I faked a cough, put my hand over my mouth to hide the grin. I knew it wasn’t funny really, but the surprised look on Luke Jordan’s dead face caught me just right. Luke was the first dead guy I’d ever seen up close except for in a funeral home.
Chief of Police Frank Krueger sighed out long and loud and scratched his big belly, pushed his straw hat back on his forehead, wiping the sweat off his face with a red handkerchief. He looked down at the body of Luke Jordan lying half-in half-out of the old pickup truck and began counting, stabbing his fat finger at the body. Finally he said, “I count nine bullet holes. That what you got?”
I didn’t bother counting. “Yeah.” I fingered the tin star pinned to my Weezer t-shirt, feeling stupid in untied high-top sneakers and sweatpants. When the chief phones you out of bed at midnight, you grab what you can and run out the door. I held the holstered revolver behind my back. I’d tried clipping the holster to the sweatpants, but the gun was too heavy, kept pulling the waistband down past my ass-crack.
So I didn’t count the bullet holes, but I looked hard at Luke Jordan, eyes wide and surprised as hell, blood all gunky and black and starting to dry on his plaid shirt. Luke was one of these good looking rednecks in a rough way, all faded jeans and t-shirts with the sleeves ripped off. Cowboy boots, some kind of fake lizard skin. Probably told everybody they were rattlesnake.
In high school civics class, Luke used to chew up notebook paper until it was nice and soggy then fling it at the back of my head. After graduation, Luke’s brothers had driven him down to Tulsa to see the Army recruiter. The Army had sent him back a month later. Luke said it was bad knees, but I’d heard somewhere they’d kicked him out for fighting and drunkenness. He’d been kicked out of gym class for pretty near the same thing.
