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We got out and met OneTree between the Gladiator and his shiny new Harley. His previous bike had been burned up by Mickey Pitts along with his artificial leg. It looked like that had been replaced, too, since both pant legs were solid. He was a smidge over six feet tall, so we were eye-to-eye. Bartlett was below.
“Nice ride,” I said to Pete. “VA cover your replacement leg?”
He reached down and tapped his lower leg. “The one thing the VA has plenty of is spare limbs. Whole roomful at the local clinic. Says something, don’t it?” He smiled. “I will give them credit, though. Someone came up with a good idea. They replicate a tattoo you had on the original limb on the artificial one.” He pulled up the cuff of the loose jeans and displayed a wolf head tattoo on the plastic calf.
“Very cool,” I said. “You were a Wolf before you went into the Marines, right?”
He gave a sly grin. “Yeah, but I didn’t have the tattoo. They did it anyway. Least they can do for me.”
Bartlett had been fidgeting, apparently bothered that he hadn’t been introduced right away, so he took the initiative. He stepped forward and held out his hand. “Chief Bartlett. Nice to meet you . . .” He waited for a hand and a name, even though it was right there on the guy’s vest.
Pete ignored him and asked me: “What happened to Pens?”
“Mayor O’Toole sacked him,” I said.
“Because of Mickey?” Pete asked.
I think we were both wondering how long Bartlett would keep his hand out. Bartlett tried to recover by pulling his hand back and brushing it through his curly hair as if that were a natural extension of putting his hand out.
“You know Mickey is awake?” I asked.
Pete’s eyes narrowed, and I realized I’d made a mistake and given out information before getting some.
“That’s interesting,” Pete said. “Hope they have him chained to the fucking bed.” He said it as if worried Mickey had come out of his coma and would sprint out of the hospital.
“Yeah,” I said. “But he’s back under. They finally removed the bullet near his spine.”
“Your gal Danger should have fucking killed him,” Pete said.
“Will you be visiting him?” Bartlett asked Pete.
Pete stared at him as if he had two heads. “Who did you blow to get Pens’s job?”
“I’m in charge now,” Bartlett insisted.
Pete looked at me. “He’s joking, right?” He shifted to Bartlett. “What are you? Fourteen?”
Bartlett flushed red, his naturally pale skin lighting up like neon.
I took back the initiative. “What are you doing here, Pete?”
“Some of my crew have been hired,” Pete said. “I’m making sure they get treated right.”
“Hired to do what?” I asked.
“Security,” Pete said.
Which was hiring the wolf to guard the sheep. To quote Bartlett, literally.
“And Jim Pitts?” I asked, indicating the dirt bike. “What’s he doing here?”
“Ask him.” Pete’s mind was elsewhere, probably on the issue of a coherent Mickey Pitts.
That seemed to be young Jim’s cue to come out. He opened the door, pausing when he saw me. Jim Pitts, Mickey Pitts’s son was twenty, dark-haired and chunky, although he was growing solid with muscle like his father. He didn’t look pleased to see me. He walked down the wood stairs from the trailer, eyeballing me, then Bartlett.
“Detective Cooper,” he said, nodding.
I indicated my comrade. “Meet Chief Bartlett.”
