The Devil All the Time - Donald Ray Pollock [37]
“Who the hell is this?” Bodecker said, leaning forward in his chair.
“Ha!” the woman said. “I ain’t falling for that. I know how the law operates in Ross County.”
“We operate just fine,” Bodecker said.
“That ain’t what Mr. Matthews says.” And with that, she hung up.
Slamming the receiver down, Bodecker pushed back his chair and stood up. He glanced at his watch and grabbed his keys off the top of the file cabinet. Just as he got to the door, he stopped and turned back to the desk. He rummaged around in the top drawer, found an open bag of butterscotch balls. He stuck a handful of them in his pocket.
As Bodecker passed by the front desk on his way out, the dispatcher, a young man with bulging green eyes and a flattop haircut, looked up from a dirty magazine he was reading. “Everything all right, Lee?” he asked.
His big face red with aggravation, the sheriff continued on without a word, then paused at the door and looked back. The dispatcher was holding the magazine up to the overhead light now, studying some naked female form tightly bound in leather straps and nylon rope, a balled-up pair of panties stuck in her mouth. “Willis,” Bodecker said, “don’t you let somebody walk in here and catch you looking at that damn cock book, you hear? I got enough people on my ass as it is.”
“Sure, Lee,” the dispatcher said. “I’ll be careful.” He started to turn another page.
“Jesus Christ, man, can’t you take a hint?” Bodecker yelled. “Put that goddamn thing away.”
As he drove over to the Tecumseh, he sucked on one of the butterscotch balls and thought about what the woman on the phone had said about Sandy whoring. Though he suspected that Matthews had put her up to the call just to fuck with him, he had to admit that he wouldn’t be that surprised to find out it was true. A couple of banged-up beaters sat in the parking lot, along with an Indian motorcycle crusted over with dried mud. He took off his hat and badge and locked them in the trunk. The last time he’d been here, at the beginning of the summer, he had puked Jack Daniel’s all over the pool table. Sandy had run everyone out early and closed the place up. He had lain on the sticky floor among the cigarette butts and hockers and spilled beer while she soaked up his mess off the green felt with towels. She then set a small fan down on the dry end of the table and turned it on. “Leroy’s gonna shit when he sees this,” she said, her hands on her skinny hips.
“Fuck that sumbitch,” Bodecker mumbled.
“Yeah, that’s easy for you to say,” Sandy said, as she helped him get up off the floor and into a chair. “You don’t have to work for the prick.”
“I’ll shut the goddamn place down,” Bodecker said, flailing his arms wildly at the air. “I swear I will.”
“Just settle down, big brother,” she said. She wiped his face off with a soft, wet rag and fixed him a cup of instant coffee. Just as Bodecker started to take a sip, he dropped the cup. It shattered on the floor. “Jesus, I should have known better,” Sandy said. “Come on, I better get you home.”
“What kind of goddamn junker you drivin’ now?” he slurred as she helped him into the front seat of her car.
“Honey, this ain’t no junker,” she said.
He looked around inside the station wagon, tried to focus his eyes. “What the fuck is it then?” he said.
“It’s a limousine,” Sandy said.
12
IN THE MOTEL BATHROOM, Sandy ran the tub full of water and peeled the wrapper off one of the candy bars she kept in her makeup bag for those days when Carl refused to stop and eat. He could go days without food when they were traveling, never thinking about anything but finding the next model. He could suck on those damn cigars and run that dirty knife through his fangs all he wanted, but she wasn’t about to go to bed hungry.
The hot water relieved the itching between her legs, and she leaned back and closed her eyes as she nibbled on the Milky