13
Scotty drove to work feeling pleasantly tired, drained, and happy. With a lover now available, she felt that some lost part of herself had been restored. She reflected that if she ever were sent to prison, she would kill herself. She had tried it with women, and there had been something, quite literally, missing. Scotty liked men, and she was delighted to have one again.
She arrived at the sheriffs office simultaneously with a furniture delivery van. Two men were struggling with a large, apparently very heavy filing cabinet. She thought that odd, since she usually ordered that sort of thing for Bo Scully, and she had not ordered this. She preceded the two men into the office and was surprised to find the sheriff there ahead of her. He ordinarily did not arrive before mid-morning.
“Is that for us?” she asked him, waving toward the two men, who were now rolling the thing into the office on a dolly.
“It’s for me,” Scully replied hoarsely. “I ordered it a while back, before you joined us.”
He looked a bit odd, and Scotty thought at first he must be hung over. Then, as she brushed past him to get to her desk, she realized that he was drinking. She was astonished. She knew Bo knocked a few back with the boys – she had seen him hung over often enough – but she had never seen him drinking in the morning.
“Where is everybody?” she asked. There was usually at least one other clerk or deputy in the office besides herself.
“Sally called in sick; I got the rest of ‘em out patrolling,” Bo replied, waving the furniture men into his office and pointing out a place for the file cabinet. “Eric Sutherland’s been bitching about speeders. I thought we’d have a little push, hand out a few tickets.” He signed for the furniture and the two delivery-men left his office and walked through the squad room, past Scotty, to the front door. One of them turned and dug into his pocket.
“Oh… nearly forgot; here’s the keys.” He tossed them across the squad room to Scotty. She caught them and thought they were very heavy for file cabinet keys. She glanced again at the cabinet and saw for the first time that it was equipped with a thick steel bar that ran the length of the cabinet, through the heavy handles. This was no ordinary file cabinet; this was practically a safe. There was already a safe in Bo’s office, but she and Sally both knew the combination. There were three keys on the ring; she slipped one off and palmed it.
“Here are your keys,” she said, holding up the ring with the remaining two. Bo was already transferring files from his old cabinet to the new one. “You want me to keep one in my desk?”
“Nah,” Scully replied. “I’ll keep them both.”
She tossed him the ring, and he put it into his pocket. She turned and slipped the third key into her bra. It couldn’t hurt, having that key. She wanted to know what Bo wanted to lock away from his clerks and deputies.
Scully shifted files for most of the morning, occasionally discarding a few papers, putting some of what he kept into the new cabinet and returning others to the old one. Finally, he slid the steel bar through the handles and snapped the lock into place. “I’m going out for a while. You know how to handle the radio?”
“Sure.” He had taught her himself. He really was tanked.
“Hold the fort, then,” he said, jamming his Stetson onto his head.
Then he was gone, and she was alone in the office.
Howell woke to a roomful of sunlight. For a few seconds he was afraid to move at all; finally, he rolled carefully onto his side and looked at the alarm clock on the bedside table. Half past ten. Scotty was long gone. Still carefully, he swung his legs over the side of the bed and sat up. He stood. He was joyfully aware of the absence of pain; it had happened, it had worked, this laying on of hands. He could move without fear of agony.
He should be exhausted, he thought, but he was not. He felt rested, relaxed, and eager for the new day. What was happening to him? Was he having, in what he liked to think of as his late youth, some sort of reawakening? Was he emerging, after a couple of years of sexual numbness, from some peculiar, midlife change? He felt oddly youthful. And hungry. He pulled on a pair of jeans and headed for the kitchen.
Howell made himself a huge breakfast of scrambled eggs, sausages, grits, and toast and put on a pot of coffee. He felt like working today, and the coffee would help him along. He had not written a word of Lurton Pitts’s autobiography, and it was time he got his ass in gear. He was just mopping up the last of the eggs, washing them down with orange juice when he heard the crunch of tires on gravel and the slamming of a heavy car door. He opened the front door before Bo Scully had a chance to knock.
“Hey, Bo, come on in,” he said, genuinely glad to see the sheriff.
“How you doin‘, John?” Scully asked, walking carefully into the cabin, looking warily about him.
Howell thought he looked a little drunk, but it was awfully early in the day for that. “I’ve got a pot of coffee on the stove. Want some?”
“Sure, I could use it.”
Howell poured the coffee and set it on the table with the cream and sugar. To his surprise, Scully pulled a pint bottle of bourbon from his hip pocket and poured a generous slug into the coffee.
“Gotta get my heart started,” Scully grinned. “Join me?”
“No thanks, I’ve got to get some work done today. You taking the day off?” It surprised Howell that he hadn’t wanted the drink. First time for a while he hadn’t wanted a drink.
“Ah, well, my time’s pretty much my own. I’m sort of in business for myself, you might say.”
“Well, I guess a sheriffs more his own boss than most men,” Howell said. “Who does a sheriff report to, anyway?”
“Not a damn soul, if he’s smart. Oh, to the judge on some things, to the county council on others.” He grinned wryly: “ ‘Course, we got a slightly different hierarchy in Sutherland County.”
“Old man Sutherland takes an interest, does he?”
“Damn right he does.” Scully knocked back a swig of the spiked coffee. “Oh, not every day and not usually on small things, but he keeps his hand in. Right now, it’s speeders he’s worried about. Watch your ass driving into town. Mike’s sitting down there on the road with the radar on. He’ll take your picture, and I’d have to fine you.”
“Thanks for the advice; I’ll do that.” Howell felt himself automatically shifting into his reporter mode. It was too good to pass up, a chance to quiz a sheriff with a couple of drinks inside him. “I guess those fines make a nice little retirement fund, huh?”
Scully looked at him sharply. “You kidding? Shoot, I could take you down there to the station and show you a record of every traffic ticket since I been sheriff, and which account the money went into. My operation’s as clean as a hound’s tooth, boy, let me tell you. Some asshole wants to haul me or one of my people in front of a grand jury, I’ll have him armpit deep in records of every penny that’s passed through my office. I believe in records, boy. The fuckin‘ FBI don’t have any better records than I do. I’m gonna buy a computer and computerize ’em when the machinery comes down a little bit. Next year, maybe. We already got a word processor. I’ve got the most modern operation in the state of Georgia, maybe the whole South.” Scully pulled at the coffee again. “Let me tell you something, John, you better not do business in Eric Sutherland’s county ‘less you back yourself up every which way. He thinks he sees a crack in your dam, and whoomp! You’re treadin’ water ‘fore you know what hit you.”
Howell thought the metaphor appropriate, considering the source of Sutherland’s power. Suddenly, before he had time to think why, he asked, “Bo, does anybody around here have a 1940 Lincoln Continental convertible?”
“Nan,” Scully answered without hesitation, “not anymore. Eric Sutherland used to have one, but that was a long time…” The sheriff turned and looked at him oddly. “That’s a weird question.”