Mission Flats Read Free Page B

in protective custody before you kill someone while you’re taking potshots at streetlights.’
    ‘I didn’t hit none.’
    ‘Well, Maurice, that doesn’t exactly make me feel better about it. See, if you hit what you were aiming at . . .’
    He gave me a blank expression.
    ‘Look, the point is, you can’t shoot at them. They’re town property. Besides, what if you hit a car?’
    ‘I never shot no cars.’
    These conversations with Maurice only go so far, and this one had about run its course. It wasn’t completely clear whether Maurice was just slow or a little crazy. Either way, he’d earned some leeway. He’d survived a maelstrom of emotions no outsider could fathom, and he had the scars to prove it.
    He looked up at me. In the moonlight, with his right side in darkness, his face was restored nearly to normal. It was the sort of lean, dark-eyed face common around here. The face of a voyageur or a timberman in an old sepia photo.
    ‘You hungry, Maurice?’
    ‘Little.’
    ‘Did you eat?’
    ‘Et yesterd’y’
    ‘Want to go to the Owl?’
    ‘Thought you were PC’ing me.’
    ‘I am.’
    ‘Do I get my gun back?’
    ‘Nope. I’m going to have it forfeited before you shoot somebody. Like me.’
    ‘Chief Truman, I ain’t gonna shoot you.’
    ‘Well, I appreciate that. But I’m going to keep it just the same because – and this is no disrespect, Maurice – you’re not the greatest shot that ever was.’
    ‘The judge’ll make you give it back. I got my F.I.D.’
    ‘What, are you a lawyer now?’
    Maurice made his little laugh, like a moan. ‘Ayuh, guess so.’
    There were a few people at the Owl, all sitting at the bar, all drinking Bud long-necks, staring up at a hockey game on the TV. Phil Lamphier, who owned the place and in the off-season was the only bartender, was leaning on his elbows at the end of the bar, reading a newspaper. The little countertop was L-shaped, and Maurice and I slid onto stools on the short side, facing the others.
    A murmur of ‘Hey, Ben’ came from the group, though Diane Harned waited a moment before greeting me as ‘Chief Truman.’ She shot me a little smirk, then returned her attention to the TV. Diane had been good-looking once, but the color had drained out of her. Her blond hair had faded from yellow to straw. Raccoon shadows had formed under her eyes. Still, she carried herself with a pretty girl’s arrogance, and there’s something to be said for that. Anyway, we’d had a few dates, Diane and I, and a few reunions after that. We had an understanding.
    Maurice ordered a Jim Beam, which I immediately canceled. ‘We’ll have two Cokes,’ I told Phil, who made a face.
    Jimmy Lownes asked, ‘You got Al Capone here under arrest?’
    ‘Nope. Heat’s out at Maurice’s house so he’s going to stay over at the station tonight till we get it turned on again. We just figured we’d get something to eat first.’
    Diane gave me a skeptical look but said nothing.
    ‘My taxes paying for that dinner?’ Jimmy teased.
    ‘No, I’m treating.’
    Bob Burke said, ‘Well, that’s taxes, Ben. Taxes is what pays your salary, technically’
    ‘Yours too,’ Diane shot back. ‘Technically’
    Burke, who worked for the town doing maintenance in the public buildings, was sheepish. Still, I did not need Diane to defend me.
    ‘It doesn’t take a lot of taxes to pay my salary,’ I said. ‘Besides, as soon as they find a new chief, I’ll be off the dole. Get my ass out of this jerkwater place finally.’
    Diane snorted. ‘And go where?’
    ‘I’ve been thinking maybe I’ll go do some traveling.’
    ‘Well, listen to you. Just where do you think you’re gonna go?’
    ‘Prague.’
    ‘Prague.’ She said the word as if she were trying it out for the first time. ‘I don’t even know what that is.’
    ‘It’s in Czechoslovakia.’
    Diane sniffed again, disdainful.
    Bobby Burke cut in, ‘It’s the Czech Republic now. That’s what they called it on the