shift, and meanwhile he has his foot on the gas. The shift works after a while and the cruiser jumps away, into a parked vehicle. Okay. Bernie backs up and takes off. But then the cruiser has four slow leaks and Bernie doesn't get very far. I didn't see it but I listened to people who did. They were still laughing and it was hours later. Like a Laurel and Hardy movie, only better. Full color and three dimensions. And Albert was gone. Eh, Albert?"