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The wafer-thin mattress on the cell’s cot did little to ease Eric’s pain. He would have killed for an ice pack. Blood still oozed from his split and swollen lips, its metallic pungency making him gag. The reflux action was doing his ribs no good at all. From a small cage wedged back into a corner, Eric listened to the voices of the cops. The one who had arrested him seemed to be in charge as the other officers deferred to his orders and called him “chief.” The lack of protocol during the arrest told Eric the police chief, and possibly one or two of the other cops, were somehow indebted to Ash Baldwin.
A galumph of rubber soles hitting the floor sounded. Eric closed his eyes. The lids were so swollen they were all but useless anyway. He listened as keys jangled and the door creaked open. He was given his ice pack. “Hold this to your face.”
“Which part?” Eric asked, but he had already chosen his left eye.
“You feel dizzy? Nauseous? I might be able to get someone to come in and take a look at you.”
“Here’s an idea, Chief.” Eric removed the ice pack to illustrate his point. “How about taking me to the fucking hospital? It’s full of people who can take a look at me.”
“You’re in enough trouble without mouthing off.” While the cop’s tone was meant to convey authority, it girded the edge of anxiety.
Eric moaned as he swung his legs over the side of the bunk and struggled to sit upright. The musty quality of the cell, flaking paint, and the overall dank air in the small cube told him the cage hadn’t been used in years, if not decades.
He had been arrested so often as a kid, he knew the drill. Depending upon the charge, minors were handed over to their parents, adults either ROR—released on their own recognizance—or sent to a county lockup to await arraignment. None of his current situation bode well for him.
“If you’re not letting me out of here, you mind telling me exactly what I did?”
“I already told you…disorderly conduct, driving without a license. I can’t let you go until I find out who you are. You could be a wanted felon for all I know.”
Eric huffed. “Not lately. And I already told you who I am.”
The police chief answered Eric’s comment with a puzzled looking squint. Eric squinted back until the letters on the chief’s nameplate stopped dancing.
“So…Officer Parks, does everyone whose wallet gets stolen rot in here, or just the people Ash Baldwin doesn’t like?”
Flinched as if stung, Parks words were delivered in a reedy whine. “You’re lucky I came along when I did. You’d be in a worse place than this cell if I’d let those boys finish with you. Nobody in Cromline gets in Baldwin’s way. You show up out of nowhere and start stepping on his toes, what the hell did you expect?”
“I wasexpectingto get my phone call. By the way you forgot to Mirandize me.”
Park’s skin glistened with sweat. “I got your prints; that’s all I need right now.”
Eric placed a hand to his ribs, so he was able to take a meager breath. “Let me guess, it’ll take a while to get them checked, and I don’t get released until they are.”
The chief mopped more beads of sweat from his brow with a handkerchief. “If you hadn’t been rubbing your fingers raw putting shingles on Ina Cummings’ roof, I might be able to match them up with a name.”
“Assuming I’ve been fingerprinted before.”
Park’s scrutiny was a studied glower. “I think that’s a safe assumption. Guys that show up out of nowhere, hanging around where they don’t belong usually have a record.”
Though he almost wanted to laugh, the sound that fell from Eric’s mouth was a weary grunt. He thought again about his illustrious rap sheet. He scowled at crooked Officer Parks through eyes that were nothing more than lines above bloated cheeks. The look of malice he meant to convey was lost. “You’re making a big mistake here, Chief.”
The cop stuffed a crumpled handkerchief back into his pocket. “Look, pal, I have no beef with you. Just sit tight awhile, and when I let you out of here, you do us both a favor and get the hell out of this town before you’re seriously hurt.”
He stepped out of the cell and swung the door shut. It locked with a loud clank. He turned back to look through the bars. “This is a small town with a small police force. I can’t guarantee the next time you get ‘mugged’ there’ll be law around to stop it. Do you understand what I’m trying to tell you?”
Slowly, and taking painful strides, Eric walked over to the cell door and gripped the bars. “You listen to me, Chief. Ina Cummings’ house better not get torn down while I’m in here. If it is, you tell Baldwin I’ll bury him under a fucking putting green.”
Chief Willy Parks gulped and puffed up his chest more. Still, his voice wavered when he spoke. “You talk pretty tough for a drifter who’s beat to hell and locked in a cell.”
“Don’t stall trying to keep me here. If you don’t believe I am who I say, then send my prints out so you know who it is you’re dealing with.”
****
Standing in the expansive foyer of the Baldwin mansion, Ash held his voice in check. He didn’t scream at Willy Parks, and spoke, instead, in a dire whisper. “I told you if you didn’t take care of the drifter, I would do it myself. Why in hell did you interfere?”
“J-Jesus, Ash. What the hell was I supposed to do, help the Simpson boys dig the guy’s grave? You’re not in the Mafia for Christ sakes.”
Ash turned toward his mother and sister-in-law sitting in the adjoining living room. It was four o’clock and the start of the Baldwin cocktail hour. They were relaxing on chintz covered chairs, the pattern a busy onslaught of pink peonies. He clamped a hand on Willy’s shoulder and spoke through clenched teeth. “Lower your voice. Cheryl has ears like a goddamned bat.”
