Privileged to Kill Read Free Page A

said.
    Holman leaned forward quickly and dropped his voice to a husky whisper. “And that’s another hobby you should take up, Bill. Chasing women. Think of what that could do to spice up your life.”
    “Make it very short, probably,” I said. I was about to add something else when Shari Chino arrived laden with chips, salsa, water…and Wesley Crocker walking escort at her elbow.
    She set things down and sidestepped Crocker with a nervous glance. Maybe in the short time he’d been in the restaurant, she’d seen all of him that she wanted to see.
    Crocker beamed at her and reached out to touch her on the elbow as she disappeared around the partition. He turned the smile on us and surprised me by revealing a well-kept set of false teeth. Earlier on Highway 17, the teeth must have been riding in his coat pocket. Then he extended his hand to me. His grip was hearty but no knuckle duster, and his hand was a hell of a lot warmer than it had been a couple of hours before.
    “Gentlemen,” Crocker said. “Good to see you again, sir.” Holman was looking askance, his eyes taking in Crocker’s road-worn coveralls, scuffed boots, and knit scarf. Crocker held his cap in both hands, and I saw that his hair was cut about an inch long uniformly around his skull, like the burdock cut I used to inflict on my two sons when they were little squirts.
    “Your choice of restaurants was superb, sir. Just superb. And such a nice young lady running the place, too.”
    “I’m glad you enjoyed it. The cigarette machine is by the cash register.”
    He grinned and I knew he’d found it long before he’d sampled the food. “Thank you, sir.”
    “By the way, this is Sheriff Martin Holman.” The good sheriff did his best not to look stricken, and Wesley Crocker shot his hand across the table to pump Holman’s.
    “Wesley Crocker,” the traveler said. “I saw one of your campaign signs west of town. Yes, I did. Best of luck to you.”
    “Thanks,” Holman said lamely. He didn’t dig for a business card.
    Crocker held up a hand. “I’ll leave you two to enjoy your dinner. I just wanted to say thank you again.”
    I nodded and Crocker disappeared around the partition.
    “Who the hell was that?” Holman asked.
    “He belongs to the bike outside,” I said. “I picked him up earlier this afternoon a few miles west of town. We put the bike in the trunk and I gave him a lift. It’s tough pushing a flat tire.”
    “You didn’t tell me that.”
    “I just did.”
    “I mean outside,” Holman said impatiently. “You didn’t say anything about that.” When I didn’t respond, Holman added, “So where’s he headed? Who the hell is he, anyway?”
    “I don’t know.”
    “You didn’t ask him?”
    “No.”
    Holman looked puzzled, then irritated. “You are so damn close-mouthed sometimes, Bill. It drives me nuts.”
    I leaned back and wiped my lips, savoring the heat of the salsa. “I suppose he’s just passing through. When I offered him a lift, I didn’t see that it was any of my business where he was going. He wasn’t breaking the law, except maybe by walking on the wrong side of the highway.”
    “Watch. He’s probably got eighty pounds of uncut heroin in those saddlebags of his.” Holman snatched a chip and started to scoop it into the salsa, then thought better of it. He crunched it dry.
    I chuckled. “Wouldn’t that be something.”
    “Where’s he spending the night?”
    “Martin, get a grip. I don’t know. I didn’t interrogate him.” Shari returned and we ordered, Martin Holman predictable as always by ordering fried chicken so he didn’t have to face green chili. I held up a hand as Shari was turning to go. “Did the gentleman who was just here leave his ticket?”
    “Yes, sir. Do you want me to just add it to your total here?”
    “That’s fine.”
    “He bought some cigarettes, too.”
    “That’s fine. Just total the whole thing.”
    She left and Holman leaned forward, his voice a hoarse whisper.