On the Bourbon Trail – chapter four
"…a vacation?"
What Tim had hoped would be a two-minute conversation with Art the next morning, a quick request for time off and an equally quick okay, was dragging closer to a half hour because Art refused to believe what he was hearing. He had forced to Tim to repeat the request, and they were currently working on a third attempt.
The first time through, Art had tapped at his hearing aid and shrugged at Tim and said, "I think I need new batteries. I'd swear you were asking for some time off, but that can't be right. What did you say? Can you repeat it?"
Tim had tilted his head a tiny bit, just enough to let Art know he was being a good deputy and playing along with the joke, made the request a second time, a little louder. "I'd like a week off. Va-ca-tion."
Art had stared back at him. "It's not the batteries, is it?"
A slow shake of his head, still playing along, "Nope."
Worry and confusion, Art had heaped both into a melodramatic expression then leaned sideways in his chair to peer around Tim out into the bullpen.
"What are you looking at?" Tim had turned too, curious, saw nothing unusual and turned back.
"I'm not looking at anything. I'm looking for something."
"What?"
"The Rapture."
"Are you already into the bourbon this morning?"
"I just figure you must know something I don't and are asking for a week off to do some good, atone in anticipation, cramming for the exam so to speak, maybe a confession…or sixty."
"I'd need more than a week."
That statement had stalled the conversation further while Art ruminated on it. Facetious or realistic? It was hard to tell when it was delivered in a deadpan by Tim. "Good point. It's gotta be something else. So what is it you want? I heard vacation but maybe you said…promotion?"
Art had raised his eyebrows to punctuate the question, and Tim had mirrored the action, figuring what the hell, maybe he could get a promotion and some vacation time out of this game.
"Sure, promotion, sounds good."
"I could certainly check into your file, see if you've made it through all the checkpoints, then I'd have to get in touch with the higher ups and put in a request…"
Tim had then asked a third time, hoping for some of that proverbial charm, "Do you think I could take a week off while you're doing all that?"
And Art's response, "What d'you mean, a week off? You, away from work? …a vacation?"
Tim reached across the desk and nabbed a bright orange pad of Post-It notes, snatched the pen from Art's hand and scribbled VACATION in capital letters onto the orange, underlined it aggressively, then tossed it back in front of Art. Art studied it carefully, turning it one way then the other, said, "I can't quite make it out. Does that say vanish…vanquish…vacillate…Vatican…?"
"I think I now have cause to make a complaint against you with Human Resources. You have repeatedly ignored my request for time off, and I recall you getting a letter from them about my accumulating too much vacation time and holding it over my head in a threatening manner not even four weeks ago. There may have been some yelling, some physical abuse… I think I even have witnesses. Can we get Rachel in here? She'll remember it."
Art blinked. "When do you want to start your week, oh favorite Deputy?"
"Tomorrow. I got nothing on the schedule."
"Done. See you next Wednesday."
"Great." Tim stood up.
"Actually Tim, why don't you start now? Cut loose a little. Make it six days. It really is a weirdly quiet week. My desk is clean. Look."
"I got some things I wanna do first, people to bother, one of the lawyers downstairs owes me lunch…"
"Which one?"
"New public defender."
"Fine. Come back before you head out at the end of the day. We'll have a drink and celebrate."
"Celebrate what?"
"The miracle of your coming in here and actually requesting a vacation without that scary woman of yours behind you holding one of your guns to your head."
"Is that how you see this – a miracle? I see it as more like flagellation. This has been fucking torture."
"The Lord works in mysterious ways."
"And always with attitude."
"Amen."
"Aw, man."
"I notice you didn't bother defending Miljana."
"I can't. It's the truth."
The lawyer that owed Tim lunch, Bradley Bachmeier, was about the same age as Tim, maybe a year or two older, a year or two younger. He looked younger, but that didn't mean anything except perhaps that he sat in an office all day and kept his fingernails clean and the sun off his skin. There was a vibe that Tim felt around him, that maybe this guy believed they were destined to be best buds because of the age thing, because Tim had been able to do him a favor. Tim tolerated him. It was convenient having a lawyer who believed in make-believe camaraderie.
"Where do you want to go for lunch?" He spoke fast, Bradley, walked fast, breathed fast, worked fast. He was fast getting annoying.
"Village Idiot." It should have been a question but Tim said it as if it were a statement. The jab was missed entirely.
"Perfect, yeah. I like that place. It's close."
"Great."
"Thanks again for tracking down that witness."
"It's kinda my job."
"Still, you could've brushed me off, or just pretended to make the effort – I know how these things work with you guys since, God knows, you've got enough to do without some lawyer asking you to track down some slacker – so I appreciate you showing up with him on the trial date, not after, like I hear happens regularly. You know, I say, 'Hey buddy, can you track this guy down, he's on subpoena?' and you guys say, 'Yeah, no problem' and then you're left with your nuts hanging on trial date when the guy isn't in the courtroom and the judge is looking at you like you're a moron, so, you know, thanks."
"Yeah, no problem."
"Seriously, I owe you. It was my first biggie, you know? It's nice to start out ahead of the pack."
"Uh-huh."
"So, if there's anything I can do for you…"
The itch started again, a tickling between the brain stem and the cerebellum, and Tim started scratching behind his left ear, but it didn't help. Somewhere in his past was a time when he'd do something because he was told to, because it was his job and people relied on him, because he was duty-bound, to a point. It was simpler because the same basic things motivated him as motivated the guy beside him – survival, loyalty, pride. Simple feelings really. The court house scene was a little different, more of a 'what have you done for me lately?' kind of greasing that made him itch uncomfortably some days. Not that he wouldn't play the game with the rest of them, but it left a funny taste in his mouth, something sickly sweet. He preferred the sour metallic of do or die. Still, when in Rome… He sat across from his public defender best buddy and closed his eyes for a moment and focused on that itch, tried using a little mental imaging to scratch it. It didn't work. Tim figured it didn't work because the itch had a source, and the source was three words – snipers are cowards – and the fact that he knew that was the source meant that the only cure was to do something about it. He opened his eyes and jumped into the cesspool. Art and Miljana were not going to be happy.
"Yeah, I got a favor… Do you know Felicity Whitshaw?"
"The state attorney in Frankfort?"
"That's her."
"Yeah, not well, but…"
"Well enough to talk to her?"
"Sure."
"Then there is something you can do for me…"
It didn't seem like much of a favor when Tim outlined what he needed. The lawyer shrugged and said, "Sure thing. Can I ask why?"
"You just did. Do you have my phone number?"
"Yeah."
"I'm off for a few days. Call me when you've talked to her."
Tim finished his lunch, made the appropriate gestures of appreciation then escaped, excusing himself with a fabricated work-related errand. He was half a block down the street when he saw him, Craig Franklin, snipers are cowards, philanthropist asshole, and it was too late to cross the street and pretend he didn't see him – Franklin saw Tim first.
"Lexington's just not fucking big enough," said Tim under his breath.
"Tim. Tim Gutterson, right? This is a lucky coincidence. I got a problem I'm hoping you can solve for me."
"You need a bodyguard?"
"Pardon?"
"Nothing."
"I'm hoping to recruit you because of your particular influence with someone that I need to convince of something. Miljana called me yesterday, said she couldn't work with us anymore. I'm so desperately disappointed. Do you think you could talk to her, get her to change her mind?"
"Nope. She does what she wants."
"Do you have any idea why she's quitting?"
"She's not quitting. She doesn't quit. She's moving on."
"Moving on to what though?"
"That's something you should ask her," said Tim. Keeping his anger in check meant not going there right now. "I gotta run. Work." He dodged Franklin and trotted across the street in a break in traffic, obliquely toward the court house, changed his mind halfway and turned back. Someone honked; Tim glared. Ducking into his coffee shop for some take-out, he ordered a large, texted Miljana while he waited for the woman to pour.
Asshole on warpath. Expect a call.
?
Wants to know why you quit.
Mr. snipers are cowards? You saw him?
Tim read the phrase, grimaced all over again, felt the anger stirring up that itch. Yep.
Shit. He's not calling me from the hospital I hope?
"Here's your coffee, Deputy."
"Thank you, ma'am." The coffee smelled strong when Tim lifted it up for an appreciative sniff, just the way he liked it. He took his time fitting a lid on the cup, eyed the case of pastries, decided to buy something sweet to go with his beverage. "Can I get a slice of banana bread?"
"Chocolate chip or gluten-free pecan?"
"Oh, chocolate chip, of course." He counted out some change from his pocket and paid her. His phone buzzed, and in that buzz he could sense Miljana's agitation, impatience, concern. It was a loaded buzz. He grinned, set the coffee and his snack on the counter and read her text.
Tim!?
What?
Dammit, he's fine, right? You didn't…?
LOL Messing with you. Assholes walking and talking. I'm not stupid.
: |
Your sexy mad.
: *
The woman behind the counter was watching him. "Never a moment's peace with those things."
"I don't mind. She makes me laugh."
Miljana was still foremost in his thoughts when Tim arrived back at the Marshals Office, consequently in a good mood. Raylan was standing talking with Art, waved Tim over.
"Hey, Mathman, what's one plus one?"
"Two."
"Very good. You weren't lying about your super powers. And that's how many bad guys I got in one house. Take a ride with me. Art says you're free this afternoon."
"All right." Tim turned around mid-stride and headed back to the door.
"You boys be good," Art said, watching them leave.
Raylan caught up to Tim and held the door open for him. "Don't want you wearing your coffee."
"It's not a bad color on me, at least that's what Steve says."
"Steve?"
"Friend of Miljana's – you've met him."
"On your porch...Steve. Character, if I recall correctly."
"You recall correctly." Tim took a large bite of his banana bread, waved the remainder in front of Raylan, an offering.
"No thanks."
"Why does he say that?" Tim talked around his mouthful, waved the banana bread back toward the doors to the Marshals Office.
"Who?"
"Art."
"Say what?"
"'You boys be good.' Is he kidding?"
"I like to think of it as him giving us permission."
"How do you see that?"
"He's saying be good at what you do."
"Even if it's being bad?"
"That's the way I interpret it."
Tim stuffed the last of his snack in his mouth, raised his eyebrows and nodded thoughtfully.
"Art was telling me about that guy saying 'snipers are cowards' in front of you." Raylan watched the numbers on the elevator run their course – two, one. "I shouldn't pay him any mind if I were you. Guys like that, they like to hear themselves talk, say something controversial so everyone will think they're clever, like they know something we all don't. My mama used to say, 'just 'cause everyone agrees don't make it true.' Well, the opposite holds too – just 'cause a statement makes a stir because it's different don't mean it's a revelation of a profound and hidden truth."
"Zen and the art of wearing a cowboy hat. You should write a book, Raylan, impart your wisdom to the world."
"Fine, be like that. Art wanted me to make sure you weren't gonna do something stupid."
"I figured."
"Well?"
"Well what?"
"Are you gonna do something stupid?"
"If I am, I'm gonna take a lesson from you and I'm gonna be good at it."
"Good...I guess." Raylan pulled out his keys, spun them on a finger while they walked. "What's his name?"
"Who?"
"Don't be obtuse, asshole."
"Why do you want to know?"
"So if he shows up dead, I'll know to divert the investigation away from you."
"Oh, for fuck's sake, I'm not gonna shoot him."
"Name."
"This is getting fucking…"
"Name."
"Craig Franklin."
"Was that so hard?"
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