Page 78 of Small Town Hunter

“So it’s the money. Look, if we both get out of here in favorable circumstances, maybe we can work something out.”

If this is to be my last hour on earth, I’d prefer to think of other things than Roman and his gold.

“You’re the one Roman calls for the clean job.” McCall keeps on yammering. “I’ve heard of you. Ex-military. Fearless. You always get your man.”

“And you — criminal.”

“I beat up your cousin Mully ‘cause I thought he raped my sister. It was a mistake and I did time for it,” he says firmly. “Ask Mully — we squashed it. Now hey, look, I’m trying to save your hide when I could just kill you and keep the whole pile.”

McCall shakes me by the shoulder, sending more bolts of agony through my skull. “Hey, stay with me.”

“Talk…”

McCall gets up again and shouts at the jailer, “You have whiskey?”

“Go to hell, Virginia. I gave you the needles, what more do you want?”

“Aye,” comes another voice from a different cell, a voice of authority. “Give Red something to drink.”

“You stay the hell out of this, Crocodile,” the jailer replies with less heat than before. “This don’t concern you. I already gave you two free phone calls.”

“And you ruined my vest with your greasy fingers. That shit was dupioni silk! Give that redneck some Tippalonga hospitality right now and don’t piss me off.”

“How many?” I ask McCall, only to keep myself talking.

“Just us three,” he answers. “That man Crocodile — he’s a pimp. Gets his own cell, ain’t that nice?”

“What about him?” I ask, meaning the jailer.

“He’s the only one working here,” McCall says. “That’s good. Real good.”

Is the lunatic actually thinking of busting out of here?

The jailer comes up to our cell. The man is what I expected. Soft, pudgy, pink, weak. I could take fifteen of him any day, but right now he could kick my sorry ass with his hands tied.

“Here,” he says, thrusting something through the bars at McCall. It’s a half-full bottle of something clear. My stomach clenches.

“Thank —- ARGH! Motherfucker!” McCall nearly doubles over. The jailer withdraws the cattle prod, eyes shining with cruel glee. “You’re welcome, Virginia. How much will your wife pay me for that?”

Those piggy eyes turn to me. Just a dumb brute, doing a job he hates.

“You might wish you were dead before the Reverend gets here. He’s gonna fry you like a hushpuppy.” Chuckling, the goblin slouches back behind the wall, out of view.

McCall passes the hard-won bottle under his nose for inspection, then lurches over to me.

Fuck that. I get up and manage to catch his arm. He throws me off easily, turns me by the shoulder. “Remember I did this,” he says, and pours the contents of the bottle over the side of my head.

A bone-melting burn. Like acid.

As I gainconsciousness a second time it seems my strength restores faster than before. And I must be hearing things, because the woman talking sounds a hell of a lot like Trina. Because the desk is behind the wall we can’t see a thing, but those dulcet tones could only be hers.

“Let him out of there right now! He didn’t do anything wrong!”

“I think not, Miss Whiteleaf,” comes the snide reply. “I have explicit orders to keep your lover in confinement from the Judge himself. Mister Walker is confined for the assault and injury of our beloved Reverend. Who, by the way, is on his way back from a golf tournament and would very much like to speak to you.”

“What is Mister Walker’s bail?” Comes a different female voice that seems to generate a sudden rapid movement from my cellmate.

“A million billion dollars,” says the jailer. “Or thirty minutes of your time, sugar.”

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