“It’s like a regular egg, right, but there was no yolk, okay?” Earl hovered near the back door of the Silver Spoon watching Terrence roll a thin little pinner before the breakfast rush started. “I like, cracked it into the pan, and there was all this white, but like, no yolk.”
Hitch shook his head. “Nope. Never seen anything like it.”
“Literally. I like, checked the shells, checked on the floor around, like I might have dropped it, right?” He chuckled. “Terrence didn’t believe me, though.”
Terrence shook his head slowly. “Still don’t, bro.” He licked the edge of the paper to finish rolling the joint and admired his handiwork.
“Okay, you saw it though!” He grinned. “I mean, like literally, I seen some like bloody eggs, some like double eggs, some little embryos—”
“That’s gross, bro.” Terrence patted his pockets but found no lighter. “Somebody give me a light.”
“But it was a regular chicken egg?” Hitch asked.
“It was like, one of the first eggs that a chicken lays, ya know? Like, I guess sometimes when a chicken is still young, they can lay some eggs without yolks. It’s like, before they mature, okay?”
Hitch shook his head. “Never seen anything like it.”
“It’s like, a test egg, before they start laying for real, ya know?”
Terrence paused as he placed the pinner to his lips and flicked the lighter, the flame danced a few inches from the end of the joint.
“Like, literally, you’ll never see one again. It’s like, one in a million, like literally.”
Hitch elbowed Terrence who seemed to have slipped into a trance. “You gonna light that twig, Teaspoon?”
Terrence scowled, listening intently to something in the distance. “You hear that?”
Earl and Hitch sat listening to the early morning breeze blow some litter across the parking lot.
“What, like, you hear the ice cream truck or something?” Earl chuckled.
“Shhh!” Terrence listened for something only he could hear.
Hitch shook his head and went back to scrolling through his phone. “Dude, the suspense is killing me.”
Terrence’s smile spread slowly. “Fuck, bro. Somebody’s shit got jacked.”
Earl and Hitch glanced at each other and rolled their eyes.
“Like, are your tweaker senses tingling, or what?”
* * *
Sheriff Etherton cruised through the side streets, somewhat pleased with the tranquil state of the town. Regardless of the recent population explosion, the morning streets resembled the idyllic small town that his wife had initially fallen in love with. Now that the boys were out of his holding cell, he planned to stop by the Silver Spoon early for a proper breakfast, and maybe see if the aces knew anything about Victor Valasquez’s disappearance.
As he pulled into the parking lot his phone chimed to let him know that he had a call on the not-quite emergency line. The caller ID listed the number as “unknown.” He pulled around to park behind the Silver Spoon, hoping to avoid too many impromptu visitors, and spotted Terrence, Earl, and the guy who called himself Stu huddled out behind the back door. Terrence spotted him and stood up, snapping to attention, but stopping short of a salute. Dropping it into park, he waved at the boys and leaned back to answer the phone. “Arroyo Grande Sheriff’s Department.”
You could be reading stolen content. Head to Royal Road for the genuine story.
“Sheriff Etherton?”
The sheriff didn’t recognize the voice, but clearly, it was someone who knew who he was. “This is the sheriff.”
“I don’t know what kind of tin star bullshit outfit you’re running here, but if your cereal box sleuths can’t rein this junkie shit in, I’ll gladly call in a fucking drone strike.”
Etherton held the phone away from his ear slightly. “Easy there, buddy. You are speaking with the Arroyo Grande sheriff’s department.” He leaned back, trying to decide who, exactly, thought themselves important enough to start in with an insult and a violent threat. “Now what seems to be the problem?”
“Your fucking shit hole fucking town is the fucking problem, Sheriff.”
Etherton rolled his eyes and punched a few keys on his dispatch console to check the caller ID. While he waited for the computer to finish the search, he heard what sounded like a motorcycle gang queuing up from the south. Loud pipes roared slightly, and he could hear them accelerating up the main drag, getting louder as they rolled toward Sancho’s. He cradled the phone against his shoulder and pressed the button to roll up the window. “Now I can tell that you’re upset, and I’d like to help you out with that, but I’m going to need a little more information. May I ask who is calling?” The sound of the motorcycle gang got louder, a heavy buzzing in the air that sounded a little too high-pitched for a standard Harley Davidson, or even a large group of them, the noise echoed from the caller’s phone as well. The computer answered his phone tracing query with an unknown caller. Whoever was calling, they were either on a burner phone or calling from an ancient landline. The engine revving noises were coming through loud enough that he could be sure the caller was local at least. Etherton couldn’t understand the caller as the engine noises drew nearer, but he was fairly certain that most of it would have been censored anyway. “I’m sorry. I can hear that you’re upset, but I can’t understand you.”
“That’s the fucking problem, Sheriff!” As the first of the black SUVs pulled into Sancho’s parking lot and shut off the engine, Etherton discovered the source of the buzzing. The loud pipes and unmuffled engine noises were coming from the unmarked Cadillacs, all of them sounding more like scrappy little dirt track rally cars than luxury law enforcement vehicles as they rolled en masse into the lot. Climbing out of the passenger side of one of the black SUVs, Etherton watched one of the big guys yelling into his cell phone and finally recognized the caller. “Some fucking junkies ran off with my fucking mufflers!”
Etherton struggled to stifle a laugh. Big ticket theft wasn’t a common problem with the local junkies. There was too much accountability in a small town as everybody seemed to know just about everybody else, making it harder for a meth addict to walk off with a stereo. Most of them managed to keep graveyard shifts at the water plant, or various other side jobs where their vices would be easily overlooked. While the theft was indeed his jurisdiction, he was fairly confident that his junkies, the local junkies, had nothing to do with it. “I’ll go ahead and send a deputy down to the motor inn if you’d like to file a report or make a statement.” Etherton watched the Aryan poster boy hang his head as the last of his vehicles finished parking and quieted down.
“It’s your fucking town, Etherton. Are you going to go find my mufflers, or am I going to burn down every meth den in this shit hole truck stop myself?”
Etherton rubbed the bridge of his nose and slid deeper into the cruiser seat, hoping that he was tucked far enough around the corner to avoid being spotted. He watched the dishwasher, a skinny little Latino kid, slip out the back door to talk to the aces. Whoever had done this had obviously targeted the visiting law enforcement branch for whatever reason. How they managed to hack off ten or more catalytic converters without raising an alarm was a mystery in itself. “Yeah, no, I’ll get one of my deputies right on that.”
“You fucking well better!” The big guy yelled, loud enough that Etherton could hear it echoing across the parking lot. Deciding that he was better off grabbing his late breakfast elsewhere, he waved politely at Terrence and Earl and backed out, creeping away towards the exit, hoping to avoid a face-to-face confrontation. His plans for eggs benedict spoiled, he wondered what the Shell station fryers had for a breakfast chimichanga.
* * *
“False alarm,” Hitch burped, looking a little queasy.
“Bro!” Terrence just stared at him. “Stop doin’ that!”
Earl chuckled. “Like, literally, you’re going to make yourself sick, okay?”
“He swallowed half of it!” Terrence stuffed his nug jar and papers into his apron pocket.
Earl pushed his shirt sleeves up as he strolled towards the door. “Like, that’s the dumbest fuckin’ magic trick ever, okay?”
Hitch shrugged. “Used to be pretty handy.”
“You better not puke on my line, bro.”
Earl listened to a few more of the unmuffled exhausts as they pulled into the lot. “We’re ‘bout to get our asses handed to us, okay?”
Hitch shrugged. “Nah. Just let me handle these guys.” He took one last drag and tossed his cigarette butt in the ash can. “I been feeding them nothing but plain ol’ cheese omelets for two days and nobody’s complained, yet.”
“Fuck off.” Terrence followed Earl into the kitchen.
“Cop’s a fuckin’ cop, dude.”
“Bro, they’re customers. Let’s not leave them waiting.”
“Meh. Let ‘em wait.”