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Petrie glowered for a moment, and then his lips cured into a sneer. "You think you're so smart, militia. Didn't you read the name on the door? My uncle's the lieutenant governor of Texas. I'll make a couple of phone calls and whatever stink you made will get blown right out the window. You'll get busted down to private and you'll spend the next four years pumping out porta-johns for the biodiesel plant."
"Thanks for the tidbit, Petrie. I don't follow politics, so I didn't recognize the name. But right after I talk to JAG I'll see if I can get a couple of newspapers interested. 'Recent arrest implicates Lieutenant Governor in corruption probe,' is how the Clarion will put it, I expect.
Better yet, 'Governor's office tainted.' The papers love a good coat of taint. Be interesting to see if your uncle lifts a finger to help you. Hope you remembered to send him his birthday card."
"Two can play your game, militia," Petrie said, folding his arms. "I can fill out warrants of my own. You're threatening an ISO officer into malfeasance. Maybe they'll put us in adjoining cells."
"You're not a big fan of reason, are you, Petrie? You never should have hit me."
"I never put a hand on-"
"The nose, Patel, good and hard."
Patel made a fist and punched him hard across the bridge of his nose. White light shot through his brain, and when Valentine opened his eyes again, he tasted blood, felt it dripping.
"Patel," Valentine gasped. "Restrain the marshal. He's flipped."
Patel moved nimbly for a man of his bulk. Petrie tried to rise but Patel sat him back in his chair hard with a good shove. When the time he rose again, Patel spun him around and gripped him across the back of the head and his right arm.
The cat gave up on its mouse and hid.
Valentine recognized the grip; he'd been in it often enough. Patel had been the Second Wolf Regiment's premier wrestler for three years running. Valentine had once seen his new sergeant major dislocate a horse rustler's shoulder when he didn't like the tone of his answers under questioning.
Valentine turned up the radio. "Give him something to think about, Sergeant Major."
"Hel-" Petrie began to shout.
It was a tight fit, with the three of them behind Petrie's desk, Valentine keeping Petrie's mouth shut with a stiff-arm.
Petrie finally gave, his muscles turning from wood to oatmeal.
"We're going to take care of three pieces of business this morning, Petrie," Valentine said, wiping his bleeding nose and flicking the blood onto Petrie. "First, you're going to fill out a hundred releases for me with the names blank. Second, you're going to do whatever paperwork needs to be done for your central office. Patel and I both know how to write and type. We can do either to give you a hand. We'll even send out for sandwiches on my tab and have a working lunch. When I'm satisfied, we're going to write out your resignation from ISO.
You can tell your uncle you got sick of rice.
"One slipup, one bit of paperwork slowed up, one questioning telegram-and you're going to jail, Petrie. I'd better see a postcard from whatever sinecure your uncle finds you. Yes?"
He removed his hand from Petrie's mouth.
"They're Quislings," Petrie said.
"That wasn't a yes. Dislocate his shoulder whenever you like, Patel."
"Who cares if they get squeezed? They've done plenty of squeezing across the river, believe you me."
"That's in the past."
"You're assaulting an ISO officer. You'll wind up-"
Valentine heard-and felt-the pop of Petrie's shoulder.
"Arrrrgh-" Petrie grunted, sagging. Patel shoved him back into his chair, his arm hanging.
"I didn't think you'd do it," Petrie said softly, his face white with pain.
"A dislocation's easy to fix," Valentine said. "Petrie! Keep your hand away from that phone.
Broken fingers are a bitch while they heal."
