Society Rules (17 page)

Despite
their
personality
differences,
the
two
worked
together
flawlessly,
each
playing
their
role
perfectly.

Baker
always
took
the
lead
initially,
getting
things
rolling
in
the
traditional
“bad
cop,
much
worse
cop”
way
that
they
operated.

He
rapped
out
a
friendly
sounding
series
of
quick
knocks
on
the
peeling
wooden
door
as
Will
took
his
place
several
steps
back.

Richard
McKinney,
sporting
a
bad
haircut
and
a
cocaine
ring
around
his
nose,
answered
the
door
with
the
suspicious
manner
of
someone
who
wasn’t
comfortable
with
well-dressed
visitors
showing
up
unannounced
on
a
weekday
morning. He
opened
the
door
a
scant
inch
and
a
half
without
a
word;
a
surly,
inquisitive
look
on
his
face.

“Richard
McKinney?”
Baker
asked
pleasantly.
The
man’s
eyes
narrowed.

“He’s
not
in
right
now.
Sorry.”

Without
further
comment,
he
began
to
shut
the
door.
With
the
flat
of
his
palm,
Baker
caught
the
door
and
pressed
it
open
fairly
easily,
much
to
the
dismay
of
the
subject,
and
strolled
in
like
he
owned
the
place.

He
wrinkled
his
nose
at
the
scent
of
litter
box,
as
he
pushed
his
way
past
the
now
sputtering
man.

“What
 . . .
what
in
the
hell
do
you
think
you’re
doing?”
Mr.
McKinney
asked
with
a
mixture
of
fear
and
anger
very
obvious
in
both
his
voice
and
expression.

“Nice
place
you’ve
got
here,
Dick.
You
don’t
mind
if
I
call
you
Dick,
do
you?” Baker
grit
his
teeth,
and
then
forced
himself
to
sit
in
a
casual
sprawl
on
the
man’s
newspaper
and
crumb-strewn
couch.

The
subject
stared
at
him,
outraged
now.

“Hey,
I
don’t
know
who
the
hell
you
are,
but
get
the
fuck
out
of
my
house!” He
leaped
comically
in
the
air
as
Will
appeared
at
his
back
silently. “You
too!
Get
out
of
my
house!”

Baker
picked
up
a
cup
from
the
coffee
table
and
sniffed
it
cautiously. “A
little
early
to
be
hitting
the
Jack,
don’t
you
think,
Dick?
You
ARE
Richard
McKinney,
aren’t
you?”

“I
told
you,
he’s
not
here.
And
I’m
calling
the
cops!”

Baker
shrugged,
and
picked
up
a
newspaper,
seeming
to
scan
the
headlines
disinterestedly. The
man
looked
helplessly
now
at
Will,
who
stood
in
menacing
silence
next
to
the
front
door
after
closing
it
with
an
ominous
click.

“I
mean
it.
I
am
calling
the
cops
now
 . . . .”

The
man
stalked
over
to
the
end
table
and
snatched
up
his
cordless
and
dialed.

Nothing
happened.

He
pressed
the
buttons
with
frantic
frustration,
trying
unsuccessfully
to
get
a
dial
tone.
With
an
accusing
look
at
Baker,
he
grabbed
his
cell
phone
off
the
couch,
and
paused
as
he
looked
at
the
small
screen
in
confusion,
the
“no
service”
words
displayed
plainly.