Don't Worry About Him. He Fights Like A Girl

Fresh off another sales call with old man Newman, I pulled into Panhandle looking forward to a few cold ones with my informal drinking buddies at Jackie’s Cold Day Inn. I save my expense money for the time I spend in Panhandle. I usually stay there an extra day or two to rest and hang out with Sheriff Tom and his friends.

Jackie owns the bar and Wendy tends it when she's not taking classes at the community college. Jackie’s the type that’ll help anybody who needs it; a soft touch unless you want to drink on credit. Wendy’s a stunner who’s disappointed every male in the county by being married and gay. I laughed to myself, remembering a story about a young cowboy working hard to get a date with her knowing she was gay. He was convinced he could persuade her to switch sides. She cupped his chin with her hand, looked lovingly into his eyes and said, “Gary, suppose it works in reverse and I turn you gay?” He got out as fast as he could, everybody in the bar hooting and whistling at him. Jackie says that’s Wendy’s MO whenever the guys get too pushy.

I didn’t see Sheriff Tom’s cruiser when I arrived at the bar but he was there at the corner table. Doc Harris was there too. I took my seat, said hello, and Wendy hipwalked over with my drink.

Tom was leaning sideways in his chair, favoring his left side. He had some cuts on his face, purple, stitched up, and a cast on his right wrist. I knew better than to ask what happened but the possibility that Milo was involved passed through my mind. Whatever it was I knew the Sheriff would tell me if it was ok for me to know.

The last time I was here, Milo, a mild mannered newcomer to Panhandle (moved here three years ago), broke Steve’s nose and cheekbone with a single move so fast and decisive only someone trained in the martial arts could have done it. Milo’s sudden aggression made everybody wonder if he was somebody other than the quiet, unassuming man he’d been until then. I was willing to bet even money that Sheriff Tom would dig 'til he got some answers.

The Sheriff rested his good hand on the cast and said “Milo and I went fishing at the Sanford Reservoir. Did ok. On the way back a mule deer and her fawn jumped out of the culvert right in front of us. I swerved, lost control and we rolled over twice. I wasn’t hurt too bad; Milo was knocked out but breathing. You can see I broke my wrist, got some cracked ribs. According to Doc Harris here, Milo had a fair size concussion and a knot on his head from hitting the glass, some bruising but otherwise ok.

Thank you for your concern. The department will take
your suggestion into consideration.

“Cept for the rollover it was a pretty good trip. Got to know Milo a lot better. Interesting fella, more to ‘im than I expected. He’s still in the hospital, gettin’ out tomorrow but be laid up for another day or two. I won’t be telling any tales outa school by telling you what I found out about 'im. He said it wouldn’t do any harm.

“I didn’t plan to take him fishing, just worked out that way. The day before we went I stopped by his crafts shop, looking for shoelaces for my boots. Les didn’t have any at his store, said Milo might have some in his leather goods.

“I could see all the way to the back of the store where Milo was moving stuff around the storage room. He looked busy so I went to him, said hello, told him what I needed. He said he had some extra long laces he could cut but he’d have to find 'em. We talked some more then he raised his arms to put a box of ribbons on the top shelf. High up on his bicep I see a tattoo, looks like a military insignia. Couldn’t tell exactly what it was but it wasn’t a heart with “Mother” written across it.

“Well, ever since Milo busted up Steve’s face I’ve been thinking about who Milo really is. He looks and acts like a guy with street smarts but not how you think. In his case it’s Sesame Street smarts, if you know what I mean. The move he put on Steve made me doubt my powers of observation and that don’t sit well with me.

“Right then I decided it was time me and Milo oughta get to know each other better."

Doc Harris and I exchanged a smile that said, yeah, we figured as much.

Tom ignored us and went on, “I said, ‘Milo, a friend of mine at the VA told my you served three tours in ‘Nam’.

“He didn’t say anything just stared at me. I stared at him. He stared back.

“I’m good at staring, done it to a lot of perps in my time. Well, I tell you what, good as I am, Milo’s better.

“I said, it’s okay if you don’t wanna talk about it. I unnerstand. I was there myself. He stared. I stared but he’d already beat me. I knew it. He knew it.

“All he said was, ‘That was a long time ago.’

“He took an empty coffee can filled it with cat chow from a sack on the floor, opened the door to the alley where there was a buncha cats standing around some food bowls.

“I tried one more time and said my friend at the VA said you were a Ranger, tough duty.

“He squatted to fill the food bowls and said, ‘These are feral cats, nine of ‘em now. I’ve been feeding them twice a day for three years and they still won’t let me touch them. I guess nature taught them not to trust anything but their instincts. The gray and white cat was the first one then he brought the others so maybe there’s some trust in them; they trust each other.’

Ferals share and share alike

"He stood up, stowed the coffee can and said, ‘Sheriff, tell me something. What does it take to get a little trust and stop being an outsider? I’ve lived here three years, been a good citizen, paid my taxes, voted. What does it take?’

“The way he was standing, feet apart, arms at his sides, I thought for a second he was fixin' to give me the same business he give Steve. I pretended not to notice; looped my thumbs on my belt all relaxed looking. He eased up too.

“I said, ‘I don’t rightly know how long it takes, Milo. Depends on who you are. Jorge Washington De La Cruz’s been here a lot longer than you and there’s still some folks treat him like a stranger they gotta be on the look out for. There’s still one or two give him room on the sidewalk, afraid he’ll whip out his Buck and cut their throats.’”

Buck knife costs 150 bucks

“Jorge Washington De La Cruz?”

“We call ‘im Washington DC for short. Mexican fella, has a little spread outside a Shamrock. Big mustache, dark eyes, Buck knife on his belt, makes him look dangerous but he ain’t. One time I saw him stop in the middle of the 826, traffic flying by, 70, 80 mile an hour, while he picked a box turtle off the road, moved it 50 yards off to the side. I stopped, turned on my flashers, slowed traffic down. A mean guy woulda run over that turtle, not caring. Rough and tough as he looks, that put him in my book as a good guy. You probly know his wife, Jenny, white woman, drives a red pickup.”

“Yeah, I do. I didn’t know Jorge was her husband. Slender woman, delicate, came here once asking if I knew how to make piñatas. I told her I didn’t but I saw a lot of them in LA so it wasn’t hard to figure out. She brought me some homemade Mexican sweet bread and I told her she should open a bakery. I even suggested a slogan, ‘Mexican sweet bread just like my Mother-in-Law used to make.’ I think the shoelaces you want are up front.”

“As he searched under the counters I said, ‘Fittin’ in in a new place is hard, ‘specially with folks who like things the way they are. You’re a different breed of cat from the West Coast. You could be anybody. Then you pull that stunt with Steve. There were a hundred people at Jackie’s that night. Only five or six of us actually saw it happen but there’s a hundred versions of what happened going around. That mighta set you back some.

“You oughta talk to Jackie about that. She says the first step to fittin’ in is for you to start droppin’ your g’s. Next thing is add a second or two between sentences. Dropping the g’s, makes you sound local. Second thing gives folks a little time to decide what you really mean when you say something, anything, even hi, how are you? You gotta take it slow, gradual like; grow on people ‘til they feel like you lived here your whole life.

“He grinned like he thought I was funnin’ with him and I was, but only part ways. He found the shoelaces, I paid for ‘em and I spied a cane fishing pole like we had when we were kids. 

“I said you like to fish? He said he did some beach fishing in LA and Santa Monica, some fresh water fishing at Big Bear.

“What say we go to the Sanford Reservoir Sunday. They got bass, walleye, and carp.

“Next day we unloaded our gear at the reservoir and set up to cast our fishing rods. I saw he didn’t put bait on his line but I didn’t say anything. I got some bites and missed hooking the fish. Of course, he didn’t even get a twitch on his lines. I reeled in my line to put more bait on my hook. Did that a coupla times. He just sat there looking at the water or reading his book.

“Finally, I couldn’t stand it any more, I said, Milo, you ever catch any fish in LA or anywhere else? He said no, had a deal with the fish. ‘I don’t tease them with bait and they don’t interrupt my reading. We don’t waste each other’s time.’ I couldn’t say anything to that and I said to myself, this boy’s gonna be an outsider forever. I let it go and didn’t say anymore about it. Later on, we’re eatin’ some nice walleye I caught and we talked guy stuff and about the book he was reading, something about how our minds work. Well, his talking made my brain work overtime, wondering if maybe he was studying me instead of the other way around. I’m not used to that.

Sportsman's MRE

“We had a few more Coronas while we fished and he loosened up some more. Told me he quit his teaching job ‘cause of an asshole department head that thought you don’t count unless your degrees come from a big name university. He was passed over for promotions too many times, quit and went looking for a place where knowing how to change a flat tire or use a hammer was more important than where you went to school. Panhandle looked like that kinda place so he settled here.

“We were done fishing, on our way back to town and I say, ‘Milo, about that beating you laid on Steve…’

“He let out a big sigh. ‘I know half the town’s thinking I’m with the CIA or I’m a specially trained spy. The other half wonders why I’m here and not where I belong… anywhere but here.”

“Turns out Milo did three tours in ‘Nam as a medic and didn’t carry or fire a weapon the whole time. Spent a year on medevac helo crews and two years attached to forward combat units. He was a conscientious objector but volunteered anyway, trying to do the right thing. And you know stateside people think conscientious objectors are as bad as draft dodgers or cowards. Worse yet, unpatriotic. Am I wrong or right? He said he saw things he’ll never forget and that’s all he’ll say about that.

“Well, that shut me up pretty good. I spent my one-year tour scared half outa my mind and I had a weapon with me the whole time. And here’s Milo, does three tours in a row, and he’s got nuthin’ in his hands but a first aid kit.”

Jackie called out from behind the bar, asking if we wanted another round. Tom said yes and while we waited Doc Harris said, “I didn’t wanna fight either, but there’s no way I coulda been a medic. Milo did three tours. Even if he did just one, the man deserves a lotta respect.”

Just then four rowdy cowboys came in and took a table at the far end of the bar. We watched Wendy take their order while they each tried to get her attention. She brushed them off with a smile as she always did, flirting back without coming on to them. The boys ate it up. She’d be hell on wheels in sales, I thought. I turned my attention back to my drink.

There was a shout from the cowboys’ table and we saw Wendy bending a cowboy’s finger back, not hurting him yet, but it wouldn’t take much to make it hurt a lot. I started to leave my chair, but Doc Harris put his hand on my arm and said wait a second. Tom sat back with his hands resting on his stomach, his head tilted like he’s asking a question, ‘Need help, Wendy?’

Still holding the cowboy’s finger, Wendy pointed at our table with her other hand and said loud enough for us to hear, “Now, cowboy, you’re as cute as can be, but you need to keep your hands to yourself. See that man over there, star on his chest, big ol' gun on his hip? That’s the Sheriff. Look around, everybody’s drinking and talking but their eyes are on you. What they’re doing is watching out for me. They know me. They don’t know you. All I have to do is say the word and nobody’ll ever see you again. Understand? Now, can I get you boys a drink?”

The cowboys were too embarrassed to leave, not sure what to do. They quieted down and went back to drinking. We watched Wendy move from table to table, tending to her customers.

Doc Harris turned to the Sheriff and said, “Hey, Tom, you know what I’m thinkin’? Milo could teach Wendy some new moves, show her how to fight like a girl. Either one gets hurt, he can patch it up.”

I looked at Doc Harris. “What do you mean teach Wendy how to fight like a girl?” Doc Harris dipped his head in Tom's direction.

No fair. She fights like a girl

Tom took a sip of his bourbon, took his time lighting one of his Cheroots and said, “Okay, here’s the rest of it. Milo and me, we’re driving along, headin’ home, nobody talking. Then he says, ‘Tom, I didn’t answer your question about what I did to Steve.’

“He told me a story about how he shared an apartment with a martial arts expert for eight years in LA. She was a phys ed teacher at the same college. She was so good she had trouble finding sparring partners and roped him into the life. Sometimes they practiced at home and had to move twice because the neighbors thought they were murdering each other and called the cops.

“According to him, Maryanne was a fine woman, better as a sparring partner than a wife. It worked for both of ‘em. She didn’t need a husband, he didn’t need a wife and I expect there were other benefits. Milo was her live-in sparring partner who paid half the rent, did some cooking and cleaning. It ended when she quit her job and moved to Oregon.

“She taught him well and he got pretty good, no way near expert level, you unnerstand, but good enough to take anybody by surprise if they didn't know 'im. The exercise felt good, staying fit, sweatin' off the tension from work, ‘specially the faculty politics. Those were the best years of his life. Both of them were young, money in their pockets, moving up in their careers.

"At the gym where they trained, Maryanne would push newcomers to start off light, sparrin' with Milo who looked like a soft target. ‘Don’t worry about him. You’ll see. He fights like a girl.'''

The End

It's Okay in Texas, Part 2

“The State Trooper clocked you at 85 coming down the 207 from Borger. Lucky for you Officer Denny’s my nephew, talked him into lettin’ you go, ‘cept now I owe him one. Easy come, easy go, I guess. I never known you to be in a hurry about anything. What gives?”

“Well, Tom, when I was in Panhandle two weeks ago you had a dead minister and some rumors about him being the earthly father of a bunch of kids. You had Reg Hartsell up for homicide or accidental shooting. I like murder mysteries and if there’s sex involved, more so. I plead guilty to cutting my sales trips short to get to Panhandle as soon as I could to see how you worked it out.”

“You missed your calling, son. You shoulda been a cop. You oughta quit tractor sales and join the force. We might have an opening now the city’s grown some.”

We were at our usual table in the corner, near the door at Jackie’s Cold Day Inn waiting for Doc Harris and Les. Jackie and Wendy were busy getting ready for “Women Only Night.” One night a week the bar was closed to men and the townswomen were invited to meet and spend an evening free from kids, husbands, boyfriends, and bosses. Jackie was expecting 30 women to show up and one or two newcomers.

Doc Harris and Les showed up, waved to Jackie at the bar and sat down with us. Jackie brought their drinks and Tom asked her to join us.

Tom said, “Jackie, I was telling our friend here about what happened with the minister and Reg and how my powerful mind figured out what really happened. But the other stuff, you know, about the dimpled chins, I think you and Doc tell it better ‘n me. You okay with that?”

She nodded, waved to Wendy for a drink and grabbed the chair next to me.

Les winked at me and said, “I’m gonna spoil it for you. The coroner ruled accidental homicide, Tom’s a master investigator who believes in talking dogs.”

Tom shot Les a sharp look but I could tell he didn’t mean it. He lit one of Cheroots, took a deep drag like he always does when he’s warming up to tell a story.

“In the end it was Buckshot’s testimony that made up my mind for me”, he said. “Buckshot’s one of Reverend Randolph’s hunting dogs in case you didn’t know. There was Reg’s account of how he shot the Reverend square in the chest; the hair trigger pull on the shotgun the gun expert from Lubbock showed us, and a dead jackrabbit. It all added up to accidental death.

“The dog’s testimony, Tom?”

“I know, I know, it’s hard to believe but when you put everything together it makes sense. According to Reg’s statement, it happened like this:

“Reg and the Reverend had just set out for quail, the two dogs were up field about 30 yards, maybe another 20 yards apart. The dog on the right, Riley, spooked some quail. Reg got ready to aim and shoot when the Reverend shouted, “Buckshot!” That startled Reg, he turned quick, tripped and pulled the trigger as he fell. The autopsy showed the blast going upwards which made sense if Reg was falling back.

“I been Sheriff here more’n 20 years. I look for what fits, what don’t. If it don’t make sense I have to prove it don’t. So I’m looking at the scene. Reg’s story about what happened that day made sense but he’s the only witness so I gotta think could it happen some other way that it wasn’t an accident? I’ve known Reg all his life. I like ‘im, he’s a good man, fine father and husband, but if he committed a crime, all that good stuff don’t mean a fart in the wind.

“Could be the Reverend did him wrong some way we don’t know about. Maybe seduced his wife or took something didn’t belong to him, who knows? There’s those rumors about the Reverend, you know. Maybe the Reverend caused Reg some misery that made him lose his mind for just a second. But I’ll tell you what, the law doesn’t care how crappy your day, your week, or your life is, you commit a crime, only the crime matters. Whatever prison you wind up in, it’s the one you fixed up yourself.”

“Tom”, I said. “The dog, Buckshot?”

“Hold on, I’m gettin’ to him. I’m looking around where the Reverend was shot. Truck is back aways, Reverend’s hat and shotgun are a coupla feet from the body. And there’s Buckshot to the left a bit. He’s sitting looking at me proud like, waggin’ his tail and there’s a jackrabbit at his feet. Fresh kill, neck’s broke.

“So I say, ‘Buckshot’, did you get this rabbit?’ Ole Buckshot wags his tail some more, I swear he smiled.

“Put two and two together and I got an accidental shooting. So I say kinda stern, ‘Buckshot did you go chasing after this rabbit when you were supposed to be looking for quail?’ His head went down a tad, no tail wagging now. ‘Buckshot, you know you did wrong. Am I right?’ Ole dog dropped his head, wouldn’t look at me.

“I squatted next to him and said, ‘Buckshot, it went down this way. You went chasing after this jackrabbit, your master yelled at you. Reg turned around, tripped and fell. He didn’t mean to pull the trigger as he fell. Is that what happened?’

“He didn’t have to say a word. He hung his head down almost to the ground. Right then I knew I had the truth.”

“’Course, I didn’t tell it this way at the inquest. I made it sound like I figured it out by myself, kept Buckshot out of it. The squirrelly DA might wanna charge him with reckless endangerment or something.

"Wait a minute, Tom", I said. "You had it figured out before the coroner's inquest?"

Tom looked at me squinty-eyed. "Sure, I knew how it happened but I didn't have the autopsy or ballistic reports yet. How would it look if I go to the DA with -- accidental death, this here dog told me so. Got any doubts all you gotta do is make 'im raise his right paw, swear 'im in.

"I swear to tell the truth..."

 "The ballistics guy from Lubbock PD testified that the shotgun’s sear was worn out, making the trigger pull less than half what it oughta be. Long story short, the coroner’s judgment was accidental shooting, told everybody go home.”

Les shifted around in his chair, cocked his head sideways and said, “Tom, remember we were thinking the Reverend Randolph might be the daddy of some of the kids around here, the ones with dimpled chins? Maybe Reg shooting him was accidental but if Reverend Randy was fishing in somebody else’s pond, he might be a dead man sooner or later anyway.”

Doc said, “Les is probly right about that, Tom. Cheatin’ on your spouse is as low as you can go. For most folks, the wife or husband cheatin’ means the end of everything that matters.

“But a couple of days ago I called a friend of mine at Texas Tech, heads up the biology department, told him about the dimples and what we all were thinking about the minister. I’m embarrassed to tell you he lit into me for starting a rumor that could cause innocent people a lotta hurt. Don’t know how long he cussed me out before he gave me lessons in modern genetics, what we know now that we didn’t know 25 years ago when we were in med school together.

I told him he could watch Netflix on it

“Oh, he gave me chapter and verse on recessive genes, alleles, autosomals, dominants and I don’t remember what all. Didn’t stop talking for 30 minutes. When he ran out of wind I said, ‘Does that mean dimples could be almost from anybody?’ He started up again schoolin' me about gene pools in small communities being narrow but deep and how I should shut up about dimples on kids or anybody else. Like I said, I’m embarrassed but on the other hand, all of us here know more than we did two weeks ago. Most of all don’t count dimples.”

We all nodded in agreement except Jackie. She was slumped in her chair, drumming her fingers on the table, looking at each of us like we were five years old, caught fibbing to our mothers.

“Yep”, Jackie said. “We should all keep our mouths shut when we don’t know what we’re talking about. I’ve been bartending most of my life and I’ve learned a lot about men and women. One thing is that men ain’t any different from women when it comes to gossip. All of you, think a minute about the things you talk about among yourselves --- how could so an so afford that new truck, and what about the time we saw JimBob getting friendly with Marsha down at the bank. Surprise, boys, you just gossip about different things but it’s still gossip.

“Bartenders hear lots of stories, always from the point of view of the one telling it, never hear the other side. I suppose that’s a good thing, otherwise Tom’d be here every night breakin’ things up. But I’ll tell you something, somebody’s telling you their story, the truth is in the spaces between the words. That’s how truths are told. You listen close, you can hear the other side. In the little bit of time between the words, they’re looking for an innocent way to say the next word. You find out blame goes both ways, more here than there maybe but still both ways.

“I’m not supposed to tell what we talk about on “Women Only Night”, but anybody can guess the last two meetings all we talked about was Reverend Randy. The shooting was an accident, of course. Tom proved that at the inquest. There was a lotta talk about what a good man the minister was, how he comforted us when gramma or grampa died, when things weren’t goin’ so well at home, money problems and so on. How he worked to help people who were hard up, whole families just passin’ through, clothes, food, money if he had some.

“I won’t say who, but one of the women wondered if sinnin' with a man of the cloth was a worse sin than adultery with any other man. That started up another conversation. The church ladies thought it was sinful to even talk about that but they talked about it anyway; saying the Almighty would not look kindly on the Jezebels, send them to a special hell. Others weren’t so sure about that. What about if the minister was the one taking advantage? Would he get a special hell and the women get a pass? I listened hard to everything. And there it was, between the words. The truth. Two women told the truth and nobody knew it but me.

“I know you’re gonna ask who it was but I’m not telling. You can ask Buckshot.”

It's Okay in Texas, Part 1

It was noontime when I rolled into Panhandle for my monthly sales visit. Sales in Borger and Pampa made my quota so I was feeling pretty good, spending my commissions in my head. At first I didn’t notice there weren’t any people out and about in the streets. Most of the shops had closed signs in the windows. The one at Les’s General Store said, “Closed, be back after 1:00 PM.” Jackie’s Cold Day Inn’s neon sign in the window flashed “Open” so I headed for the bar.

It was empty too, except for Wendy who was sitting on a barstool reading a book. She looked up and said everybody was at a funeral for the Reverend Wilkes.

“Killed in a hunting accident. Hunting quail, him and Reg Hartsell, last Tuesday.” Wendy glanced at the clock and said, “I expect this place’ll be filling up soon, funeral’s over by now. You want Jack and Coke or beer?”

I sat at the usual table in the corner by the door sipping my drink. Mourners began coming in by one’s and two’s. Sheriff Tom, Les, Doc Harris, and a man I didn’t know came in and joined me. Tom introduced me to the stranger, Conner Johnson, a guy who’d grown up in Panhandle with Tom and Les, went to the coast years ago and stayed there. Wendy brought our drinks.

The Sheriff filled me in. “We were at the funeral for Reverend Randolph (call me Randy) Wilkes, pastor at Holy Light Church for more than two decades. People from all over the county showed up to pay their respects to the widow.

“You know the county pays me to watch over its citizens, see what they do, maybe guess what they’re thinking. It so happens that’s my job and my nature. So I’m looking around and I see the women from the Ladies Auxiliary huddled together, consoling one another. When the service was over everybody went about their business except the Ladies Auxiliary. They stayed behind while Tim and Rollie filled the grave. Don’t know what to make of that. Probly nothing but I keep thinking about it anyway.”

No one said anything for a while so just to make conversation I said, “So what was the Reverend Randy like?”

Tom said, "Oh, he was what you’d expect from a man of the cloth. He looked out for everybody even if they didn’t belong to his congregation. The women gushed over him, which ain’t unusual. Most marriages after a few years, husbands don’t look to their wives, give 'em attention, listen to what they have to say. But this minister like most of ‘em do, paid attention, noticed new dresses or hairdos. Stuff like that.

"Some ways he was a dynamo, bake sales, canned good drives, bazaars once a year. Coupla years he volunteered, going to places where there was flooding or some natural disaster. Ran the Sunday School himself. My buddy Conner here was one of his prize students.”

Doc and Les laughed at that. Conner looked a little embarrassed but he squared his shoulders and said, “Well, that mighta been true until I was 14 or 15 years old, then I kinda fell away going to Sunday school. Momma was sure I was on the way to hell; daddy didn’t care one way or the other. Anyway, anytime Reverend saw me he’d preach at me to come back.

“He kept at me and finally I had enough. Reverend Wilkes didn’t like it if you asked a lot of questions, one question leading to another. He had answers for two questions on the same argument but the third and fourth questions made him snippy.

“So the last time he tried I said, ‘Reverend, I figure you’d know the answer about Heaven. Being I’m expecting to go there, is there sex in heaven?’ I thought I had ‘im cause I read the bible over and over since I was a kid and the bible doesn’t say anything about sex in heaven. I was 17 years old at the time and, if I remember right, sex was all I thought about.

Keep reading, Conner. It could be in there

“He looked me in the eyes like he was looking for a bit of light inside an empty head and said, ‘Son, Heaven isn’t about the Pleasures of the Flesh. It’s about seeing the glory of the Lord and spending all of Eternity in His Glory.

“Well, sir, that didn’t make sense. Me and Cindy Mason been taking each other to heaven out by the river all summer long. And I was itching to go back as much as I could. How could anything be better than that for all eternity?

“He put his hands on my shoulders, got his face real close to mine and said ‘Fornication is a sin. A Lake of Fire awaits fornicators and adulterers on Judgment Day. Don’t you EVER forget that, boy!’ That kinda scared me. Sunday school had a lot to say about hell. But it didn’t seem right that there’s only two ways to go when you die: Heaven or Hell, no in between.

“And I told him that. Some sins are worse ‘n others but everybody’s sinned, big or little, goes to the same place? And if you sinned you can’t be in heaven. Looks to me like hell’s a whole lot bigger than heaven.

“’God forgives sinners who repent’, he said. And I said, ‘How do you know if you’ve been forgiven. Do you get a postcard, like – ‘All clear, Conner. But it was a close call!’

A little extreme for one stinkin' apple, Rev

“Now he’s thinking I’m just funnin’ with him and says I’m disrespecting him, get out of here, points to the door. I’m almost out the door and he says he’s gonna have a talk with Cindy’s daddy, maybe I aughta think about staying out of sight for a while.

“Her two brothers cornered me a few days later. They convinced me to look somewhere else for my little piece of heaven. Eight, nine months later she married Terry Jackson, moved to Midland. I hear they did all right, buncha kids and grandkids now. Time to time I wonder if I’ll meet her in heaven or hell. Maybe she got a postcard. I didn’t.”

Les laughed and slapped Conner on the back who stood up and said, "Hey, I gotta run. I told my momma I'd visit with her before heading back to Galveston."

I waved at Wendy and ordered another round of drinks. Doc just sat rubbing his chin, like he was making up his mind about something.

I saw the men glance at each other and go quiet. Finally Doc Harris nodded at Tom then at me. The Sheriff lit one of his Cheroots and said, “Everybody at this table’s known you for a lotta years. You’re honest, never try to take advantage. So far as we know you never tell tales outa school. Jackie vouches for you, too.

“I’ve got a few suspicions about the Reverend Wilkes, so does everybody else at this table but people take it wrong if you bring up stuff they don’t wanna hear so we gotta be careful what we say, keep the peace. You been coming here for 15, 16 years now, talk to all the farmers and ranchers. Maybe you saw or heard something that’ll help me figure something out.

“You heard Reverend Wilkes was accidentally killed while hunting with Reg Hartsell. The word ‘accidentally’ sticks in my craw. The Reverend was shot in the chest, up close with Reg’s shotgun, both barrels. Reg was hysterical when we got to the scene and Doc, here, had to put him under.

“Hunting accidents happen enough so people hear about one, they shake their heads and move on. It’s rare to be shot accidentally in the chest like Reverend Wilkes. Most accidental wounds are to the victim’s back or a hunter stumbles, shoots himself, and so on.

“Mind you, I can’t say I’ve seen everything in this world but the only time I seen chest wounds is when somebody’s shooting to kill. Maybe this is a first for me, who knows? Anyway, I’m looking at the Reverend’s body on the ground, eyes closed like he’s asleep and I remember a conversation I had with Milo at his craft shop last summer.

“Milo’s a nature lover, takes pictures of animals, birds, anything that lives and grows. He’s got a nice camera set up, does all his film developing and so on. I’m telling you this to show he pays attention to details.

“He’s been taking class pictures at the our grammar school for years now. Lines the kids up, teacher on the side or in back. Standard poses. One day I was in his shop and he says to me, look at this. It’s a picture of the Reverend Wilkes and his Sunday school students. He says six of the kids have cleft chins just like Wilkes. He pulls out other pictures and it’s more of the same. A lotta kids with cleft chins. I didn’t think anything of it back then and let it go.

“A coupla weeks later, making conversation, I mention it to Doc Harris. He looks over his shoulder, around the bar and says real low, this gets out, the town’s gonna blow up. I say, why? He says, only way a kid has a cleft chin is if one or both of the parents have it. If both parents have smooth chins it’s long odds against the child having a cleft chin. It’s a medical fact. You, me, Milo, and anybody else you told have to keep this quiet.

“So there I am looking at the Reverend, dead on the ground and I start thinking about everybody with kids 1 to 18 years old. Do they have smooth chins or dimpled? All those kids with dimpled chins. Who’s their daddy? I borrow some class pictures from Milo, looking for Reg Hartsell’s kids. He’s got four kids, no cleft chins. So maybe it was an accident like he says after all? Or did Reg suspect something? Maybe he saw something he wasn’t supposed to. Maybe his wife said something about her and Wilkes.”

Doc sat up, rested his arms on the table and said, “Tom, I’m everybody’s doctor. I see every man, woman, and child that gets sick, needs vaccinations or stitches for this, that or the other. I’ve birthed most every kid born here for more than 20 years. Sometimes I look at a boy or girl and they don’t fit exactly with their parents’ eye or hair color. The medical books say almost any combination of eye or hair color can produce a third color but they’re long shots, genetically speaking. Now I can't say who’s cheating on who just by the color of their eyes or hair but you know, I know, hell, everybody knows that there’s cheating going on. But this business with the cleft chin being specific to one parent having it, points right at Reverend Wilkes.

Nothing serious. It's just a dimpled chin

“As the pastor of his church he’s supposed to visit the sick and the lonely. Who's lonelier than a ranch wife who doesn’t see another human being besides her husband, sometimes for weeks at a time? What if the good Reverend did some ministering that wasn’t in his job description? But, I’ll tell you again, this gets out, this town is gonna blow up.

Doc’s genetics lesson made us pause. I thought I saw Tom, Doc, and Les checking each other’s eyes, hair, and chin.

Tom stubbed his Cheroot on the ashtray and said, “All I know is I have till next week to call the shooting an accident or homicide. As it is, the whole community’s thinking accident. If I say different, I gotta have a bullet proof reason.”

He looked at me probably hoping I knew something or seen something that might help him out of his dilemma. I thought back on all my customers and I couldn’t think of anything at all. Then I said, “Tom, didn’t you tell me once about Jim and Angel handing out Texas Justice?”

The Sheriff sat up in his chair, leaning towards me. “Maybe you got something if you’re thinking about the thing between Jim and Bob Rawlins, three, four years ago. As I remember the prosecutor had Jim dead to rights. Eleven witnesses saw Jim beat Rawlins half to death at Billy’s Last Stand. Way they testified, Jim walked up to Rawlins, opened up a can of whoop-ass and made him eat all of it. Never said a word. The prosecutor called it ‘a brutal, unprovoked attack’.

“But the fact is what happened before was important. Jim and Angel were looking for Lucy, a waitress at Billy’s to wish her a happy birthday, bring her a gift. Billy told ‘em Lucy was in the hospital, broken jaw wired shut, big purple knot on her head. Lucy was Rawlins’ girlfriend at the time. I’d arrested Rawlins for beating other women but they refused to press charges.

“Picking a jury here is a hard job. Everybody knows everybody else, what they’re like, sometimes they’re related to both sides. Everybody knew Jim. Everybody knew Rawlins. But a jury was finally set.

“The prosecutor laid out a slam dunk case. Every time he said Rawlins’ name, the jury looked his way. Rawlins had a cast on his right arm, another on his left leg, a neck brace, and bruises all over his face. Every time Jim’s lawyer said his name they looked at Jim, just a Band-Aid on his knuckles. Jim was going to prison. Angel looked like she was gonna die.

Justice is served daily

“Everything said and done the Judge sent the jury off to decide the case. I went outside for a smoke and was just about go to my office when the bailiff called everybody back into the courtroom. It took the jury 10 minutes to come back with a verdict. I thought that was about right since Jim didn’t have a single witness saying the beating was justified. I knew Judge Stevens would send Jim to prison right away because he liked things tidy and efficient. Angel was sitting so still, like she was gonna bust out any minute, take things into her own hands if she had to. Everybody was looking at the jury but I was watching her.

“The jury foreman said ‘Not Guilty’. Judge Stevens banged his gavel, picked up his papers and left the courtroom. I saw Rawlins flinch as Jim and Angel passed by hustling out of the courthouse. The prosecutor tried to look disappointed but I could tell he wasn't.

Hamilton Burger loses again. Perry didn't lift a finger

"We had drinks here afterwards. He sat where you’re sitting now, loosened his tie and said he’d done his best to win, making sure no appeals court would overturn, shutting down every opening. He said he was glad he lost. No doubt Jim was guilty as hell but Rawlins got what he deserved."

Tom looked at each of us in turn and said, “I don’t know what I’m gonna say about the Reverend’s death at the coroner's inquest next week but I’ll sure be thinking about Jim and Rawlins.”

 

Texas! Come for the weather...hunker down for the stories

Snow Cow?

Lucky for me Sheriff Tom found me before I froze to death. The storm hit hard all of a sudden. Snow and ice came down so thick visibility was nearly zero. I missed the curve and slid off the road, into the culvert. My cell phone was out of range so all I could do was wait and hope. The rest of my sales trip was cancelled, no question.

“I had Mike put the chains on my tires two days ago,” Tom said. “Don’t get snow like this too much but I gotta be prepared. Mike’s on his way, tow your car. Want some coffee?”

The Texas panhandle is wide-open country with small towns sometimes a hundred miles apart. Weather reports here aren’t much for accuracy. Gully washers or freak snowstorms are just as likely one day or the next no matter what the weather service says. The news said a storm was on the way, possible three to four inches of snow. The only part they got right was about the storm heading my way, dead wrong about the three or four inches.

 

By the time we got to Jackie’s Cold Day Inn in Panhandle the snow was coming down thicker and heavier. Tom said Amarillo had more than a foot of snow with more coming. Jackie’s regulars were already there, plus a few folks who lived outside the city limits and couldn’t risk driving on icy roads. Also, Jackie’s had a huge wood stove, a storeroom full of beer, whiskey and snacks, a pretty good way to ride out a blizzard.

Les was at the usual corner table near the door. His General Store and most of the other businesses closed up soon after it started snowing. Doc Harris and Mike came in together, stomping their shoes to get the ice off, took off their coats, hung them on hooks behind our table. Mike was smiling, his towing service making him money. We said our hellos and waited for Wendy to bring our drinks.

Tom took a sip of his drink, let it trickle down his throat, and said, “Back in ’94 we had two foot of snow New Year’s Day. The whole town shut down for three days, everybody stranded at home. Some folks got low on food, had a coupla cases of frostbite but not serious.

“Only problem I had was old Ben Praxis. Right from the start he was on his CB callin’ for help. I said, ‘Ben, you got food? He says, yes. You got firewood for your stove? He says, yes. Do you need medicine? He says, no. I say, why are you calling me? He says, the storm knocked my antenna down and I can’t get any reception on the TV; my wife’s on my back about it. You don’t come over help me fix it one of us is gonna get killed.

“That was Monday and Tuesday. Then Wednesday he didn’t call. I tried raising him on the CB but he didn’t pick up. I thought maybe something’s gone wrong so I tell Deputy Dudley go check on ‘em, call for help if you need it. So Dudley rides over in his Jeep, nothing wrong except the antenna’s down. He helps fix it. Old Ben says, ‘Deputy, I can’t thank you enough. One more day missin’ Wheel of Fortune, Janie woulda brained me with a fryin’ pan.’

“Now, Dudley isn’t known for his sense of humor. I don’t recall ever hear him tell a joke in all the years he’s been my Deputy. When he’s done with the antenna, he reaches into his pocket, pulls out two paper tags on a string. He says, ‘Can you put these in the fire for me?’  Ben says, ‘What are they?’ ‘They’re toe tags, your name on one, hers on the other.’”

Jackie tore herself away from the bar supposedly to bring clean ashtrays to our table. She was laughing quietly to herself, shaking her head as she replaced the ashtrays and put the empty glasses and bottles on her tray.

“Oh, that Harley”, she said, looking back towards the bar where Harley Carson was trying to get Wendy’s attention. She kept moving, pretending to hear other customers calling her away.

“He was going on about how do we know the Weather Channel isn’t playing taped re-runs from last year, ‘specially in the summer. TV stations have re-runs all the time, he says. The weather predictions are mostly wrong, too. I mean, the folks there gotta take vacations, right? How about if they all get the flu at the same time or something. And they’re on 24 hours a day. Think about it. Gotta be re-runs.

“So I said, ‘Harley, one way you can prove it to videotape the Weather Channel on the 4^th of July, then play it the 4^th of July next year’. If it’s a re-run you’ll know for sure, right?

“He looks at me like I gave him the best idea ever. He says, ‘Jackie, can I borrow your VCR?’”

Tom pointed at Harley with his chin, “Doc, how old is Harley? 25? 30?”

“He’s 27 according to his medical records. Why?”

One way to learn by doing

“Just wondering. Seems to me there’s three ways people learn. Some learn by reading like Doc Harris and Milo over at the craft shop. Some learn by watching. Rollie can’t read but you only have to show him how to do something one time, he won’t forget, guaranteed. Then you got Harley Carson. He’ll pee on an electric fence every time. I never could figure out how he made it this long. For Harley time is right now and only right now. ‘Bout the only time he thinks about tomorrow is in winter when it snows, like it scares him or something. Nearly shot him one time during a snowstorm.

“It was night, freezing cold. It snowed during the day, turned to sleet after dark, ice everywhere. I just got back from the Lazy Bones Motel. Some folks stuck in the snow outside a town, got ‘em to the motel for the night. Anyway, I went to my office, told the dispatcher I was headin’ to Jackie’s, call me if you need to. Jenna says ok, bring me some coffee when you come back, all I got is yesterday’s.

“So, I’m sitting here with my Jack Daniels double shot thinking about going home to my warm bed when Jenna calls. Trouble at the new take-out place on 6^th street, some kinda fight she says.

“I get to The Call Grill, there’s chairs and tables upside down, scattered all over, the workers bunched up in a corner, scared, and Harley, roaring drunk, next to the pizza oven, a chair leg in one hand.

“The manager says Harley came in drunk as hell, goes to the pizza oven and opens the door.  Just stands there facing the fire with his eyes closed. The manager tells him to get out, Harley says no, it’s cold.

450 degrees F

“So the manager, the cook, and dishwasher get together and try to run him out. Harley’s a big sumbitch. He’s also done a lotta fighting, wins this one easy. That’s when they called me.”

“Excuse me, Sheriff”, I said. “What’s Harley’s problem with snow?”

“Goes back to when Harley was 17 years old. He hurt a guy real bad and the judge looked at his record, said, ‘Harley Carson, you’re turning 18 next week. Now I’m giving you a choice. I can send you to the County lockup for 2 years or I can dismiss the charges if you join the Armed Forces. I took Harley to the Navy recruiting station in Lubbock, signed him up for a four year hitch. And just like that he was gone but not for long.

“The Navy didn’t put him out to sea. They sent him to a Navy base in Kodiak Island, Alaska. That’s where they have cold weather training for Navy Seals. Well, you know just from looking, Harley’s built like a walrus, not a Navy Seal. No, they had other plans. They tried to make him a cop in the Shore Patrol but that didn’t last long. They tried everything to make him useful but finally decided the only thing he was good for was guard duty, meaning he had to stand watch or patrol the Navy base.

“Anybody been in the service knows if you cause trouble, you’re gonna get the worst jobs. In Kodiak, the worst job for a guard is patrolling from midnight to 5:00 AM. no matter the weather, clear night, rain, snow.

Below Zero all night long

“I could be wrong but Kodiak probly means something in native Alaskan, something like ‘this weather really sucks’. I looked it up. A hot day in Kodiak happens in July, 55 degrees at high noon. Most of the year the temperatures near freezing or below.

“Harley’s Harley, so you can figure out for yourself, he got in trouble with his CO and wound up pulling patrol duty night after night. Most anybody would get the message but not Harley. The only thing he learned was being cold was something he’d never do again.

“Look at him now. He’s about as close to Jackie’s stove as he can without catching fire. Jackie knows about him and the Navy so she lets him be.”

“So what happened that you almost shot him at The Call Grill”, I asked.

He gave me a serious look, leaned in close and half-whispered, “Just so you know, I’ve never pulled my gun long as I been Sheriff except the one time I shot a man in Reno just to watch him die.”

Doc Harris, Les, and Mike chuckled; Jackie patted me on the shoulder. They’d heard this one before. I tried not to look embarrassed.

Warming up to his story Sheriff Tom said, “Well, it mighta come to shooting but I’ve known Harley since he was born. I seen him at his worst. I still can’t figure how he ain’t killed somebody yet. Just lucky, I think. A man like him it’s like God or Nature never took the training wheels off his brain. To make him think you gotta take it slow, wait for the pieces of the puzzle to make a picture in his mind.

“I set a chair upright about 10 feet away from ‘im and straddled it, relaxed. Harley’s got fire in his eyes. He thinks he can take me, not a thought about what happens after if he does.

“I say, ‘Harley, pretty cold out, huh?’

“He nods. I say, ‘just like in Kodiak?”’

“He nods again. I say, ‘Harley, you’re not in Kodiak now. You’re home. You got a warm bed waiting for you there. If I take you down, you’ll be warm in my drunk tank. Pick one or the other, you won’t be cold tonight, honest truth.

“I wait while he thinks it over, then he says, ‘Sheriff, you ain’t taking me nowhere’, and he’s tapping the chair leg on his thigh. He’s starting to breathe hard, winding up for what’s next.

“I stay quiet for a minute, then I say, ‘Harley, you been to Sunday school when you were a kid, right?’

“He hesitates, thinking back I guess, then he nods yes.

“Remember the story about David and Goliath? Little kid with a slingshot, takes down a giant, wins the day. Everybody’s happy except Goliath’s friends. Remember that?

“He smiles, remembering. Then the smile goes away, he takes a step towards me, swinging the chair leg slowly, time to go.

Sometimes you get lucky

“I stand up, put my hand on my holster, unsnap the buckle. I say, “Harley, that bible story is real nice but I’ll tell you what, in real life a trained giant with a sword kills the kid every time. That chair leg don’t stand a chance against my .45.

“He gives up, spends the night in my jail. The next day Judge Stevens gives him three days for D and D, makes him pay for the damage.”

Sheriff Tom drained the last of his bourbon, leaned back in his chair, looked my way and said, “Son, you buy the next round, I’ll tell you all about the man I shot in Reno.”

Les, tipped his drink dry and said, “Yeah, it’s a hell of a story. Johnny Cash wrote a song about it. It was all over the radio a while back.”

You better not cry, you better not shoot...

Every year Jackie’s Cold Day Inn has a special night a week before Christmas. Jackie called it “Good Lord, I can’t wait for Christmas to be here and gone.” She welcomes the townspeople to her bar to take a break from “getting ready for Christmas.” There aren't any big stores in Panhandle so they have to shop in Amarillo or Lubbock, the big malls, wall to wall people, nasty as hell, full parking lots, high prices, and non-stop Christmas carols as soon as you hit the city limits.

Too many people, not enough space

For the people of Panhandle shopping in the big stores is especially stressful. They're used to browsing slowly through Les’s General Store, Milo’s Hobbies & Crafts, or Laurie’s Gift Shop, taking their time to choose the perfect gifts. Getting pushed and shoved in overcrowded aisles at J.C. Penney and Sears in Amarillo so you didn’t have time to do anything except read the damn price tags made for high stress; and please stop with Frosty and Rudolph, for god’s sake. Everybody KNOWS Santa Claus is coming to town. Enough, already.

So on “Good Lord, I can’t wait” night the regulars and other townsfolk go to Jackie’s to unwind. Christmas songs are banned. If you say Merry Christmas you have to put a dollar in bowl on the bar, the collection going to the old folks home.

No one remembers exactly how “Good Lord, I can’t wait,” went from a night of complaining about Christmas to a night of old stories retold, new ones put up for examination and improvement for next year. The changeover was gradual. There were some who kinda liked to bitch about the holiday season out of habit. Old Pastor Michaels, a few drinks in, would bemoan about how Christmas had become a commercial event rather than a commemoration of the birth of his Savior. One year he even held rallies in front of some stores who mixed manger scenes with modern characters like Frosty the Snowman and Santa Claus. It was a sacrilege, he said, and called down the wrath of God on the shopkeepers. Eventually he conceded that the War on Christmas wasn’t a real thing so he gave up the histrionics, settling instead for sacramental Irish coffee at Jackie’s.

I’d been to four or five “Good Lord, I can’t wait” gatherings in the past. I always tried to arrange my sales route so that I could be in Panhandle that night. This time my boss believed me when, pinching my thumb and index fingers together, told him that I was this close to selling Jess Elliot on a new tractor. The truth was that in all the years I’d been visiting Elliot I’d never sold him anything at all. He kept a tight fist around his money and used his tools until there was absolutely no utility left in them. His ranch hands used to joke that the tires on his pickup were so thin you could see the air inside. I’d pitch Elliot again if he showed up at the bar.

True to his promise, Sheriff Tom saved me a chair at his corner table near the front door. Les, Doc Harris, and Doris, Doc’s receptionist, were already there. Mike and Gary from the Conoco station were at the next table laughing it up with their girlfriends, Debbie and Tanya, paralegals at the courthouse who preferred honest, straight talking guys to the lizard lawyers they fought off every day. A story went around for a while that one day when Debbie, all primped up in a sharp business suit, and Mike in his greasy coveralls were talking on the courthouse steps when an out of town lawyer came up, puffed up his chest and said, “Miss, is this man bothering you?” And Debbie says, “Not yet, but I’m hoping.” Then, just for grins, Mike put his finger on one nostril, turned his head sideways and blew out the other nostril.

I spotted Jim & Angel at the far end of the bar with two older women. It was unusual for them to be at Jackies. It wasn't their kind of place, not rowdy enough, no jukebox, no live band to get their blood up. Tom explained that Jim & Angel had taken their moms shopping in Lubbock for the day and brought them here for hot cocoa and cookies. I noticed Jim & Angel were drinking out of mugs, too. “You better take a picture. You won’t see that again,” said Doc Harris. “Those two might make it past middle age but I’m not making book on it.”

Tom said, “Oh, they ain’t so bad. They skate awful close to the line but they been that way since they were kids. Angel was 12 or 13 first time I pulled her in.”

Doc Harris stirred his drink with his finger. “I remember that. Not sure what lesson she learned but it wasn’t the one Tom intended.”

Tom continued, “Milo, Les, and Laurie at the gift shop told me they’d been hit by a shoplifter. Curious thing was the only thing stolen was angels, any kind, figurines, pictures, stuffed toys, and such. Then when that was picked clean, other animals started disappearing including flying pigs, cows, anything with wings. Shoplifting’s no surprise to any retailer, expects to lose some, cost uh doing business. But this was peculiar. Wasn’t any break in the case until I went to see my granddaughter at the school’s Christmas Pageant.”

Gesturing with his arm, looking over the crowd in the bar, he said, “A town this small, anything involving our kids is a big deal, sports, band, school plays, and decorating for Christmas. Well, we always have a Christmas program at school. It’s the same show every year. Sometimes the costumes are better, sometimes worse, but the story stays the same like it is in the Bible. So there I was sitting in the gym admiring the future of this city, listening to the chorus singing the same songs we all grew up with. The curtains pull back and there’s the kids in costume, Mary, Joseph, Jessie’s donkey, Tim’s calf, Baby Jesus doll in the crib, and one angel hovering over the scene, hanging off a rope, showing the shepherds and the Three Wise Men where the manger was. Everybody drew a breath at that angel. Seemed to me and probly everybody else right then and there that all angels were redheads in flowing white robes, light as air… and silver wings.

She looks like an angel

“Next morning I call Angel’s mom. I say take a peek in Angel’s bedroom and tell me what you see. She says, ‘K’ wait aminit.’ Comes back on the phone, she says, ‘Sheriff you better come on down here. I’ll make sure she doesn’t leave.’

“I don’t have to tell you what I found but I will anyway. Every surface in her room covered with angels and anything with wings – all the ones she stole, price tags still on. She had a little Christmas tree on her nightstand, angels hanging off every branch. Les and the others said just bring the stuff back and apologize and that was that, she’s just a kid.”

Doc Harris rubbed his eyes and said, “She and her sister, Gina, were always on the wild side. Never did anything really bad, like they just didn’t wanna be like everybody else. Go their own way in their own time. Later on, Angel met Jim, they been Jim & Angel, going their own way ever since.”

The bar was pretty full by nine o’clock. Ever so often there were loud cheers and choruses of “Put in a dollar, put in a dollar, dollar, dollar” whenever somebody violated the no “Merry Christmas” rule. The tip bowl was almost full. It took me a minute to understand that the goal was to fill it up and do some good for the old folks’ home.

Every time you say Merry Christmas an angel coughs up blood

The Sheriff motioned Jackie for another round of drinks and said he remembered a Christmas prank from years ago. “Never solved it. I had my suspicions but I couldn’t prove it. The DA called it pretty thin circumstantial evidence. Not enough.

“We were getting calls that somebody was shooting paint balls at the Christmas displays in folks’ front yards. At first it was random shots at houses then it got particular. Santa’s reindeer became targets. The first to get it was Rudolph. Clean kills, shot through the heart. Nothing got damaged, the paint balls were water color but attacking the Rudolph just weren’t right, making the little ones cry and all. I concluded that the shooter had to be a pretty good with firearms to make shots that accurate which meant that 95% of the men and women in the county  were suspects.

Just point and shoot

“The people of Panhandle take Christmas decorations seriously, a lotta peer pressure to fix your place up better n’ anybody else on the block. Competition gets silly sometimes but what the hell. I didn’t pay much mind to the paintball shootings. Holiday pranks are usually harmless.

“But this one got worse. The next attacks took out all the reindeer. Sometimes people stayed up all night hoping to catch the shooters. Nobody ever saw ‘em. All they knew was next morning on somebody’s lawn, Rudolph and his buddies were down, each one shot through the heart.”

Les rested his forearms on the table, leaned in a little, nodded towards the next table and said in a low voice, “Anybody meets Mike over there sees his coveralls, dirty fingernails and underestimates him right off. Even back in high school his teachers looked him over and steered him to the manual trades, sent him on to learn auto mechanics. Now, he’s a damn good mechanic. There’s not many engine problems he can’t fix but he’s a lot more than a motorhead.”

“Les is right,” the Sheriff added. “Understand that when the paint ball killings were going on I was busy with the white boys raising hell at Billy’s Last Stand and the Mexicans doing the same at Chato’s. Me and my deputy were busy every night. So one morning I bring my cruiser to Mike. I tell him change the oil, top off the other stuff. He sees the red paint on my shoes and says he’s been thinking about the paint ballers. I say, yeah, not paying much attention.

“He says, ‘Sheriff, I been thinking about those guys. They have a pattern and know what it is. I’m pretty sure I know where they’re gonna hit next.’

“So, maybe a little snarky, I tell ‘im, ‘Sure, Mike, gimme the time and place when you’re sure.’

“Two nights later I’m on patrol out by the train station, the dispatcher tells me there’s a problem at the Moore place, paint ballers but this time there’s gunfire. I turn on my siren, tell the dispatcher get my deputy, tell him meet me at Moore’s house ASAP.

“Dave’s Santa display is lifesize. Santa’s sleigh and reindeer go all the way across the front yard. From a distance they look like the real thing. Easy target I’m thinking. But gunfire? I’m hoping nobody’s injured or killed.

"The deputy and me get to Moore’s at the same time, sirens going, lights flashing. There’s people peeking out their windows, too scared to come out. I see the reindeer still standing, no paint splatters, look over on the porch and there’s Mr. Moore giving Santa a beer, laughing. Mrs. Moore laughing too, doubled over, holding her sides.

“Me and the deputy run up and say what’s going on. It’s Mike in a Santa suit.

“He says, ‘I told you, Sheriff. I figured out the pattern. Mr. Moore believed me and we set it up so I would sit in the sleigh and wait for the paint ballers, surprise ‘em when they showed up. I musta sat two hours in the sleigh, so still my legs were cramping. Plus I had to pee real bad. Anyways, I held on and they come creeping up in my line of sight. There’s two shooters, one bigger than the other. And I wait till they get close. They take aim at Rudolph but I pull up my shotgun, yell ‘ho, ho, ho, suckers’ and shoot over their heads.

“’Tell you what, my triple-aught 12 gauge makes some powerful noise when you shoot both barrels at once, specially here in the city. Those two kids, yeah, they were kids I could tell, probly and boy and a girl, couldn’t bail fast enough, they stumbled, tumbled, and really took off when I racked my shotgun and shot two more blanks at ‘em.’”

Guess who's on the naughty list

“Well, after that, the paint ball shootings stopped but I never found out who the shooters were.”

I saw Jim & Angel empty their mugs, get up and walk arm in arm towards the door, their moms in the lead. As they passed by our table Les called out, “Jim, calling it a night already?”

Jim stopped, tipped his hat, “Nah, we’re taking our moms on a tour of the Christmas displays. They’re bigger ‘n ever this year. I heard Dave Moore’s got new reindeer. Gonna have a look.”