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“Yeah?” An Okie twang.
That was customer service.
“Is Jerry here?”
“No.” She pulled out a burrito and took a large, messy bite.
“His pickup truck is parked out front.”
The pig eyes met mine, the Platters came on with “Only You,” and we stared at each other while she chewed. Phoenix used to have a big cohort of Okies, Texans, and Arkansans, but they had been lost in subsequent waves of immigration. I kept my peripheral vision open to movement from the man on the stool.
“What’s up, Belma?”
Jerry McGuizzo emerged from the back, stopping when he saw me. His face was as flat as a dinner plate and it didn’t look happy to see me.
He looked me over and whistled. “You look like shit, Mapstone. The old lady give you that shiner? How come you’re dressed so funny?”
“We need to talk.”
He suddenly laughed like I was the funniest guy on the west side, pulled out the kind of plastic comb I owned when I was ten, and ran it through what little hair he had. He used his left hand, the one with two stumps where complete fingers had once been. Then his hands went into his pants pockets.
“I don’t have to talk to you.” He sneered and leaned forward from the waist when he spoke. “You’re not a deputy anymore. I can call you Asshole, asshole.”
I said, “Sure, Jerry.”
“So without that badge, you’re only some asshole trespassing on private property, asshole.”
He stepped around Belma and let loose a large gob of spit. I turned in time to keep it out of my eyes but it went low and landed on my tie.
Lindsey gave me that tie.
Jerry laughed harder.
I laughed, too. We both had a grand old time.
Then he leaned over the counter to speak or spit again and I broke my promise to Sharon.
I suddenly grabbed him by both shoulders and pulled his face hard into the top of display counter.
He let out a pained squeak as an elaborate spider web of broken glass grew around his head.
He was a little guy, so it was easy.
So was shoving him backwards into the wall, where he collapsed on the floor followed by a cascade of dozens of packs of Camels, Pall Malls, and Newports dislodged from their homes.
It was as if he were at the bottom of a slot machine and had won the jackpot, only doing so might require reconstructive surgery to his cheekbones and jaw.
He fell back moaning, and I produced the Colt Python, traversing the barrel to my left.
“Stay on that stool, fat man.”
He stayed on the stool.
My eyes caught a slight movement right. I brought the barrel to Belma.
“I don’t like it that I can’t see your hands,” I said.
The burrito was sitting beside the tip bowl.
