Badlands by C.J. Box

Author:C.J. Box [Box, C. J.]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: St. Martin's Press
Published: 2015-07-27T16:00:00+00:00

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

AT THE same time, on the darkened porch of a dilapidated farmhouse just outside the city limits of Grimstad, Willie Dietrich burst out the door and shoved the muzzle of a pistol deep into the mouth of the man who’d knocked to come in.

As the man struggled and gagged, Dietrich said, “Well look who’s here. It’s the Winkster.”

“You said to come by,” Winkie tried to say. But it came out as a series of squeaks and grunts. Dietrich stepped back and withdrew the gun and dried the barrel on his jeans. Winkie spat the taste out. His spittle froze instantly between his boots on the concrete stoop.

“Yeah,” Dietrich said, as if forgetting was no fault of his own. “You know there’s no product now, right? You know that.”

“Of course, man. Jesus, that gun hurt. You mighta broke my tooth, man.”

Blink.

“You’re fine, asshat.” Dietrich laughed huskily.

He was big, blond, and manic. Winkie could never be sure if Dietrich acted crazy because he was high or because he was naturally crazy or because he wanted everyone to think he was crazy. Dietrich had been so violent as a middle linebacker on the high school football team that opposing coaches boycotted playing the Grimstad Vikings. It had been quite the controversy when Winkie was a junior. Not that Winkie ever played football, but Friday nights were party time during and after games and the boycott ruined the month of October that year.

Despite hard living and a couple of stints in jail, Dietrich still had the intimidating physique of the middle linebacker he’d once been, Winkie thought. Broad shoulders, slablike pecs, and six-pack abs all on display because Dietrich wore only a tight wifebeater, jeans, and no shoes or socks.

“Fuckin’ cold, man,” Dietrich said, as if accusing Winkie of the weather. He hopped from one bare foot to the other like the concrete was hot instead of cold.

“Twenty-three below, man. I seen it on the bank sign in town.”

He paused, then asked, “Can we go inside?”

“No, dude, let’s stand out here on the porch all night.”

Blink.

“Come in, Winkie. But like I told you, there’s no product and I ain’t selling you any of my private stash so don’t even fuckin’ ask.”

“I won’t.”

“Don’t, douche.”

“I won’t.”

* * *

THE SHABBY front room was overheated from a glowing woodstove in the corner of it. There was a large pile of split hardwood stacked up next to it, and the floor was littered with bits of bark. It was a cheap stove, Winkie thought, because the top was glowing red and he could glimpse yellow flames through cracks on the side. Winkie shed his coat while he stood in the entryway but Dietrich didn’t indicate where he should hang it. The room was dim and lit with a dozen or so candles for effect, Winkie guessed, because there were a few unlit lamps in the dark corners.

ESPN was on the big-screen TV but the sound was muted. “SportsCenter.”

Two women—a blonde and a tall black beauty—were in the kitchen down the hallway.

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