Junkyard Dogs by Craig Johnson Read Free Book Online Page A

forward—Dog was beside me now and was barking. I could see where the round had glanced off the windshield, cracking the glass and shearing a deep groove through the trim and the front of the cab.
    I placed a hand on the elevated sill of the driver’s window, reached in through the narrow opening, turned off the motor, and snatched the keys from the ignition. “Are you two all right?”
    Ozzie didn’t move, but his mother, pale and breathless, replied, “We’re fine, but what about George?”
    I slipped from the door and moved to the front of the truck where Geo was stretching his neck to one side as he lay there on the ramp. He was feeling the back of his head. I kneeled down and supported him, and his hat fell back, exposing the waxy, pure white skin where the sun had never touched him. “Are you okay?”
    He closed his eyes and then stretched them open, alternately flexing his jaw.
    “Geo, are you all right?”
    “Whoo-eeha.” He moved his mouth, with the fog from his breath condensing in the frigid air, and then drew a hand up to swipe the saliva from the corner of his mouth before it froze. “I didn’t shoot nobody, did I?”
    I smiled down at him. “Just the truck, but I think it’ll make it.” We both chuckled. Dog was standing by the scales and barking at the wolf mutts that were now taking turns jumping against the window. I did a little barking of my own. “Enough!” He quieted down, and my eyes drifted past to Saizarbitoria, who stood with the cooler and evidence kit at his feet where he’d dropped them.
    His sidearm was drawn and, even from this distance, I could see his hands shaking. I watched him until he became aware of me; he half-turned, lowering the Beretta.
    Betty Dobbs was out of the truck and now crouched beside the shaken junkman, who looked up at her and smiled brilliantly from beneath the dirt and whiskers. “Are you all right? I didn’t shoot you, did I?”
    She laughed and shook her head at him.
    I cleared my throat and started to stand. “Betty, could you keep an eye on him for just a second?” She smoothed his hair back, and I figured George was in better hands. “I’ll be right back.”
    As I stood, I became aware that Ozzie Dobbs Jr. had tried to open his truck door, but that the railing on the scale had him penned. “Did you see that? That crazy son of a bitch tried to shoot us!” He was still spitting, and his Chiclet teeth showed in a thin-lipped grimace.
    Remembering Dobbs’s keys were still in my palm, I stuffed them into my pocket and held a hand out to silence him. “Stay where you are.”
    He looked around, unable to see Betty or Geo at the front of the truck. “Where’s my mother?!”
    “She’s taking care of the man you just tried to run over.”
    I turned my back to him and approached my deputy, all the while attempting to get a handle on the surge of adrenaline that continued to bottle-rocket through my veins. The Basquo hadn’t moved and was still turned a quarter away from me with the pistol at the side of his leg, his upper lip trapped between his teeth.
    “You all right?”
    He didn’t say anything.
    “Are you all right?”
    He strained to speak. “Yeah.”
    I looked back to make sure I was the only one who had witnessed him drawing his weapon. I turned to Sancho and gestured gently toward the semiautomatic. “You wanna holster that thing?”
    “Yeah . . . yeah.”
    As he secured the Beretta, I turned and saw the strangest thing I’d seen all day, and I’d seen a lot of strangeness up to this point. George Stewart and my ninth-grade English/civics teacher were entwined in a passionate kiss.

3
    “Other than his long johns, how is he?”
    Isaac blinked behind his thick glasses. “He bruised a few ribs and cracked the back of his head; personal hygiene notwithstanding, he’s in remarkable shape for a man his age.”
    “He’s had a rough day.”
    “It says a lot for hard work in the fresh air.”
    “I’m not so sure that would strictly