Random Victim by Michael A. Black Read Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Michael A. Black
his bushy eyebrows and the dark mustache that curved down on either side of his mouth like a
winding snake. His teeth flashed brightly as he set the two glasses on the bar, then poured Leal’s beer into the stein. Leal
tossed some bills on the bar.
“That all you’re having?” Ryan asked, squinting at him. “A beer?”
“Yeah, I got a long drive.”
“Yeah, me, too. But my girlfriend’s driving. She’s gonna meet me here.” He grinned and took a careful sip.
“She work around here?” Leal asked, picking up his stein. The beer tasted cold and good. He felt the carbonation sweep down
to his stomach as he licked the foam off his mustache.
“Actually, she works at HQ. Personnel.” He started to take another sip, but then set his drink down and took out his cigarettes
instead. “That’s how I knew about the seniority thing. I checked out everybody’s files once I found out I was going to this
task force.”
“That’s handy,” Leal said, looking at Ryan over the edge of the stein.
“So, like I said, I hope there’s no hard feelings about Brice putting me in charge and all.”
“No problem,” Leal said. “I came here today figuring I was getting bounced back to patrol.”
Ryan stuck a cigarette between his lips and smiled.
“Yeah, I heard about you telling off old Dark Gable,” he said. He held the flame of his lighter to the cigarette, contorting
his mouth as he did so. Then he exhaled a copious breath of smoke. “You got balls, I’ll say that, man.”
No secret’s safe from his girlfriend’s prying eyes, I guess, Leal thought.
“You’ve obviously read all about my dirty laundry,” Leal said. “Now tell me about the rest of our crew.”
“Okay. Smith put his time in at the jail. Took the sheriff police test about a year and a half ago and went on the street.
He’s made some good busts—dope, a couple of guns, but nothing really spectacular. Been on the street about fifteen months,
tops.” Ryan paused to belch slightly. He took another drag on his cigarette. “By all accounts he seems to be a good kid, but
like most shines, he’s slow upstairs.” He tapped his temple with an index finger. “Probably need some help with the paperwork,
but he should work out okay.”
Like most shines, Leal reflected ironically, thinking how Johnny DeWayne’s professionalism and quick thinking had made the
life-and-death difference that night by the factory.
“And Hart?”
Ryan chuckled deeply, picking up his drink for another sip before talking. “She’s twenty-eight, divorced, no kids, worked
in the jail and in communications.”
“Yeah, and how much street time she got?”
Ryan held up his left hand and made an O with his index finger and thumb.
“Huh?” asked Leal.
Ryan nodded. “Yep. Zilch.”
“Then how the hell does she rate a position in a task force like this?”
Ryan shrugged and finished off the rest of his drink. He held up two fingers toward Al again, then turned to Leal. “You want
another one?”
Leal nodded and drained his stein.
Ryan took a long drag on his cigarette and blew the smoke up toward the ceiling.
“I was asking myself that same question,” he said. “I figure that it’s one of two possibilities.” His voice rose, emphasizing
the middle syllables of the last word. The slurring was becoming more noticeable in his speech. “Either Miss Hart is one hell
of a fuck for some sugar daddy in a high place, which, from the looks of her, ain’t likely—I got her figured for a dyke myself.”
Leal grunted noncommittally.
“Or,” Ryan continued, holding up his finger in an exaggerated gesture, “they’re setting us up.”
“What do you mean?”
Al brought their new drinks, scooped up the bills that Leal had left on the bar, and slapped the change down.
Ryan took another sip and licked his lips.
Jesus, this guy’s gotta be a stone alkie as well as a racist, Leal thought. I wonder how he feels about somebody
winding snake. His teeth flashed brightly as he set the two glasses on the bar, then poured Leal’s beer into the stein. Leal
tossed some bills on the bar.
“That all you’re having?” Ryan asked, squinting at him. “A beer?”
“Yeah, I got a long drive.”
“Yeah, me, too. But my girlfriend’s driving. She’s gonna meet me here.” He grinned and took a careful sip.
“She work around here?” Leal asked, picking up his stein. The beer tasted cold and good. He felt the carbonation sweep down
to his stomach as he licked the foam off his mustache.
“Actually, she works at HQ. Personnel.” He started to take another sip, but then set his drink down and took out his cigarettes
instead. “That’s how I knew about the seniority thing. I checked out everybody’s files once I found out I was going to this
task force.”
“That’s handy,” Leal said, looking at Ryan over the edge of the stein.
“So, like I said, I hope there’s no hard feelings about Brice putting me in charge and all.”
“No problem,” Leal said. “I came here today figuring I was getting bounced back to patrol.”
Ryan stuck a cigarette between his lips and smiled.
“Yeah, I heard about you telling off old Dark Gable,” he said. He held the flame of his lighter to the cigarette, contorting
his mouth as he did so. Then he exhaled a copious breath of smoke. “You got balls, I’ll say that, man.”
No secret’s safe from his girlfriend’s prying eyes, I guess, Leal thought.
“You’ve obviously read all about my dirty laundry,” Leal said. “Now tell me about the rest of our crew.”
“Okay. Smith put his time in at the jail. Took the sheriff police test about a year and a half ago and went on the street.
He’s made some good busts—dope, a couple of guns, but nothing really spectacular. Been on the street about fifteen months,
tops.” Ryan paused to belch slightly. He took another drag on his cigarette. “By all accounts he seems to be a good kid, but
like most shines, he’s slow upstairs.” He tapped his temple with an index finger. “Probably need some help with the paperwork,
but he should work out okay.”
Like most shines, Leal reflected ironically, thinking how Johnny DeWayne’s professionalism and quick thinking had made the
life-and-death difference that night by the factory.
“And Hart?”
Ryan chuckled deeply, picking up his drink for another sip before talking. “She’s twenty-eight, divorced, no kids, worked
in the jail and in communications.”
“Yeah, and how much street time she got?”
Ryan held up his left hand and made an O with his index finger and thumb.
“Huh?” asked Leal.
Ryan nodded. “Yep. Zilch.”
“Then how the hell does she rate a position in a task force like this?”
Ryan shrugged and finished off the rest of his drink. He held up two fingers toward Al again, then turned to Leal. “You want
another one?”
Leal nodded and drained his stein.
Ryan took a long drag on his cigarette and blew the smoke up toward the ceiling.
“I was asking myself that same question,” he said. “I figure that it’s one of two possibilities.” His voice rose, emphasizing
the middle syllables of the last word. The slurring was becoming more noticeable in his speech. “Either Miss Hart is one hell
of a fuck for some sugar daddy in a high place, which, from the looks of her, ain’t likely—I got her figured for a dyke myself.”
Leal grunted noncommittally.
“Or,” Ryan continued, holding up his finger in an exaggerated gesture, “they’re setting us up.”
“What do you mean?”
Al brought their new drinks, scooped up the bills that Leal had left on the bar, and slapped the change down.
Ryan took another sip and licked his lips.
Jesus, this guy’s gotta be a stone alkie as well as a racist, Leal thought. I wonder how he feels about somebody