fellers?”
“That’s right, ma’am,” one of them said to Mrs. Mallomar’s bosom.
Now came the hard part. Buster pried Mrs. Mallomar’s fingers from his neck and tried to pass her over to the EMTs, who, by this time, had a stretcher with restraining straps waiting. Mrs. Mallomar, obviously disoriented by the ordeal of the last six hours, resisted their help with punches and kicks as well as a jazz-scat stream of profanity—the verbal thrust of which dealt mostly with different forms of sodomy.
Buster waited out her solo and then said, “It’s all right, ma’am. They’ll be nice to you down there. We’re jes’ gonna put this back, ma’am,” and gently pulled her fingers from the stovetop burner. “We’re done with our diggin’ fer now.”
“No, please!”
“Ma’am, it’s for the best.”
“Ow, my god! What was that?”
A female EMT had surreptitiously brought a syringe from the vehicle and plunged fifteen milligrams of Versed into Mrs. Mallomar’s exposed left buttock as the others wrestled her onto the gurney.
“It’s just a little something to help you relax.”
“But you didn’t even ask me if I was allergic to anything!”
“Are you allergic to anything?” the EMT said, a little late in the game.
“Why don’t we just see if I go into cardiac arrest, you stupid bitch?” Even in her weakened state, Mrs. Mallomar was formidable.Buster tried to be helpful.
“Uh, did ah mention…she ain’t allowed to have nuthin’ with wheat in it,” Buster said.
It seemed like an eternity—with the sheriff staring a hole in him—before Mrs. Mallomar was stowed into the ambulance. Buster shook his head and blew a low whistle.
“Jiminy, look at that house!” Buster said. The sheriff was still silent. “I guess you’re pretty disserpointed with me right now, ain’tcha?”
“Buster…” The sheriff began to say something, but stopped when he noticed two of his deputies eavesdropping.
“Don’t you have something to investigate?” the sheriff barked. They snorted insolently and sauntered away.
“What’s there to investigate? The house jes’…done fell down,” Buster said nervously. The sheriff sighed like the last of the air from a flat tire.
“Buster, I’m gonna have to ask you a few questions.”
Buster scraped the helix of his right ear with his little finger and scrutinized what had accumulated under his fingernail.
“Shoot.”
“Where’s the mister?”
“Uh, ain’t he with you?”
“No, he is not.”
“Maybe he drove hisself away.”
“His car’s still here.”
“It is?”
“It is.”
The sheriff studied Buster’s face as it momentarily clouded with that new piece of information.
“Is he in that house somewhere?”
“Ah don’t rightly think so. Ah b’lieve he left the house.”
“You’d tell me if anything had happened to Mr. Mallomar…”
“Ah know what yor thinkin’, Sheriff. All’s ah can tell you is he was fine last time ah seen him.”
“And when was that?”
“Las’ night.”
“Last night. He came home last night and you were here in the house with his missus?” Buster squirmed at the implication.
“Well, sir. Ah were in the house tryin’ to get them cattle out.” This, to Buster, was the big news of the evening—that a herd of cattle had actually been inside a house. “Did y’all see ’em?”
“Musta been ’bout fifty head in there,” one of the rescue men answered convivially, but slunk away when the sheriff glowered at him.
One of the deputies emerged from the house, wiggle-waggling something above his head.
“Mr. Mallomar’s wallet!”
The rescue workers were now watching the sheriff’s reactions. As far as they were concerned, there was enough evidence to hang the foreman.
“Do you know why Mr. Mallomar would leave the house without his wallet or his car?” Buster scratched his head, cogitating on that.
“It’s a booger, Sheriff.”
“Yes, it certainly is a booger.”
The sheriff led Buster further away from the others.
“Remember what we always said about lying?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Were you having sexual relations with Mrs. Mallomar?”
Even Buster, who had never read a newspaper in his life, knew how much trouble a former president of the United States had gotten into with this question, and how better off the president would have been by just telling the truth. But now, when it came time to his turn at bat, he, also, looked for the same nuance of language to hide behind. Unfortunately, he lacked the language skills to pull it off.
“Ah ain’t at liberty to say,” he offered weakly.
“Why not?”
Another man came through the doorway holding a rope that had been fashioned into a noose. Once again, the sheriff turned to Buster.
“What’s this?”
Buster looked at it every which way—as if seeing a rope for the first time in his life.
“Lord, if ah know. It’s got kinda a loop on the end of it.”
“It’s called a noose!” Buster flinched. “Why would they have a noose just laying around the house?”
Buster took a deep breath.
“Ah ain’t at liberty to say.”
“You ain’t at liberty to say? Where’d you get this kind of talk?”
“That’s what Mr. Mallomar used to say when he dint wanna tell somebody somethin’,” Buster said glumly.
“Used to say?”
“Says. That’s what he says all the time and
