are.” She takes the towel back. “So what’ll it be, officer? I could fix you up something nice. Welcome you to town.”
“Sugar water with a cute name?”
“Maybe I'll surprise you.”
“I'm struggling to imagine that.” He squints at her. “You're Bill Thompson's daughter, aren't you? Even under all that makeup I can see it in the eyes.”
She looks at her nails with sudden disinterest. “There's only two ways I know of to get a job, and the second one's to be someone's daughter. You want to know the first?”
“I think I got it. Just get me a bourbon neat before your father catches you talking like that.”
She straightens up. “Huh. I didn't peg you for a whiskey guy.”
“I'm a lot things.” He spins to face the bar and she slithers off to pour his drink. As an officer he's learned not to keep his back turned on a room, especially where drinkings involved.
For the better part of an hour he watches the bar and nurses his bourbon, when what he really wants is to throw it back so he can order the second. He watches Ned Seymour and Patrick Will play pool badly and make worse excuses. He counts the mounted antlers on the walls, eleven including the one with the dusty bra hanging from one side for reasons no one remembers. He listens to the hunters talk about the fishing derby and how nothing's biting and how it's because all the tourists are scaring the fish away with their campers and their kids with their bright orange arm floats, even though those folks packed up and went home months ago.
As he's sucking the last bit of whiskey out of an ice-cube, Officer Banks walks through the door.
Drew Banks is big, easily a head taller than Butcher, and the kind of guy who won't let Butcher forget it. His leathery mug, handsome from one angle and off-putting from another, is carpeted with a day's growth, a beard which over the years has moved from deep black to a gray that matches the top of his head. He takes a minute to bullshit with Ned and Patrick before he bothers to head over to Butcher.
Pointing to the glass in Butcher's hand, he says, "Sucking them back, I see."
"You said nine. It's ten."
"It's nine forty-five, don't go exaggerating." He removes his leather jacket and throws it over the next stool. "Anyway I said nine-thirty."
"Whatever you say, Banks."
The large man snaps his fingers to get Katie's attention. She rolls her eyes and comes over, making sure not to lean in too close in case he gets any ideas. "Well hello, girl," he baritones, "I must say, you're looking more of-age every day."
"Doesn't make a difference to you, right Officer Banks?" She puts extra stress on the officer bit.
"Well sure it does. I'm concerned for your safety, and it makes me happy to see how big and strong you're getting, especially in the legs. You look like you could run all night on those things."
She laughs. "You really are a creep, Banks."
"I know it. Get me a beer, will you."
"Don't have much choice, do I?"
"That's a good girl." He ignores Butcher until he has the beer in his hand, chewing on his tongue like a bothered cow. The moment he takes a swig on the wet bottle he turns as if suddenly remembering the other man. "So, Franklin," he says in a mocking tone, "how do you like Shallow Creek so far?"
"Knock it off.”
“What's that supposed to mean?”
“You didn't ask me here to make small talk."
"Can't an officer engage a brother officer in a bit of healthy conversation?"
"Some guys can. Not you."
Banks takes another chug from his beer. A drop spills, running down his gray stubble and onto on his jeans. "If you're so smart, you probably know what I'm about to say.”
"My best guess is the Sheriff wants you to babysit me, and you wanted to tell me before my weekend off."
"Why's that?"
"You think I'll sleep on it, that way come Monday I won't fight so much when he tells me. But if you have half the smarts I give you credit for, by now you've figured out I don't work that way."
"Yeah, I'm starting
“Sugar water with a cute name?”
“Maybe I'll surprise you.”
“I'm struggling to imagine that.” He squints at her. “You're Bill Thompson's daughter, aren't you? Even under all that makeup I can see it in the eyes.”
She looks at her nails with sudden disinterest. “There's only two ways I know of to get a job, and the second one's to be someone's daughter. You want to know the first?”
“I think I got it. Just get me a bourbon neat before your father catches you talking like that.”
She straightens up. “Huh. I didn't peg you for a whiskey guy.”
“I'm a lot things.” He spins to face the bar and she slithers off to pour his drink. As an officer he's learned not to keep his back turned on a room, especially where drinkings involved.
For the better part of an hour he watches the bar and nurses his bourbon, when what he really wants is to throw it back so he can order the second. He watches Ned Seymour and Patrick Will play pool badly and make worse excuses. He counts the mounted antlers on the walls, eleven including the one with the dusty bra hanging from one side for reasons no one remembers. He listens to the hunters talk about the fishing derby and how nothing's biting and how it's because all the tourists are scaring the fish away with their campers and their kids with their bright orange arm floats, even though those folks packed up and went home months ago.
As he's sucking the last bit of whiskey out of an ice-cube, Officer Banks walks through the door.
Drew Banks is big, easily a head taller than Butcher, and the kind of guy who won't let Butcher forget it. His leathery mug, handsome from one angle and off-putting from another, is carpeted with a day's growth, a beard which over the years has moved from deep black to a gray that matches the top of his head. He takes a minute to bullshit with Ned and Patrick before he bothers to head over to Butcher.
Pointing to the glass in Butcher's hand, he says, "Sucking them back, I see."
"You said nine. It's ten."
"It's nine forty-five, don't go exaggerating." He removes his leather jacket and throws it over the next stool. "Anyway I said nine-thirty."
"Whatever you say, Banks."
The large man snaps his fingers to get Katie's attention. She rolls her eyes and comes over, making sure not to lean in too close in case he gets any ideas. "Well hello, girl," he baritones, "I must say, you're looking more of-age every day."
"Doesn't make a difference to you, right Officer Banks?" She puts extra stress on the officer bit.
"Well sure it does. I'm concerned for your safety, and it makes me happy to see how big and strong you're getting, especially in the legs. You look like you could run all night on those things."
She laughs. "You really are a creep, Banks."
"I know it. Get me a beer, will you."
"Don't have much choice, do I?"
"That's a good girl." He ignores Butcher until he has the beer in his hand, chewing on his tongue like a bothered cow. The moment he takes a swig on the wet bottle he turns as if suddenly remembering the other man. "So, Franklin," he says in a mocking tone, "how do you like Shallow Creek so far?"
"Knock it off.”
“What's that supposed to mean?”
“You didn't ask me here to make small talk."
"Can't an officer engage a brother officer in a bit of healthy conversation?"
"Some guys can. Not you."
Banks takes another chug from his beer. A drop spills, running down his gray stubble and onto on his jeans. "If you're so smart, you probably know what I'm about to say.”
"My best guess is the Sheriff wants you to babysit me, and you wanted to tell me before my weekend off."
"Why's that?"
"You think I'll sleep on it, that way come Monday I won't fight so much when he tells me. But if you have half the smarts I give you credit for, by now you've figured out I don't work that way."
"Yeah, I'm starting
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