Crystal Meth Cowboys by John Knoerle

Author:John Knoerle
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 9780974319902
Publisher: Blue Steel Press

Chapter 13

"Ol' CJ he got some splainin' to do," said Officer Bell. Wes braced his feet and grabbed the duct-taped arm rest as the Firebird fishtailed around a corner and headed uphill. It was 2:28 PM on Thursday, their day off.

The houses grew larger the higher they climbed. Bell sharked another hard right when they reached the uppermost street that marked the steep ascent of the mountains. They passed a three-story Colonial braced against the downslope, a Mexican gardener herding dead leaves down the driveway with a motorized blower. He watched the Firebird rocket by. The neighboring home was ranch-style, commanding the ridge and a 270 degree view of the Wislow Valley. The hedges along the curb were perfect.

"The Prince of Darkness lives there," said Bell, giving the house a one-fingered salute. "You'll notice it's above the stack." The Firebird shot through an intersection and smoked a left into Foster Park, a rolling expanse of green at the base of the mountains. Converted from a WWII Air Force spotting station, the park preserved for the public a glimpse of the Olympian vistas commanded by the rich. Bell slowed for a speed bump. The Firebird purred through the parking lot with its tail in the air. Bell swung around and parked between the white lines, nose out.

Bell and Lyedecker trudged up the green grass to a picnic table sheltered by a willow tree. A tall acnescarred man sat waiting.

When Bell and Lyedecker had arrived at the hospital the previous day they discovered that Esteban Rodriguez, supposedly too weak to require a police guard, had coldcocked a hospital orderly and escaped in the man's scrubs. They went to the jail in hopes of interrogating Ramon, the drug dealer from Cherrywood Lane. The jailer told them Ramon was on a suicide watch and off limits, though he did allow them to observe Ramon pacing the cell in his jockey shorts. He had attempted to hang himself with his pants. This prompted Bell to call CJ's beeper and arrange a meet.

"CJ," said Bell.

"To-mas," said the narc in a smoky late-night DJ kind of voice.

"Thanks for showing, man."

CJ shrugged. Wes thought he looked sad, sitting in the middle of an empty picnic table, his bony shoulders slumping inside his beat-up bomber jacket. He looked at Wes. Wes nodded.

Bell plunked himself down beside CJ and gave him a one-armed hug. "Is this gonna make my butt hurt?" asked CJ.

Bell's left hand strayed under CJ's brown leather collar, ruffling the split ends of CJ's long, thin hair that glinted, where the sun caught it, metallic orange. "Only if you don't relax," grinned Bell.

A chainsaw rent the air with a spurt of gas-powered fury. They swiveled to see a city tree-trimming crew preparing to attack an overgrown cottonwood on the far side of the park. The sound waves lengthened as the blade bit wood.

Bell said, "Estebang beats feet, Ramon tries to off himself. What the fuck is goin' on?"

CJ slipped his hands into their opposing sleeves so that it looked like he was wearing a straight jacket.

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