Page 18 of All You Want
If Tami knew how much time and space she occupies in my mind, she’d freak out. Everywhere I turn, I see a pie she has her fingers in—from the consignment store to the bed and breakfast to the real estate office to my sister’s dog rescue.
She’s a ball of energy, a whirlwind, and all-around female—a woman I want to tap and more.
Too bad her father’s a prick, and he controls the town’s purse strings. With dread in my veins, I head to the meeting with my uncle, Mayor Chip Colson. The budget shortfall with the fire department is serious, especially since funding from the state is not forthcoming.
The rash of arsons and accidentally sparked wildfires this summer and fall have wreaked havoc on our town. My brother quit as fire chief, and the interim chief from down the valley has his priorities elsewhere.
Late October up in this region swings between extremely dry and hot fire weather and the chance of early snowstorms. Thankfully, Spooky Fest is the last tourist-related festival our town holds. Once Mother Nature dumps the first winter storm over these parts, the roads become impassable, and old-timers break out the snowshoes and skis.
A white Christmas above the snowline is my idea of heaven, but to get there, I have to get through Halloween and all the pranks and tricks the townspeople get into.
Adding a haunted hotel across the creek is a logistical nightmare. With these brooding thoughts, I step into the Sixty Miners Saloon where my uncle holds court.
He used to own this establishment, but he sampled too much of his stock and ran up a load of debts. Tami’s father bailed him out, and after a stint in rehab, he was lucky to find a young buyer with money from Silicon Valley. The new owner, Paul McCall, is a half-hearted volunteer firefighter who dabbles his fingers into too many ventures to count, from a charity for street kids to a mountain biking rental to the Sixty Miners Saloon.
The afternoon light is dim inside the bar. I push aside the swinging washboard half-doors and stride in, feeling like an old-time sheriff. The highlight of the bar is the copper counter, marred and stained from years of abuse. It had been stolen and recovered so many times, rehammered and patched, that all I can say is it has character.
At this hour, the only patrons are the old regulars—the retired and the idle. Bluegrass music plays on the stereo, and a couple of guys are shooting pool.
My uncle’s posse hangs out in the back near the targets made of old mining pans where they play games of tossing gold-painted pebbles into the hole cut out of the center of the pan.
I always put on a swagger when I enter the saloon to let any would-be miscreants know who’s the boss of this town. I have to make them nervous and wonder if I have anything on them. You’ll be surprised how many times I catch a crook without even knowing he’s done something bad by the hurried scurry to disappear as soon as I’m on the premises.
Rolling my shoulders and slowly swiveling my neck, I look over the knots of people hanging out in the booths. A couple of them nod my direction, and others pretend I’m invisible.
I narrow my eyes and make a note to check up on one of the drunks who’s received his fair share of complaints. As I turn toward the bar, my shoulder blades tingle, and I get the eerie sensation someone is watching me.
I can’t let anyone see me spooked. That just won’t do. With an extra measure of cool calmness, I place my hand over the bulge of my service revolver and lean up against the bar, tilting my head just enough to catch a glimpse without focusing my eyes.
It takes all my control not to inhale too harshly.
Tami and Molly have their heads together, talking intensely. Molly notices me first, and her loud voice cuts off in midsentence. I thought I heard her say, “Pigs will fry. Oink. Oink.”
Is she making fun of the police?
I scratch my chin and glance at my watch. Even though I spot Mayor Chip sitting underneath the gold pan game, I stroll over to Tami and Molly.
“Ladies?” I hook my thumbs in my belt loops.
“Oh, hi, Sheriff,” Tami says. “Having a good day?”
“Good as rain,” I reply and then focus in on Molly who has three cocktail glasses arrayed in front of her. “Aren’t you supposed to be working?”
“Iamworking,” she says with a hiccup. “Interviewing a witness.”
“I didn’t ask you to interview witnesses. You’re a dispatcher. You answer the phone and call either me or Shane to respond.”
“Why do we even need a dispatcher?” Molly whines. “It’s either you or Shane on duty. Can’t you forward the phone calls to your cell phone directly?”
“You’re supposed to screen the telemarketers and spam calls. Answer basic questions not requiring dispatch. How many drinks have you had?”
“None. These are Tami’s drinks.”
I hate what I’m about to do, but no leader is ever respected if he lets people walk over him. I know Uncle Chip and all the town do-gooders will be upset, and there may be protests, but public safety is my first priority.
“Don’t bother coming back to the station. You’re fired.”
“What? You can’t fire me. I’m supposed to get off welfare.”
