The Great Jackalope Stampede (6 page)

Ronnie swirled her gin and tonic, her stomach roiling. She needed an escape plan. Something logical and rational. Something that didn’t involve fire, a puff of smoke, or a panic-filled scramble out of The Shaft. Some way to sneak out of the bar without the two beady-eyed goons in the brand-spanking new cowboy hats noticing she had high-tailed it into the dark desert before they could grab their guns and give chase. Not that she’d seen any guns on them, but they sure looked the type a mob boss would hire, all pale-faced and slick.

She scanned the bar. Plastic plants swayed in the breeze from the overhead fans, a 1970s looking jukebox lit up the semi-darkness, video games sported plastic rifles to practice killing Bambi and his buddies. The musky smell of sweat filled the warm, humid air, mixed with different notes of cheap cologne and bargain-bin perfume. Butch’s multiple no-smoking signs posted throughout the bar undoubtedly saved her from a lungful of smoke on top of it. Behind the bar, a cue-ball wearing glasses with lenses thick enough to view the Horseshoe Nebula tugged on the tap.

Butch, the owner of the place—aka her youngest sister’s current heartthrob, was out of town at the moment according to Katie, who had just joined her at the table. A bit pasty-looking with pink blotches on her cheeks and watery eyes, Katie looked like she’d been paying homage to the porcelain god recently. She claimed to be feeling fine, but Ronnie saw the tension lining her lips and fanning from the corners of her eyes. Something was up with her little sister, but she would dig into that later. Right now, goons were waiting to pounce.

She took a rough count of the other patrons, coming up with fifteen women and about twice as many men, including the goons. More men were pouring in as she sat nursing her drink, savoring the hint of lemon along with the sharp bite of gin while contemplating her potential escape options. Maybe there was a window in the women’s restroom she could squeeze through, or a back door out of the kitchen. Katie would know.

“Katie, if I needed to—”

“What is she doing?” Katie asked, half-standing up from her chair across the table, her forehead all crinkled like when she’d caught Claire giving their dog a reverse Mohawk.

Ronnie followed her sister’s line of sight.
Oh, shit!
What was Claire doing over by the two goons? She was going to get herself hurt if not killed. Those two hadn’t been admiring Ronnie’s fake Tiffany earrings for the past hour. She’d bet her last two hundred-dollar bills they had been sent by whomever Lyle had stolen from before he was busted by the Feds. Sent for what, she didn’t know and shuddered at the idea of finding out.

As she watched, Claire snatched the black hat off one, flipped it over, and pointed at something inside of it before throwing it back at him. The hat bounced off his chest and dropped to the floor. His whole face pinched up, like somebody had wound it too tight.

“Oh, he didn’t like that one bit.” Katie rose fully to her feet. “I’m going over there before she gets herself into another fight.”

Before Ronnie could catch her arm, Katie was gone, zig-zagging between tables on her way over to where Claire now stood on her tiptoes, nose-to-nose with the scrunch-faced goon.

Ronnie stood there, frozen in dilemma. Her instincts told her to use this distraction Claire had created to escape, but she hesitated. Claire didn’t understand who she was up against here. These men were hired to break bones and crack skulls, not play patty cake with nosy sisters.

Katie made it to Claire’s side at the same time the second goon slid between the two contenders, stiff-arming both. Ronnie took a step toward them, her fists clenched so tight her fingernails bit into her palms. Tugging Claire back by the T-shirt, Katie joined the goon who was playing monkey in the middle; her head bowed slightly, her body language all apology as she shoved Claire in Ronnie’s direction.

Claire reached around Katie, blasting the dark haired goon with a middle finger salute. “Next time take a picture, asshole!” Ronnie heard her yell over Glen Campbell starting in on the jukebox about being a lineman for the county.

The goon strained in his friend’s hold, his face rippling in fury. Ronnie grinned in spite of the whole mess. Claire had a real knack for pissing people off. A true gift. Just ask their mother.

Her escape window was closing. Ronnie made a break for it. She glanced back as she reached the door, making sure nobody had noticed her flight. All focus was still on Claire, who was threatening something with her fist raised while struggling to pull free of Katie’s hold on her arm.

Ronnie shoved open the door and raced out into the cool night air, slamming into a wall of shirt. “Oof!”

Hands grabbed her by the shoulders, peeling her from the chest she’d face-planted into. A row of buttons and a metal star came into focus.

“Hello, Mrs. Jefferson.” Sheriff Hardass frowned all the way down at her from under the curled brim of his hat.

Ronnie had forgotten how tall he was. His mama had done well corn-feeding him. She should have entered him into the county fair. He’d have been a sure-fire blue ribbon winner.

“I had a feeling I’d find you inside,” he added in that deep, deep voice of his.

The Sheriff of Cholla County was having feelings about her? That didn’t bode well. Neither did the grip he still had on her shoulders, as if he didn’t want to let go in case she decided to make a run for it.

“You did? Why?” Was he in cahoots with the two goons inside? A crooked lawman down in these parts wouldn’t make her blink twice. Jackrabbit Junction might be a tiny town, but it wasn’t Mayberry. For one thing, there were too many dirty old men in town … and too many secrets, according to Claire.

Ronnie matched the Sheriff’s squint. Was he waiting for his buddies to come out so they could throw her in the back of a van and drag her off to torture her for information on where her piece of shit not-husband had hidden some skimmed money?

He nudged his head in the direction of Ruby’s pickup, sitting under an orange-tinted street light next to the road, looking like a tired old dog. “I saw Ruby’s Ford.”

She stepped back, slipping out of his grip and away from his sweet and spicy scent. “Well, Sheriff, it looks like your feelings were dead on.”

“They usually are.”

“Great. Bully for you. Now, if you don’t mind, I’m just going to be on my way.” She continued back stepping toward the safety of the truck.

“Actually, I do mind.” His comment stopped her short.

“You do?” She spoke just above a whisper. She couldn’t help it, what with her heart clinging to her uvula for dear life.

He crossed his arms over his chest, his legs taking that wide authoritative stance he probably practiced every morning in front of the locker room mirror down at headquarters. “You and I need to have a little talk.”

A semi-truck roared past, giving Ronnie a moment to get a hold of her voice and force it to obey.

“About what?” She cleared her throat, buying more time. “If this is regarding what I said about your niece’s promiscuity, I apologize. You know, at her age she’s probably just exploring her options.” Exactly how old was his niece anyway?

His chin jutted. “You’re illegally parked next to a fire hydrant.”

She stared at him for a couple of seconds, trying to make sense of his words. Then the bubble of fear that had been lodged in her esophagus for the last half-hour popped and a burst of laughter exploded from her chest, echoing across the parking lot.

“You find breaking the law here in Arizona funny, Mrs. Jefferson? Because I don’t.”

“No, not at all. I was just thinking—” The bar’s door creaked open. She glanced back and locked eyes with the dark-hatted goon from inside. His friend followed on his boot heels. Breath held, she watched as they tipped their hats at Sheriff Hardass and moseyed on out into the parking lot.

“You were thinking what, Mrs. Jefferson? Enlighten me.” The Sheriff didn’t seem to take any extra notice of the two men.

“Umm, I was thinking you were …” The goons had made it to their car, which was a late model black sedan with tinted windows. Sheesh, couldn’t they at least try to be original? Instead of opening the doors and climbing inside, they leaned against the side of the car. The one in the brown hat fished out a pack of cigarettes, the match flaring in the night.

“Thinking I was what?” the Sheriff pressed.

Damn it, those two were going to wait the Sheriff out. Wait until she was all alone and then stash her in their back seat and take her out to their shanty in the boonies and torture her. Or something worse. The dueling banjos from
Deliverance
played a riff in her head.

Sheriff Hardass nudged his hat brim toward her two hit men. “Those boys friends of yours?”

“No.” Were they friends of his? It appeared not.

He watched her, his lips flat-lined. “All right, then finish your sentence.”

An idea hit her. A way to keep from ending up tied to a chair tonight with a gun in her face. “I was thinking that you need to arrest me, Sheriff.”

She needed him. Well, needed his protection anyway, until she could shake these two goons. Being arrested solved that problem. She’d worry about how to lie her way out of this with her family later.

“For parking illegally?” He shook his head slowly. “I don’t know how things work back in South Dakota, but down here in the desert illegal parking scores you a ticket, not jail time.”

“Yes, but this is my second offense in as many days.” She held out her wrists. “You should slap your cuffs on me and take me in.”

Sheriff Hardass pushed his hat back on his head, scratching his forehead. “Take you in? I’m not even heading back to Yuccaville tonight.”

“Where are you heading?”

“That’s none of your business.”

“Well, it’s obviously not a date.” She tapped her fingernail on his Sheriff’s star. “Unless your girlfriend likes it when you role play.”

He stared hard at her, his chiseled face completely still in the orange-tinged light, shadowed in the crags and crevices. “Have you been drinking, Mrs. Jefferson?”

“You used that line on me last time. You need to come up with some new ones. And my name is not
Mrs. Jefferson
.” The less that name was spoken the better, especially in front of the two goons who stood watching them—one smoking, the other leaning. She grabbed the Sheriff by the arm, tugging him toward his white, four-door patrol truck with the obnoxious grill.

He didn’t budge. “What are you doing, Mrs. Jef—”

“Call me Veronica, please.” She pulled again, this time getting his feet to crunch across the gravel after hers.

“Fine. What are you doing,
Veronica
?”

That was better. When she reached his truck, she let go of his arm and hauled open the passenger side door. “I’m arresting myself for multiple infractions.”

“Did you hit your head recently, woman?”

“No.” She climbed up into the truck, settling herself into the passenger seat. “Let’s go, Sheriff. Take me in and throw away the key.”

He filled the door frame, his face a mask of shadows. “What’s really going on here?”

“It’s simple. I broke the law. You’re going to punish me for it.”

His shoulders stiffened. “Get out of my vehicle, Mrs. Jefferson.”

She pushed her feet into the floorboards, digging in the heels of her sandals. “It’s
Veronica
, Sheriff, or
Ronnie
if that is easier for you to remember, and you owe it to your community to lock me up tonight. I could be dangerous.”

“Dangerous?” He guffawed. “More like off your meds.”

“Exactly. A night in jail would probably do me good.” And keep her safe. “You should teach me a lesson while we’re at it.”

“What in the he—heck is wrong with you?” He reached for her arm but she pulled away before he caught her. “Lady, get out of my pickup.”

“No.”

“I’m not joking.” He reached again.

She dodged. “Neither am I. Arrest me, damn it. It’s your job.”

“I’m not going to arrest you for illegal parking.”

Shit. Why was he making this so hard? Maybe she should just tell him about the two goons. No, he’d think she was even more nuts, paranoid even.

Another brilliant idea hit her. “Fine, if you aren’t going to haul me in for my illegal parking, you need to take me home.”

“Take you home?”

“Yes. I’ve been drinking.” When he continued to stare in at her without moving, she added, “A lot. Way too much.”

“You’re not slurring your words.”

She thought fast. “I studied linguistics in college.” Okay, maybe that was too fast.

“Studied linguistics, huh? That’s a new one.” He fumbled with a snap on his belt and then shined a flashlight in her face, making her wince and shield her eyes. “You don’t look drunk.”

“I’ve built up a tolerance for alcohol and hold my liquor well, but I’m sure I’m over the legal limit.”

He lowered the light, leaning into the cab sniffing. “You don’t smell like you’re drunk.”

When he started to pull away, she grabbed him by the shirt front and yanked him back. “I do, too.” She opened her mouth wide and breathed all over his face. “See?”

He recoiled, overacting in her opinion.

“Gin and tonic,” she told him. “Now is it or is it not your duty as an officer of the law to transport someone who has had too much liquor and has no way of getting home safely?”

“I wouldn’t say it’s my ‘duty.’”

“Quit splitting hairs. It’s a service you are supposed to offer.”

“You’ve been watching too much television. I’m not a taxi driver.”

“Of course not. You’re an elected civil servant who is paid by taxpayer money. Therefore, I believe that makes me your boss, and as your boss, I’m asking you nicely to drive me home.”

He stared at her for a handful of heartbeats. Ronnie could have sworn she heard his back molars grinding away.

“You came here alone?” he asked.

“Not entirely, but she’s busy right now.”

Sheriff Hardass looked up at the sky and cursed under his breath; then he took on that authoritative stance again, hands holding onto his belt. “Veronica Jefferson, would you please remove your person from my vehicle before I …” he hesitated.