style="font-size:15px;"> Before anything else happened, Tapes had his Buck knife flicked open and was heading for the dog.
“Deacon!” shouted Orlo.
The dog scrambled back and stood poised at Orlo’s feet.
Tapes stopped.
“That sumbitch was fast,” said the one called “Axe.”
“Both them sumbitches were fast,” said Orlo, looking at me and Tapes with a new appreciation.
I was waiting for an apology or an explanation I never got. The third camo-dressed guy was on his hands and knees in front of Trooper and me scooping up the stuff from my wallet.
“Lookit, Orlo,” he said over his shoulder. He held up some of my cards. “Libary cards. A million of ’em.”
“Twelve,” I said.
The guy had black, greasy hair and one of those little pigtails tied by a rubber band. He was reading the cards. “Tucson, Tallahassee, San Antonio, Dallas, Florida State, Trinity, Davis-Monthan Air Force Base, El Paso, Uvalde—”
“We’ve established you can read,” I said, anger creeping into my voice. I snatched them out of his hand. Angela Maple was staring at me quizzically. I was changing everybody’s opinion of me.
Trooper was still standing there stoically. Not helping, not making a gesture one way or the other.
Tapes clicked his Buck knife and it disappeared.
“Orlo,” I said. “You still hungry?”
“What?”
“You want to eat that dog, you turn him loose again.”
“Me? Eat the Deacon?”
“Balls first. You’re lucky: you already cut off his tail.” I will never, ever understand why people de-tail dogs. It can’t be for aesthetic reasons because most dogs are too ugly to change.
Orlo studied me under lowered brows. “I’d like to see that come to pass.” His voice was soft and speculative. He continued to stare at me. “I call him ‘Deacon’ because if he comes after ye, ye’d better say thy prayers.”
I’d figured something like that.
Shuffling my stuff, I handed Trooper my driver’s license and put everything back in my wallet.
“Arizona,” Trooper said, writing in his notebook. “How long did you say you’ve been in Florida?”
“I didn’t.”
“How long have you been in Florida?”
“Seven months.”
“You should’ve got a Florida license, and tags for that old junker you drive.” He wasn’t as nonobservant as he looked.
“It was my intention to return to Arizona before this,” I said.
“Ye surely should have,” Orlo said in that same piercing, soft voice.
“Mizz Maple said you were unemployed and itinerant,” Trooper said.
“Granny says a lot of things,” I said. She might be more damaging to me than Deacon, who was still poised and locked onto me like MG-10 radar in an F-102 (when it worked). I sincerely hoped the current USAF inventory aircraft had better radar.
Tapes interrupted by handing Trooper his license.
Trooper looked at the two licenses and paused in his writing. “Same Tucson address.” He squinted down at me. “You homosexuals?”
I shook my head. “No, but if we were, it wouldn’t be any of your goddamn business.”
“Fags,” said Orlo and I wondered why he was creating conflict and pushing the situation toward flash points. He made the traditional limp wrist.
The dog growled.
“You like mustard, Orlo?” I asked.
“Why is that?”
“It’ll make that dog taste better.”
Orlo looked puzzled for a moment. He glanced at his buddies then back to me. “Ye? A short little shit? Taking on three growed men?” He laughed. “Too Tall and Too Small.”
“I admit the odds are against you,” I said. I turned away from him. I was already tired of listening to him and shouldn’t have sparred with him.
Trooper returned our licenses. He nodded to Angie Maple. She found her purse and silently handed him her license.
When he was finished with her, he moved over to Orlo, ignoring Deacon. Trooper was doing his job and not letting anything threaten him. “Your names and licenses, please.”
Orlo stood and in that same chilling soft voice, he said, “And if we do not so choose?” He caressed Deacon’s head. Orlo was every bit as big as Trooper. He faced the Highway Patrol officer. “Deacon?”
You could tell the animal was ready. At the slightest signal he would attack. His neck strained against the red bandana.
Orlo’s two friends stood also, the one with the pigtail poised on the balls of his feet.
Trooper said calmly, “I don’t know you. You’re not from around here. But I have seen you here some time ago. There is something funny about you I can’t place, but I will. Twenty-five years in this business and I got the feel.”
Deacon growled low in his throat.
Trooper continued. “That dog makes one move toward me, he’s a dead motherfucker, understand?”
“There’s no call for any of this confrontation stuff,” I said.
“Shut the fuck up,” said Trooper.
“Yes, sir,” I said.
Trooper broke first, right then, and his hand went for his gun high on his hip.
The dog shot at him and Trooper wasn’t as quick as I had been. Deacon had Trooper’s arm in a nanosecond and Trooper screeched in sudden pain and fell to the side, the dog jumping at his shoulder now.
Angle Maple screamed.
Orlo stepped in and kicked Trooper in the temple with a fat boot. Pigtail began kicking Trooper in the back.
If he hadn’t told me to shut the fuck up, things might have been different. In about three heartbeats he was no longer defending himself. Likely the first blow to the temple had knocked him out.
Tapes was quicker than me. He kicked the dog about eleven feet into a table spilling a full ashtray and knocking over the table.
I took Pigtail out with a hand to the throat and a boot to his knee. Instantly he was on
