The Dummy Line by Bobby Cole Read Free Book Online Page A

was sitting in the kitchen with a glass of milk and some warm raisin bread from the Mennonite bakery in Livingston, sheepishly grinning with guilty pleasure.
    “I couldn’t go back to sleep,” she said. “What’s going on?”
    “I don’t know. The lights were all on, but no one was there. It was kinda strange. I’m a little worried that something’s wrong…but…but I just don’t know what,” he replied.
    “Mick, what’s that all over your pants legs?” she asked, pointing. The bottoms of his blue jeans were covered in something dark and wet.
    Mick reached down, touching it. He rubbed his fingers together. “It’s blood!” he said with a scared look on his ashen face.
    “Oh my God! Mick!”
    “I’ll call the sheriff!” he said, reaching for the phone, worried at what this might mean.

 
    “Sumter County Sheriff’s office,” a woman with a husky, cigarette-ravaged voice answered.
    “This is Mick Johnson. I need to speak to Sheriff Landrum. It’s important.”
    “Mick, he’s not in…It’s one thirty in the morning. But if it’s important, I’ll get him to call you. Are you at your house?” she asked, blowing smoke up into the air.
    “Yes ma’am, it’s urgent.”
    “I’ll have him call you right back. Do you need a deputy right now?” she replied and snuffed out her cigarette.
    “If you can’t get Ollie, then I’ll need a deputy for sure.”
    “Sure thing, Mick. Give me a minute. I think I can get him for you.”
    Mrs. Martha O’Brien had worked for the sheriff’s office for twenty-three years. Since her husband had died four years earlier, she preferred to work the night shift. She couldn’t sleep anyway. Her favorite activity in the world was waking up the sheriff. She loved to aggravate him. She never hesitated to call at any hour concerning anything. It drove the sheriff crazy. But Martha O’Brien was irreplaceable. She knew where everything was, where everybody lived, and what forms needed to be filled out. The sheriff and his staff constantly asked her for guidance. She relished it. Her celebrity had grown when she slapped a prisoner for making a crude comment about her. The governor had cheerfully vindicated her actions. With true Southern politeness, most everyone called her Miz Martha.
    Ollie Landrum was Sumter County’s first black sheriff. He was a county fixture now that he’d been in office nine years. Ollie had been a football hero at The University of Alabama—he’d blown out his knee beyond repair during a home game, ending his pro hopes. He’d been a deputy just a few years when the sheriff retired. The Alabama fans in the county showed Ollie how much they appreciated his football prowess in a landslide election to sheriff. He had married his college sweetheart, a lady who had dedicated her life to helping educate the poor about Sudden Infant Death Syndrome. Western Alabama leads the nation in SIDS, and she was consumed by her task. There were plenty of poor folks in western Alabama. She tried to educate them by day, and Ollie arrested many of them by night. Ollie and his wife hadn’t slowed down long enough to even consider having children.
    The sheriff had fallen asleep on the couch watching Law & Order: SVU. He loved that show. New York City had the action, the serious crime. On the show, there were no boring driver’s license checks like he was forced to do weekly.
    Even asleep, when the phone rang, Ollie knew it was Martha. This better be good, he thought, pulling himself off the couch. He glanced at the clock, cleared his throat, and said, “Hello.”
    “Chief, Mick Johnson needs you to call him at his house. He says it’s urgent,” she said, skipping the pleasantries. She lit a menthol cigarette.
    Rubbing his eyes, he asked, “Did he say what it’s about?”
    “No, Chief, he just said it’s important,” she responded, ever the professional.
    “OK, I’ll call him, and Miz Martha, please call me Ollie or Sheriff; don’t call me Chief,” he