.....Wolfe paused on the sidewalk outside Hogarth's Gun Store, shielding the flame of his Zippo from the breeze as he lit up another cigarette. He blinked against the smoke, then blinked even more at the "Back To School Sale" placard in the window of the shop.
.....A middle-aged Mexican worker in oil-stained Dickies overalls exited the store, a dark, polished long rifle case tucked under his arm as he headed down the sidewalk towards a gray-primered Ford F150 pickup truck.
.....Approaching the opposite way, a man and his two young sons crossed paths with the worker. Still in earshot as they passed, the father cocked back his well-worn straw cowboy hat and leaned down to the youngest, eyes directing the boy’s attention to the worker.
.....“That’s what a terrorist looks like,” he said.
.....The Mexican halted in his step. He opened the door of his truck and threw the rifle case across the bench seat. Climbing in slowly, he slammed the door behind himself.
.....Hard. A small chunk of Bond-O cracked loose and fell to the pavement.
.....The child blinked.
.....“Remember that,” the father chided, matching cold stares through the truck's windshield with the Mexican. The worker broke the staredown first. He started the truck and backed out of the parking slot, not looking back as he pulled away.
.....A smile curled from the corner of the cowboy’s mouth.
.....“Call nine-one-one!” the older boy chanted as his brother began to cry. The man smacked the crying boy in the back of the head.
.....“Don’t be a faggot.”
.....The older boy laughed. “Damn faggot!”
.....The reverend was still in earshot, and glanced over with a frown. The father cuffed the older boy. The older boy huffed a protest.
.....“Don’t curse.”
.....Rubbing the back of his head, the older boy glared at his brother resentfully as they continued up the sidewalk to pass Wolfe. His brother would pay later.
.....The father nodded agreeably to Wolfe. “How’s it going?”
.....“Good.” Wolfe nodded back. “You?”
.....“Good.”
.....“That’s good.”
.....As they moved on, the father leaned down to his youngest.
.....“That’s what a faggot looks like...”
.....The cowboy watched warily as Wolfe opened the door of the Larkspur Tavern to disappear into the murk, then opened the door of a white van to load in the boys. Stepping around the back of the van, he passed a sun-faded bumper sticker on the rear bumper that read GOT METH?
.....He pounded twice on the rear door before continuing on to the front and climbing in.
.....A belch of black smoke erupted from the exhaust vent on the roof, and the vehicle backed out. As he neared an oncoming patrol vehicle, the man slung an arm out the window and waved.
.....The cop waved back as the vehicles passed.
.....As Wolfe stepped into the darkness of the bar, the patrons turned to the door and winced against the sudden intrusion of light. Eyes hooded below the bills of soiled and well-worn baseball caps evaluated the newcomer before turning their attention back to the television.
.....The door closed behind him, dimness settling back down comfortably.
.....The sound of NASCAR rattled from the abused speakers of the television, a bottle-scarred Quasar of a vintage roughly the same as the dying neon Olympia sign that crackled in protest against the wafting cigarette smoke.
.....They were in uniform: distressed Wranglers, trucker caps sporting bad innuendo, and untucked flannel shirts. Not the proud cowboy of western iconography, just the idle working class redneck. Long idle, by the comfortable set of their asses on the bar stools.
.....At their backs, a wretched old Indian swayed on his feet.
.....Sorry, Wolfe corrected himself, Native American.
.....The old man was long past his good years; a shock of white hair and ragged gear that looked as if they hadn't met a washing machine in years. Nothing soft about the man... even his wrinkles were harsh. He was pinned in place by the bartender's unblinking gaze.
.....While the patrons' eyes were on the television, their ears were tuned to the drama.
.....“Not fair," the old man muttered. “You took our land, and now you won't even...”
.....“Took your land, huh?” The bartender glanced around to the peanut gallery, eyebrow cocked. The others glanced at each other. Chuckled appreciatively.
.....“Then you must be used to hearing this...” He paused for dramatic effect, then threw his finger to the door: “Get the fuck out of here!”
.....While it didn't seem possible that the old man's shoulders could slump even more, they did. As he turned to leave, his eyes briefly met Wolfe's. The gaze was empty, the fire long gone. His eyes moved on towards the door. Wolfe pulled back as the man shambled by; the raw stench of cheap wine long past its shelf life curled his nostril hairs.
.....Daylight flared as the door opened, and then the intruder was gone. The door sighed shut behind him. The funk remained.
.....After the awkward pause had outstayed its welcome, the good ol' boys resumed muttering at each other, exhaling smoke and stubbing out Marlboros in overflowing ashtrays as they nursed their Miller High Lifes and Pabst Blue Ribbons.
.....They watched the cars roar around in circles.
.....Waiting.
.....Scattered popcorn crunched beneath the soles of his Doc Martens as Wolfe made his way towards the bar. He parked himself in the last remaining bar stool and made himself comfortable, nodded agreeably to the men on either side of him. They nodded in return, pulling away slightly as they turned their attention back to the race.
.....Something was bound to happen, and they didn’t want to miss it.
.....Wolfe joined everyone in watching the television as the cars howled at each other like God and Satan in a lover’s spat.
.....“No place in the sport for a broad,” noted one of the men, shaking his green John Deere-capped head. His observation was carried by an exhalation of cigarette smoke as he flicked an ash loose just short of the ashtray.
.....“Well, she’s winning, ain’t she?” retorted one of his companions, tipping back his Pabst.
.....“She’s cheating.”
.....One of the patrons leaned forward and retorted: “How the hell do you think...”
.....“Less body mass, Whit.” reckoned John Deere cap. “Saves on pit stops, y’know?”
.....A saggy face with a three-day stubble and a less-than-passing acquaintance with dental care threw in his worthy evaluation. “She ain’t all that good-lookin’ anyways.”
.....One of the good ol’ boys in an FBI: Female Body Inspector tee-shirt chuckled. “I wouldn’t throw her out of bed for eating crackers.”
.....The others laughed at his good humor.
.....Wolfe leaned forward and peered down the bar as the bartender set about constructing a mixed drink. A Collins glass packed with ice and filled halfway with Barton’s vodka was being topped off with Mr. and Mrs. T’s famous Bloody Mary mix. He dropped the mix back into the well and slid the drink on down to the waiting hand of one of the men.
.....No straw.
.....Real men don’t use straws.
.....The bartender sparked a wooden match across the surface of the bar and lit a Pall Mall with it, sparing a brief glance towards where Wolfe sat.
.....He dismissed a dragon’s breath of smoke from his nostrils and turned his attention back to the boys, leaning in and sharing a quiet joke. His wit was rewarded with chuckles.
.....One of the men glanced casually Wolfe’s way, then turned back and expanded on the bartender’s comment. More chuckles followed.
.....Patient attention to the race continued as Wolfe waited...
........ and five minutes later, Wolfe was still waiting to be served.
.....“Excuse me?” he finally called out to the bartender.
.....Grinding his back against the inside of the bar, the man shifted his attention without turning his head, factoring in the two small rings Wolfe sported in his left ear. His itch relieved, he steadied as his eyes went back to the television. The cars continued to scream at each other in their endless circles.
.....“Could I get one of those?” Wolfe requested.
.....The race segued into a commercial for Coors Lightning, a bouncy spot in which after drinking one, a sad fat man suddenly loses his girth and is miraculously transformed into a suave ladies’ man. Bikinied hardbodies clawed over each other and pulled at hair in their struggle to get at him. He was whisked away to safety by Paris Hilton, who pulled the man into the sanctuary of her stretch limo.
.....“A Bloody Mary, please?” he continued, as the commercial ended with Hilton’s chihuahua growling jealously.
.....“I don’t think so.” The barkeep turned back to his regulars and looked across the line-up of near-empties separating them. “How you guys doing here?”
.....One of them considered his Pabst, shifting his heft uncomfortably to cause his plumbers crack to shudder like a fleshy faultline.
.....“Y’know...I’d like to try one of them Coors Lightnings.”
.....The others considered his order, then nodded.
.....“Yeah, I’ve been meaning to give one of them a try...”
.....“Set me up with one, too.”
.....“Same here, Sam.”
.....Wolfe slid down off of the stool. “M’kay.”
.....He pushed himself away from the bar and exited, the soft laughter of the boys cut off abruptly as the door of the tavern closed behind him.
.....As the door to The Larkspur hissed shut behind him, Wolfe breathed in some fresh air and pulled out his Wayfarers, propping them on against the daylight that suddenly seemed harsh.
....“Hey, bro?”
....Wolfe turned to meet the gaze of the old Indian. Sorry, Native American.
....“You think that...” the man trailed off uncertainly.
....“Sure,” Wolfe nodded, pulling a bill from his pocket. He paused... it was a five dollar bill. He shrugged and offered it to the old man.
...."Why don't you buy yourself something pretty?" he joked.
....The old man snatched the bill. “Fuck you.”
....He turned and made his way down the sidewalk.
... Wolfe sighed.
....He turned his attention back to the Main Street routine, watched as a super-sized matron waddled out of Starbucks to climb into a virtual juggernaut of Detroit excess.
.....As large as the SUV was, it still tipped uneasily as the matron mounted the sideboard to climb in. The door clicked shut behind her and the mutant Lincoln grumbled to life and pulled out of its spot. The vehicle backed up a few yards and then with a lurch pulled forward to swing into a spot across the street.
.....As Wolfe watched the matron struggle out and scuttle into the local Crispy Creme, the air began to pulse like bad blood.
.....He could feel in his diaphragm the sound of subwoofers being punished, an uneasiness felt before he could actually hear the source.
.....As the unseen vehicle grew closer, Wolfe recognized the song, something from the former lead singer of that old punk band The Misfits.
.....The singer seemed to have some issues with his mother.
.....The bassline echoed off the facades of the buildings and ricocheted down the street towards them.
.....Finally, the source of the noise turned onto Main Street and Wolfe wasn’t all that surprised to see that it was one of those monster truck wannabes, a jacked-up placebo prescribed to salve any masculine insecurity on sexual identity, swaying over wheels the size of Donald Trump’s ego.
.....Wolfe stepped off the curb to open the door of the Valiant, but drew back against the car as the monster truck swung without warning into the spot next to him. He caught a glance of the ugly silhouette of a some form of assault rifle resting in the rear window gun rack, before a flurry of golden hair obscured it.
.....The music cut off with the guttural roar of the engine, replaced with the tick of cooling iron. The chassis shifted as Wolfe heard the driver’s side door open, then the vehicle righted itself as the driver dismounted, slammed the door shut.
.....“Excuse me?”
.....Blue eyes and a tangle of blonde hair looked down at Wolfe from high up on the passenger side, red-nailed fingers curled across the sill of the door.
.....The smell of Teen Spirit wafted through the open window.
.....The driver of the vehicle rounded the front of the beast and pulled up at the sight of Wolfe. Close-cropped sides of mullet bristling, letterman jacket straining against suddenly swelled adolescent muscles pumped with testosterone. His green eyes were narrowed.
.....“Excuse you?”
.....Wolfe slid off to the side to make room for the girl, and the door opened, blocking off Joe Campus.
.....The girl began to back out of the open maw of the behemoth to rappel her way down to pavement, a shapely leg swinging from beneath the cheerleader miniskirt in search of unfound purchase. Wolfe stepped up and grabbed her waist, lifting her down gentleman-like.
.....He courteously ignored the flash of white cotton panties.
.....“Thanks, mister,” the girl offered. She swept her hair back to consider him with those blue eyes. The door closed behind her.
.....If the boy were any more of a cartoon character, he would have had steam rolling from his ears. He was doing a pretty good job of trying for the effect nonetheless. He stepped up behind the girl and looped the crook of his elbow over the girl’s shoulders, hand stealing down to cup her breast.
.....She didn’t seem to notice, or care if she did.
.....The boy eyed Wolfe with hooded gaze, lip curling up to snarl an insult that paused at the sound of an ominous rumble. They all turned to the source of the noise; a behemoth that dwarfed the vehicles it passed, rolling thunder on four wheels.
.....Wolfe realized that this wasn’t one of those General Motors knockoffs that the company marketed as a Hummer, this was the genuine article: a true military-issue Humvee beefed up and painted jet-black with white doors. Smoked windows and police light bar bolted to the roof.
.....As the vehicle rolled up to them, POLICE in golden block letters scrolled along the black of the fender. Against the white of the door, the department crest flashed in the sun.
.....Shadowed by a light gray Stetson, a blank face behind mirrored shades evaluated Wolfe as the cruiser grumbled by slowly. He held a microphone to his mouth as lips moved silently below the rumble.
.....As the Humvee rolled by Wolfe, the cop nodded and hung up the mike. The vehicle sped up and continued on down the street.
.....“Holy shit...” muttered Wolfe.
.....You don’t see that every day.
.....He turned to see that while he was occupied, the psycho and his girlfriend had moved their loitering space over to outside the video store.
.....Lolita had joined them. Her mother was nowhere in sight, and out of stink-eyeshot of the rough trade her precious darling was keeping company with.
.....A wigger wove about the girl like a snake with a rash on its belly, a Detroit Tigers baseball cap cocked at ten-o-clock. His Dr. Dre t-shirt hung from beneath a letterman's jacket, and his baggy pants threatened to drop to the sidewalk at any moment.
.....Wolfe shook his head, climbed into the Valiant. There was another ticket tucked under his wiper. He reached through the window and retrieved it.
.....“Fucking assholes.”
.....He fired up the Valiant and pulled away from his two remaining metered minutes.
.....A middle-aged Mexican worker in oil-stained Dickies overalls exited the store, a dark, polished long rifle case tucked under his arm as he headed down the sidewalk towards a gray-primered Ford F150 pickup truck.
.....Approaching the opposite way, a man and his two young sons crossed paths with the worker. Still in earshot as they passed, the father cocked back his well-worn straw cowboy hat and leaned down to the youngest, eyes directing the boy’s attention to the worker.
.....“That’s what a terrorist looks like,” he said.
.....The Mexican halted in his step. He opened the door of his truck and threw the rifle case across the bench seat. Climbing in slowly, he slammed the door behind himself.
.....Hard. A small chunk of Bond-O cracked loose and fell to the pavement.
.....The child blinked.
.....“Remember that,” the father chided, matching cold stares through the truck's windshield with the Mexican. The worker broke the staredown first. He started the truck and backed out of the parking slot, not looking back as he pulled away.
.....A smile curled from the corner of the cowboy’s mouth.
.....“Call nine-one-one!” the older boy chanted as his brother began to cry. The man smacked the crying boy in the back of the head.
.....“Don’t be a faggot.”
.....The older boy laughed. “Damn faggot!”
.....The reverend was still in earshot, and glanced over with a frown. The father cuffed the older boy. The older boy huffed a protest.
.....“Don’t curse.”
.....Rubbing the back of his head, the older boy glared at his brother resentfully as they continued up the sidewalk to pass Wolfe. His brother would pay later.
.....The father nodded agreeably to Wolfe. “How’s it going?”
.....“Good.” Wolfe nodded back. “You?”
.....“Good.”
.....“That’s good.”
.....As they moved on, the father leaned down to his youngest.
.....“That’s what a faggot looks like...”
.....The cowboy watched warily as Wolfe opened the door of the Larkspur Tavern to disappear into the murk, then opened the door of a white van to load in the boys. Stepping around the back of the van, he passed a sun-faded bumper sticker on the rear bumper that read GOT METH?
.....He pounded twice on the rear door before continuing on to the front and climbing in.
.....A belch of black smoke erupted from the exhaust vent on the roof, and the vehicle backed out. As he neared an oncoming patrol vehicle, the man slung an arm out the window and waved.
.....The cop waved back as the vehicles passed.
.....As Wolfe stepped into the darkness of the bar, the patrons turned to the door and winced against the sudden intrusion of light. Eyes hooded below the bills of soiled and well-worn baseball caps evaluated the newcomer before turning their attention back to the television.
.....The door closed behind him, dimness settling back down comfortably.
.....The sound of NASCAR rattled from the abused speakers of the television, a bottle-scarred Quasar of a vintage roughly the same as the dying neon Olympia sign that crackled in protest against the wafting cigarette smoke.
.....They were in uniform: distressed Wranglers, trucker caps sporting bad innuendo, and untucked flannel shirts. Not the proud cowboy of western iconography, just the idle working class redneck. Long idle, by the comfortable set of their asses on the bar stools.
.....At their backs, a wretched old Indian swayed on his feet.
.....Sorry, Wolfe corrected himself, Native American.
.....The old man was long past his good years; a shock of white hair and ragged gear that looked as if they hadn't met a washing machine in years. Nothing soft about the man... even his wrinkles were harsh. He was pinned in place by the bartender's unblinking gaze.
.....While the patrons' eyes were on the television, their ears were tuned to the drama.
.....“Not fair," the old man muttered. “You took our land, and now you won't even...”
.....“Took your land, huh?” The bartender glanced around to the peanut gallery, eyebrow cocked. The others glanced at each other. Chuckled appreciatively.
.....“Then you must be used to hearing this...” He paused for dramatic effect, then threw his finger to the door: “Get the fuck out of here!”
.....While it didn't seem possible that the old man's shoulders could slump even more, they did. As he turned to leave, his eyes briefly met Wolfe's. The gaze was empty, the fire long gone. His eyes moved on towards the door. Wolfe pulled back as the man shambled by; the raw stench of cheap wine long past its shelf life curled his nostril hairs.
.....Daylight flared as the door opened, and then the intruder was gone. The door sighed shut behind him. The funk remained.
.....After the awkward pause had outstayed its welcome, the good ol' boys resumed muttering at each other, exhaling smoke and stubbing out Marlboros in overflowing ashtrays as they nursed their Miller High Lifes and Pabst Blue Ribbons.
.....They watched the cars roar around in circles.
.....Waiting.
.....Scattered popcorn crunched beneath the soles of his Doc Martens as Wolfe made his way towards the bar. He parked himself in the last remaining bar stool and made himself comfortable, nodded agreeably to the men on either side of him. They nodded in return, pulling away slightly as they turned their attention back to the race.
.....Something was bound to happen, and they didn’t want to miss it.
.....Wolfe joined everyone in watching the television as the cars howled at each other like God and Satan in a lover’s spat.
.....“No place in the sport for a broad,” noted one of the men, shaking his green John Deere-capped head. His observation was carried by an exhalation of cigarette smoke as he flicked an ash loose just short of the ashtray.
.....“Well, she’s winning, ain’t she?” retorted one of his companions, tipping back his Pabst.
.....“She’s cheating.”
.....One of the patrons leaned forward and retorted: “How the hell do you think...”
.....“Less body mass, Whit.” reckoned John Deere cap. “Saves on pit stops, y’know?”
.....A saggy face with a three-day stubble and a less-than-passing acquaintance with dental care threw in his worthy evaluation. “She ain’t all that good-lookin’ anyways.”
.....One of the good ol’ boys in an FBI: Female Body Inspector tee-shirt chuckled. “I wouldn’t throw her out of bed for eating crackers.”
.....The others laughed at his good humor.
.....Wolfe leaned forward and peered down the bar as the bartender set about constructing a mixed drink. A Collins glass packed with ice and filled halfway with Barton’s vodka was being topped off with Mr. and Mrs. T’s famous Bloody Mary mix. He dropped the mix back into the well and slid the drink on down to the waiting hand of one of the men.
.....No straw.
.....Real men don’t use straws.
.....The bartender sparked a wooden match across the surface of the bar and lit a Pall Mall with it, sparing a brief glance towards where Wolfe sat.
.....He dismissed a dragon’s breath of smoke from his nostrils and turned his attention back to the boys, leaning in and sharing a quiet joke. His wit was rewarded with chuckles.
.....One of the men glanced casually Wolfe’s way, then turned back and expanded on the bartender’s comment. More chuckles followed.
.....Patient attention to the race continued as Wolfe waited...
........ and five minutes later, Wolfe was still waiting to be served.
.....“Excuse me?” he finally called out to the bartender.
.....Grinding his back against the inside of the bar, the man shifted his attention without turning his head, factoring in the two small rings Wolfe sported in his left ear. His itch relieved, he steadied as his eyes went back to the television. The cars continued to scream at each other in their endless circles.
.....“Could I get one of those?” Wolfe requested.
.....The race segued into a commercial for Coors Lightning, a bouncy spot in which after drinking one, a sad fat man suddenly loses his girth and is miraculously transformed into a suave ladies’ man. Bikinied hardbodies clawed over each other and pulled at hair in their struggle to get at him. He was whisked away to safety by Paris Hilton, who pulled the man into the sanctuary of her stretch limo.
.....“A Bloody Mary, please?” he continued, as the commercial ended with Hilton’s chihuahua growling jealously.
.....“I don’t think so.” The barkeep turned back to his regulars and looked across the line-up of near-empties separating them. “How you guys doing here?”
.....One of them considered his Pabst, shifting his heft uncomfortably to cause his plumbers crack to shudder like a fleshy faultline.
.....“Y’know...I’d like to try one of them Coors Lightnings.”
.....The others considered his order, then nodded.
.....“Yeah, I’ve been meaning to give one of them a try...”
.....“Set me up with one, too.”
.....“Same here, Sam.”
.....Wolfe slid down off of the stool. “M’kay.”
.....He pushed himself away from the bar and exited, the soft laughter of the boys cut off abruptly as the door of the tavern closed behind him.
.....As the door to The Larkspur hissed shut behind him, Wolfe breathed in some fresh air and pulled out his Wayfarers, propping them on against the daylight that suddenly seemed harsh.
....“Hey, bro?”
....Wolfe turned to meet the gaze of the old Indian. Sorry, Native American.
....“You think that...” the man trailed off uncertainly.
....“Sure,” Wolfe nodded, pulling a bill from his pocket. He paused... it was a five dollar bill. He shrugged and offered it to the old man.
...."Why don't you buy yourself something pretty?" he joked.
....The old man snatched the bill. “Fuck you.”
....He turned and made his way down the sidewalk.
... Wolfe sighed.
....He turned his attention back to the Main Street routine, watched as a super-sized matron waddled out of Starbucks to climb into a virtual juggernaut of Detroit excess.
.....As large as the SUV was, it still tipped uneasily as the matron mounted the sideboard to climb in. The door clicked shut behind her and the mutant Lincoln grumbled to life and pulled out of its spot. The vehicle backed up a few yards and then with a lurch pulled forward to swing into a spot across the street.
.....As Wolfe watched the matron struggle out and scuttle into the local Crispy Creme, the air began to pulse like bad blood.
.....He could feel in his diaphragm the sound of subwoofers being punished, an uneasiness felt before he could actually hear the source.
.....As the unseen vehicle grew closer, Wolfe recognized the song, something from the former lead singer of that old punk band The Misfits.
.....The singer seemed to have some issues with his mother.
.....The bassline echoed off the facades of the buildings and ricocheted down the street towards them.
.....Finally, the source of the noise turned onto Main Street and Wolfe wasn’t all that surprised to see that it was one of those monster truck wannabes, a jacked-up placebo prescribed to salve any masculine insecurity on sexual identity, swaying over wheels the size of Donald Trump’s ego.
.....Wolfe stepped off the curb to open the door of the Valiant, but drew back against the car as the monster truck swung without warning into the spot next to him. He caught a glance of the ugly silhouette of a some form of assault rifle resting in the rear window gun rack, before a flurry of golden hair obscured it.
.....The music cut off with the guttural roar of the engine, replaced with the tick of cooling iron. The chassis shifted as Wolfe heard the driver’s side door open, then the vehicle righted itself as the driver dismounted, slammed the door shut.
.....“Excuse me?”
.....Blue eyes and a tangle of blonde hair looked down at Wolfe from high up on the passenger side, red-nailed fingers curled across the sill of the door.
.....The smell of Teen Spirit wafted through the open window.
.....The driver of the vehicle rounded the front of the beast and pulled up at the sight of Wolfe. Close-cropped sides of mullet bristling, letterman jacket straining against suddenly swelled adolescent muscles pumped with testosterone. His green eyes were narrowed.
.....“Excuse you?”
.....Wolfe slid off to the side to make room for the girl, and the door opened, blocking off Joe Campus.
.....The girl began to back out of the open maw of the behemoth to rappel her way down to pavement, a shapely leg swinging from beneath the cheerleader miniskirt in search of unfound purchase. Wolfe stepped up and grabbed her waist, lifting her down gentleman-like.
.....He courteously ignored the flash of white cotton panties.
.....“Thanks, mister,” the girl offered. She swept her hair back to consider him with those blue eyes. The door closed behind her.
.....If the boy were any more of a cartoon character, he would have had steam rolling from his ears. He was doing a pretty good job of trying for the effect nonetheless. He stepped up behind the girl and looped the crook of his elbow over the girl’s shoulders, hand stealing down to cup her breast.
.....She didn’t seem to notice, or care if she did.
.....The boy eyed Wolfe with hooded gaze, lip curling up to snarl an insult that paused at the sound of an ominous rumble. They all turned to the source of the noise; a behemoth that dwarfed the vehicles it passed, rolling thunder on four wheels.
.....Wolfe realized that this wasn’t one of those General Motors knockoffs that the company marketed as a Hummer, this was the genuine article: a true military-issue Humvee beefed up and painted jet-black with white doors. Smoked windows and police light bar bolted to the roof.
.....As the vehicle rolled up to them, POLICE in golden block letters scrolled along the black of the fender. Against the white of the door, the department crest flashed in the sun.
.....Shadowed by a light gray Stetson, a blank face behind mirrored shades evaluated Wolfe as the cruiser grumbled by slowly. He held a microphone to his mouth as lips moved silently below the rumble.
.....As the Humvee rolled by Wolfe, the cop nodded and hung up the mike. The vehicle sped up and continued on down the street.
.....“Holy shit...” muttered Wolfe.
.....You don’t see that every day.
.....He turned to see that while he was occupied, the psycho and his girlfriend had moved their loitering space over to outside the video store.
.....Lolita had joined them. Her mother was nowhere in sight, and out of stink-eyeshot of the rough trade her precious darling was keeping company with.
.....A wigger wove about the girl like a snake with a rash on its belly, a Detroit Tigers baseball cap cocked at ten-o-clock. His Dr. Dre t-shirt hung from beneath a letterman's jacket, and his baggy pants threatened to drop to the sidewalk at any moment.
.....Wolfe shook his head, climbed into the Valiant. There was another ticket tucked under his wiper. He reached through the window and retrieved it.
.....“Fucking assholes.”
.....He fired up the Valiant and pulled away from his two remaining metered minutes.
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