Sheriff Etherton took his lunch at the Silver Spoon, most days. As excellent as the variety was, the Arroyo Grande Shell station did a steady business in deep-fried catfish, gizzards, and taquitos, which were somehow legendary amongst the long-haul truckers. What he really wanted was some decent Thai food, or possibly something Mediterranean, but for lack of anything remotely cosmopolitan, he sat at the far end of the lunch counter, closest to the coffee pot. At least the cooks made a decent club sandwich, and the fries were always golden brown. Nonetheless, the sheriff occasionally considered the siren song of truck stop fried food, if only to finish his entire meal without interruption.
‘The smaller the town, the bigger the fire’ was a phrase that Etherton had heard years before, but nowhere did it seem more appropriate than the tiny little highway turn-off known as Arroyo Grande. The locals treated his lunch break like informal office hours. Most of the time he managed to get through about half of his meal before he was heavily involved in a bit of gossip which resembled therapy more than law enforcement. He let the highway patrol handle the speeders and the state troopers handle the meth dens. That’s what the locals liked about him.
Coordinating law enforcement branches and delegating legal authority to anyone else with a badge, he spent most of his time settling disputes over neighborly grudges. Judging by the complaints filed during his informal lunch briefings, one might assume that the town was a hotbed of illicit criminal activity and voluminous intrigue, although most of the disputes would easily be settled over a couple of longnecks down at the Starlight lounge, later in the evening.
Today, his guest was Mickey Parlaine, a local business owner with a handful of side hustles. “Greg — do you mind if I call you Greg?” Even in the early summer heat, he wore a suit. He sweated lightly in the air-conditioned dining room.
Sheriff Etherton correctly assumed that Mickey was from the east coast, as nobody in California, especially this close to Mojave, would wear a suit. Etherton dipped a fry in ketchup, recognizing that his meal was over. “I’d rather you not.” He glanced down at his plate. He was two bites away from finishing the first half of his club sandwich, and still had a handful of steak fries going cold. He wiped his fingers on his napkin, dabbed at the corner of his mouth, and crumpled the used napkin under the edge of his plate.
Mickey stumbled on, ignoring the hint that he was interrupting. “A man like you is wasted behind a badge. With your experience and history, you should be getting back into politics. It’s where you belong.” Mickey pulled the paper napkin from under the fresh silverware setting. “If this town is going to keep growing, it’s going to need a real mayor,” Mickey said, dabbing the thin sheen of sweat from his forehead.
With little tourism to boast about besides the model train museum built into the strip mall, or Vickers’s strange alien museum at the edge of town, the only real reason to stop was that it was the first gas for fifty miles in either direction. The town didn’t need a mayor; it probably didn’t need much of a sheriff. Arroyo Grande just needed a decent babysitter. “I don’t exactly see Arroyo Grande becoming some sort of tourism destination, Mickey.”
Lisa bustled past, sliding a fresh napkin under the silverware setting and sliding it subtly away from Mickey, who had yet to order. “Get a box for ya, Greg?” she asked.
“Thanks, Lisa,” Sheriff Etherton nodded.
Lisa grabbed the plate and glanced down at it. “You want an extra pickle spear?”
The sheriff smiled and winked at her, rifling through his pockets for a few dollars to leave for a tip. Lisa rolled her eyes at Mickey and smiled sympathetically at the sheriff.
“I know what you’re thinking.” Mickey leaned forward, attempting to be engaging. Getting the sheriff to run for mayor was just another sale; all he had to do was get the sheriff to nod and keep him nodding. If he could keep the sheriff nodding, he would eventually agree to just about anything. It was a basic cold call sales skill. “You’re thinking that you’re a little young for mayor,” Mickey said, confidently.
Greg was actually wondering if he had left all of his cash on the nightstand. While the management at Sancho’s Silver Spoon gladly covered the cost of his meals, if only to maintain a friendly police presence, he was accustomed to over-tipping the server if only to ensure that nobody spit in his food. Digging through his uniform shirt pockets for a few stray dollars, he absentmindedly nodded to Mickey’s ongoing intrusion. “That’s fine, Mickey. How about you call down to my office sometime, and we can discuss the situation.” The sheriff pulled a business card from his uniform pocket, offering it as he might to anyone complaining about a neighborly dispute or civic complaint.
“Well, I’m ready to get started if you just want to give me the go ahead now,” Mickey sat upright, nodding mechanically as he had been taught, still hoping to engage the sheriff.
The sheriff took the Styrofoam to-go box and slid it towards the edge of the counter, letting Mickey know that he was ready to go. “Lisa, hon, I am afraid I’m a little cash poor.” He patted his pockets convincingly. “You mind if I get you that tip tomorrow?”
“No problem, sweetie.” She rested her elbows on the counter, leaning forward to display a little more cleavage than the sheriff was strictly comfortable with, but it wasn’t for him. Lisa knew the effect a low-cut blouse had on Mickey, and what was the point of aftermarket parts if not to make the creepy guys go off the rails?
Mickey stammered in his sales pitch, trying to steal furtive glances down the front of Lisa’s uniform blouse. “Just think about it, Sheriff.” His eyes flicked sideways to find Lisa staring at him with a slightly bemused if not entirely smug, Mona Lisa smile. “This town, could, uh…” A fine sweat speckled his waxy forehead and he swallowed hard, avoiding another sideways glance. “We’re growing, and we could use a man like you where you belong, leading the council.”
When she was satisfied that she had completely melted Mickey’s brain, Lisa stood up straight, glancing around the restaurant with a few unnecessarily heavy breaths, causing her bosom to swell and effectively ending the conversation. “So, when are you gonna bring that cute little girl of yours around, Greg?”
The sheriff, amused at her game, leaned back slightly in his seat. “When is George going to put prime rib back on the menu?” The sheriff’s wife was a life-long vegan, so George’s prime rib dinners had been a rare treat, so to speak.
She raised an eyebrow. “If I get you a prime rib night, you’ll bring her down?”
He raised three fingers like a proper Baden Powell progeny. “Scouts honor. I’ll bring her down for a daddy daughter dinner night.”
She nodded approvingly. “Mickey, honey, are you gonna order, or do I gotta get one of the guys out here to hustle you along?”
“Ah, Lisa, I was just…”
The sheriff winked at Lisa again, grabbed his box lunch and made for the exit as casually as he could speed walk out to his cruiser.
The tale has been illicitly lifted; should you spot it on Amazon, report the violation.
Straight out the front door he was greeted by the tantalizing scent of a brushfire that reminded him of his college dorm. He smiled involuntarily. Petty as it might be now that it was pretty much legal nearly everywhere, he couldn’t help the urge to stroll towards the back of the Spoon to find the source. He heard the aces laughing, saw the smoke even before he rounded the corner.
“Shut up about the fucking lawnmower, bro!” Terrence called. “Ain’t nobody got a lawn left to mow in this dried-up fucking town.”
“Tell that to my wife,” a low voice responded. “Can’t afford the four hundred fifty bucks for one of those battery powered numbers.”
“How come we never seen this wife of yours?” Earl asked.
“She don’t like to be seen,” the new guy muttered.
Etherton rounded the corner with a bemused expression, hoping to catch the three of them in flagrante, but as soon as they noticed him, the new guy in the chef coat popped something into his mouth and proceeded to take a drag off his cigarette.
“Motherfucker did it again!” Earl laughed, pointing at the old guy squatting on a milkcrate.
“Afternoon, gentlemen.” The sheriff offered cordially. “Sorry to interrupt the meeting, but I thought something might be burning back here.”
Terrence stood up, waving the strawberry scented vapor from his face, like that might be what Etherton was hinting at.
“Hey, Sheriff!” Earl called casually. He glanced down at his own cigarette, just a regular old menthol.
“You staying out of trouble there, Terrence?”
Terrence nodded emphatically. “Yes, sir.” He showed the sheriff his little candy colored vape canister, taking a quick puff to demonstrate it. “It’s strawberry. That might be what you smelled.”
Etherton nodded with a subtle smirk, glancing around the ground for the pipe or joint or whatever they had just been smoking. “You must be the new guy George mentioned.” The sheriff sized him up. He was a little guy, just as rail thin as the rest of them, with a thin scar running from his hairline. “I hear good things about you.”
“All lies,” the new guy said.
“Mm-hmm.” Etherton watched him for a moment, his level gaze the sort that generally turned the guilty in on themselves. His wife called it “cop face.”
“Pedaso,” the new guy offered, without looking up from his phone. “Stuart.”
“Nice to meet you, Stuart,” Sheriff Etherton said, raising his to-go box in lieu of a handshake.
“My friends call me Stu,” he said with a little involuntary grunted burp that released a tiny puff of smoke.
Terrence shook his head. “Allegedly,” he chuckled under his breath.
Earl slapped Terrence’s shoulder. “Shut the fuck up,” he hissed, ever the peacekeeper.
They might be a little stoned, but the sheriff wasn’t about to run Terrence down to the office for a petty probation violation. Losing Terrence for a few days would probably shut the Silver Spoon down, and Terrence was doing his best to stay off the hard stuff.
“How was lunch today, Sheriff?” Earl asked. He had been off probation for years before Etherton even arrived in town, but he was another one of the good ones. He might drink a little more than he should, but he staggered home or caught a ride, and his personal guilt was greater than the law required.
“Great as usual, boys.” Etherton nodded and patted his belly.
“Alright, then.” Earl said, glancing down at his cigarette like he shouldn’t even be smoking that in front of a cop.
“Welp,” the sheriff said, “I ought to get on it, then.”
“Thanks for stopping by, Sheriff,” Terrence offered, like George would have wanted.
The new guy just kept scrolling through his phone without glancing up.
“Yup,” Etherton raised the to-go box again by way of salutation and shuffled back towards his cruiser. He heard the clandestine commentary without being able to make out a word until the new guy mumbled: “A cop is a cop, dude.” And Etherton decided to run the name through the system, just to see what came up.
Safely situated in his mobile office, he scrolled through the transcription of his dispatch feed, content that nothing whatsoever was happening in Arroyo Grande that would require law enforcement. He pulled out of the parking lot and slid up to the light and plucked a lukewarm steak fry from the box of leftovers, regretting that he hadn’t thought to grab a couple packets of ketchup for his midafternoon snack. As he was typing the new guy’s name into the database, just to check, he heard a familiar glass pack muffler growl and watched a chopped and dropped black mustang screech around the corner from Second street.
Sheriff Etherton hit a couple of squawks over the intercom and the Mustang eased to a reasonable speed, pulling up politely beside him.
“Afternoon, Sheriff!” Ashley called in a chipper, flirtatious voice.
The sheriff shook his head disapprovingly at her, but with the slightest smile.
Ashley, who had only recently taken up a job as a barista at a local bikini coffee kiosk, was widely known by law enforcement along a few hundred miles of desert highway. Seemingly impervious to speeding tickets, she had managed to charm her way out of a number of citations.
Engine idling beside him at the light, Ashley nonchalantly bobbed her head to the music. “Nice day for it!” she called.
“A nice day for what?” he asked.
“A nice day to be out diligently obeying all traffic laws and regulations, of course.” She giggled and wobbled her head playing ditzy for him.
“Yes. Yes, it is,” he said. The traffic light ran long, yielding to the nonexistent interstate traffic. The sheriff watched Ashley tap her thumbs on the steering wheel, mumbling along to her narco corrido. Sheriff Etherton chuckled softly. He flipped the cruiser into neutral and gunned the engine a couple of times. The turbo charged V8 rumbled.
Ashley giggled politely. Glancing over her sunglasses, her gaze grew chilly. “Please, Sheriff. I would have to smoke your ass.” The light turned green. Ashley punched the gas in first, popped it into neutral, redlining the RPMs to get the glass pack screaming but politely coasting across the interstate towards the back streets. The sheriff stomped the accelerator, but out of gear, the V8 just roared impotently for a moment.
Ashley hung her arm out the window and twiddled her manicured nails at him as she drove away.
Etherton dropped it into gear and lazily turned left down the freeway, hoping for a rematch with Ashley when he mumbled the guy’s name aloud to himself. “Stu Pedaso,” he said, and knew he wouldn’t be getting very far with the background check.
* * *
“A cop’s a cop, dude.” Hitch grumbled.
“Ah, he’s alright, ya know?” Earl took the last few drags of his cigarette. “He’s a helluva lot better than the last guy, okay?”
“I can’t believe you ate that thing again, bro.”
Hitch burped at him.
“I mean, he could have fucked us right there, you know?” Earl pushed his sleeves up. “Herschel would have had us all.”
“Weed’s legal now.” Hitch shrugged. “Takes all the fun out of it.”
Terrence shook his head. “Not for me.”
“I mean, I ain’t gonna lie, I’ve been lucky, but I’m a fucking white guy you know?”
Terrence glanced over at Earl.
“Seriously, Earl. I’m sure I ain’t gotta explain it to you.”
“He’s not a real cop.” Earl said. “I think he was like, on some city council or something, you know?”
“Put a gun in his hand, and he’d shoot you just for coming around the corner at night.”
“Yeah,” Earl chuckled, “He ain’t gonna see me. I put my hoodie up and I’m like a ninja, okay? I’m like black on black, like stealth mode.”
Terrence laughed. “That’s why the bus never stops for you, bro.”
“You’re already in the system, dude. He doesn’t need to register you anymore.”
“The sheriff’s fuckin’ daughter is black, bro!”
Hitch glanced up at Earl. “Anything you want to tell us Earl?”
Earl grinned.
Terrence laughed. “Nah, man, he and his wife adopted a Jamaican girl. They’re alright. They got BLM signs all over their lawn.”
Hitch shrugged. “Put a gun in his hand, and we’ll find out pretty quick.”
“Yer such a fuckin’ downer, bro.”
Hitch dropped his cigarette butt in the can and stuffed his phone in his pocket as he stood. “I’m pragmatic, Terrence.”
“Fuck, bro. I wish you’d stop doing that.”
“Doing what?”
“You’re always using big words.” He took another puff from his vape pen and exhaled a strawberry scented cloud. “You know I’m not that smart.”
Earl stopped at the back door and turned on them. “It means he’s a realist, okay? Like, most cops aren’t like the sheriff, you know?”
“Most cops are neither intelligent, nor educated. That’s why they need the guns.”
“Then just say that.”
“He did, okay?” Earl rested his hand on Terrence’s shoulder. “And don’t go mistaking intelligence for education, alright? You’re like, super smart, but you just didn’t go to school.”
“You couldn’t do what you do in that kitchen if you weren’t intelligent,” Hitch offered.
“Fuck off.”
“Now see, you could say, like, ‘fornicate off’ right there.”
“Yeah, dude. Or ‘fellate me’ maybe.”
“Shut up!”
Earl chuckled. “Or copulate away.”
“You guys are fucking assholes.”
Hitch watched the sheriff pull up to the light and heard the P/A squelch at a lowered sportscar. He shook his head. “A cop’s a fucking cop,” he muttered again.