The LawDog Files Read online

  People who know me understand just how introverted I am, and those anonymous accusations almost caused me to shut down the blog.

  Fortunately, about four hours into the flood of emails, I got angry over the sheer cheek of people who didn’t know me and decided “Damn the torpedoes! I’m blogging! Just to irritate those idiots!”

  * * *

  Big Mama had four girls, and of the four, Opal was the most like her mama, both in temperament and body. In other words, one Opal would have easily made two of me, and I’m not exactly petite. Opal was as mean as her mama, and younger and fitter to boot.

  And there I was, taking a leisurely patrol through the Bad Section of Town, when I noticed what appeared to be a nekkid man laying flat on his back in the middle of the dirt road, with Opal, fully clothed—thank you, God—sitting square upon his stomach, facing his feet. This, in and of itself, was enough to warrant further investigation, but the prostrate man was also beating upon Opal’s broad back with his fists while screaming at the top of his lungs.

  Kissing all thoughts of a tranquil evening goodbye, I checked my pepper spray, stepped out of the cruiser, and walked up to the lovebirds.

  “Desmond,” I greeted the gentleman, whose face was not unfamiliar to me. “Opal. What’s on y’all’s minds?”

  “Go ’way, Mister Dawg,” said Opal, without turning around, “This don’t concern the law none.”

  “Oh, Sweet Jesus!” yelped Desmond, “Mister Dawg, you gotta do something!”

  Well, Hell.

  “Opal,” I started to say as I eased around to where I could see her hands, “We need to talk… Holy Mary!” The anguish I heard in Desmond’s voice was entirely understandable once I got far enough around the two to notice that Opal had Desmond’s schnitzel in both of her ham-sized fists and was apparently trying to rip the old boy out by the roots.

  I’m here to tell you, folks, walking up on that sort of thing without advance warning can make a feller get kind of wobble-legged around the knees.

  “Opal!” I shouted, “You turn loose of that! Now!”

  “No, Mister Dawg,” said Opal, defiantly, “I feed him. I pay his bills. I keep gas in his car and clothes on his back. This belongs to me. He owes me.”

  You know, there are certain things the Academy just doesn’t prepare you for. I repeated my demand.

  “Opal, you turn loose of Desmond. Let him go to his mama’s house, and then you come over to the car, and you talk to me.”

  “Okay, Mister Dawg. I don’t care where Desmond goes.”

  Good, I thought, wondering just where the heck I had put the extra-large handcuffs.

  “Desmond can go anywhere he feels the need. But this stays with me.” So saying, Opal made motions somewhat reminiscent of opening a particularly stubborn ketchup bottle. Desmond’s screams took on the silvery tone and dulcet quality of a World War II air raid siren.

  “Opal,” I interjected sternly, “Turn loose of Desmond, and let’s talk about this.”

  “No!”

  Well, so much for negotiation. I unlimbered my can of pepper spray, and then considered what a stiff dose of OC would do to Desmond’s exposed anatomy. Okay, so maybe pepper spray was not my best option.

  Out came the expandable baton. But what was I going to do with it, rap her knuckles? Damn.

  Once more into the breach. I took a deep, steadying breath, eased up on Opal, threw one arm around her fire hydrant-sized neck, and promptly rammed the thumb on the other hand deep into the angle between her jaw and ear.

  Things pretty much went pure rodeo from there. Opal screamed, she sunfished, she kicked, she twisted, and as a matter of fact, just about the only thing she didn’t do was let go of Desmond’s wedding tackle, even with me snarling, “Turn him loose, and I’ll stop hurting you,” into her ear and firmly twisting my thumb to emphasize my point.

  Opal apparently forgot to attend the Pain Compliance Class where the smarmy little instructor confidently tells you that this technique will cause anybody to stop what they’re doing and follow instructions because near as I could tell, not only did she not turn loose, she actually tightened the screws a good deal.

  Leastways, that was the impression I got from Desmond.

  Okay. Plan B. To hell with SOPs. I slid my arm across, snuggled in a good rear armbar choke, and hauled back for all I was worth.

  *sigh*

  Folks, now is the time to discuss “Leverage and Its Place in Law Enforcement.” Specifically, exactly how much leverage is available to a deputy sheriff wearing leather-soled ropers, standing on pecan-sized gravel, such gravel being cunningly laid over a hard-packed caliche clay road.

  Choke… sliiiiide… cuss.

  Sliidddeee… choke… CUSS!

  Swear… slide… swearswearswear… choke… cuss.

  Somewhere in the middle of this, the sheriff’s cruiser pulled to a stop behind us, and out stepped Himself.

  “Boy, what the hell are you doing?”

  “I am,” I panted with great dignity, “trying to resolve a property dispute.”

  “I swear,” he muttered, stepping around us. “Kids these days… WHOA!”

  Long pause while the sheriff pinched the bridge of his nose and practiced breathing in through his nose and out through his mouth.

  “Opal.”

  “Mister Randy?”

  “Turn loose of Desmond.”

  “I done told Mister Dawg this ain’t no concern of the law.”

  “I’m not going to argue with you, Opal. Drop that and get over here.”

  “Now, Mister Randy, that ain’t fair,” Opal’s lip started trembling, and tears welled up in her eyes, “I feed him. I keep gas in his car. I give him a place to sleep at night. I want what’s mine, and I’m keeping it. What he does is no concern of mine, but I’m keeping this.”

  The sheriff heaved the mighty sigh of a man who is unfairly beset by the evils of the world, wandered over to the bar ditch, and started kicking through the assorted stumps, branches, and planks while Opal glowered, Desmond wheezed, and I leaned against Opal’s broad back and contemplated mutiny.

  Apropos of nothing, the sheriff announced, “I hate tarantulas. Matter-of-fact, the only thing—ah-hah!—that I hate worse than a tarantula is one of those damned scorpions.” On went his leather gloves, he swooped down and came back up with something cupped gingerly in his hands.

  The sheriff wandered over to our little tableau.

  “I mean, sure when you get bit by one of them big, hairy bastards, you fall down and froth at the mouth for a while, but for sheer screaming agony, a scorpion sting will do it every time.”

  “No,” I thought, “Oh, hell, no.”

  “Opal,” said the sheriff, gently, as he stopped next to me, “I’m not going to tell you again. You turn loose of Desmond, and you do it now.”

  “Now, Mister Randy–”

  The sheriff reached out, hooked the collar of Opal’s muumuu, and promptly dropped one of those big, blue, spiky, Texas cornfield locusts down the back of Opal’s neck.

  Folks, if I’m lying, I’m dying. Not only did Opal detach herself from Desmond’s anatomy, she levitated six entire feet into the air, one arm going around the equator, and one taking the cross-polar route, hit the ground with a 4 on the Richter Scale, and took off down the street like a berserk cape buffalo, screaming for Big Mama every foot of the way.

  The sheriff dusted off his hands and fixed me with a gimlet eye. “Now what did I tell you about working smarter, not harder?”

  FILE 6: Box o’ Steaks

  I had watched some police procedural in which the main character was chasing yet another criminal mastermind and then publicly lamented that appalling lack of an Evil Genius in my career. Pretty soon the discussion devolved into a “Just How Stupid Are They, Really?” affair, and this story was born.

  Other than the blurring of details and some minor Poetic License to camouflage the identities of all involved, this story is—my paw to God—accurate. Most officers that
I’ve talked to have a story about a criminal every bit as stupid as this one. Heck, I’ve met a couple of officers who have read this story and swear—not realizing that I am the author—that they were the Bubba mentioned below.

  They weren’t, but the fact that they think they were just goes to reinforce the idea that this particular episode of “Derp” is not unique.

  Oh, and the initial two sentences you see here were added a couple of hours after I posted it on my blog in an attempt to head off the inevitable charges of racism. It didn’t work.

  * * *

  There’s nothing quite like getting ambushed by a buzzard to let you know that your week is about to take a header down the khazi.

  Especially when the buzzard is the size of a Boeing jet and made out of ballpoint pen ink.

  I had walked into the main room of The Feedlot in search of nothing more exciting than a chicken-fried steak dinner and a gallon of iced tea, but the main room of the restaurant seemed to have been replaced by a jailhouse tattoo of a buzzard staring down into a bloody huge canyon of cleavage.

  I took a couple of steps back, looked up, and groped for my pepper spray as Pearl, Big Mama’s youngest daughter and Opal’s baby sister, squinted down at me through the haze of smoke generated by the panetela cigar dangling from the side of her mouth.

  “Mister ’Dog,” said Pearl, removing the stogie and thumping about two inches of ash onto the carpet, “Put’cher butt inna seat. You drinkin’?”

  “Pearl!” I heard the voice of the restaurant’s owner.

  Pearl sighed, rolled her eyes at the ceiling, replaced her panetela, and while making suggestive pumping gestures with a closed fist, fingers tattooed with the word “l U V F”, she sing-songed, “Welcome-to-the-Feedlot-smoking-over-there-non-smoking-over-there-would-you-like-something-to-drink?”

  I stood there for a moment, taking in the miniskirt, fishnet stockings, engineer boots, and spaghetti-strap halter top that revealed enough pen ink to be a monument to the Bic Corporation, not to mention waaa-aay too much of six-foot, four-inch, 340-plus pounds of Pearl.

  “What?” she grunted, planting a fist, this one bearing the word “H a 7 F”, on one hip.

  “Umm,” sayeth I, more than a bit flabbergasted, “You got a job?”

  “Yeah,” she snarled, “Mother[deleted] down at the parole office got a little [deleted] an’ tryin’ to prove he a man. Told me I hadda get a job, or he gonna revoke my [deleted].”

  “The horror.”

  “Got that [deleted] right.” She turned and clomped off through the tables.

  I made my way to my usual seat and was subsequently joined by Joe Bob, the owner of The Feedlot.

  “You’ve got to do something.”

  “I am going to do something. I’m going to eat a chicken-fried steak.”

  “No, Dog, you’ve got to do something about her,” he jerked a surreptitious thumb at Pearl, who was fishing around for something elbow-deep in her bra, “She’s driving off my business.”

  Pearl jerked a Kleenex from the depths of her decolletage, gave it a brief examination, and dropped it onto a table next to a formerly napkin-less customer.

  “Private contracts between private citizens are not my business, Joe Bob. You hired her. You want her fired. You do it.”

  “Now, see here, Dog, my taxes pay your salary…”

  “Yes,” I interrupted, “Your taxes pay about 1/5500th of my salary. That’s about five dollars per year. Here’s your five bucks worth: in a fight, Pearl goes for the wedding tackle. You might want to keep that in mind.”

  We watched in silence as Pearl picked up a plate in front of a customer, cocked a finger under her thumb, flicked something off the plate, and thumped the plate back down in front of the customer.

  “Do you want me to beg?”

  “I’m not going to fire your employee. That’s your job.”

  “I’m begging you.”

  “Nope.”

  “I’ll pay you.”

  “Not going to happen.”

  There was a long silence that was finally broken when the other waitress set my steak dinner in front of me.

  “If she kills me, where are you going to go for another steak like that, huh?”

  I chewed appreciatively, “To whichever diner hires your cook.”

  “You’ll be sorry when I’m dead.”

  “I’ll cry and tell nice lies about you at the funeral. Pass the pepper, please.”

  Joe Bob snarled wordlessly at me and stomped off to his office.

  To my surprise, dinner was uneventful, especially compared to my previous run-ins with Pearl. The rest of the shift was quiet, and I went to bed happy.

  About 0445, the phone rang.

  “Mmhprg, drizl?”

  “’Dog,” said the midnight dispatcher, “We’ve had a break-in at The Feedlot. Sheriff said to meet him there.”

  “Unkfd.”

  I threw on some clothes and pulled up in front of The Feedlot about the same time as the sheriff. Bubba, the night deputy, and Joe Bob met us at the door.

  “I checked the alley at 0300, and the door was shut,” said Bubba, altogether too cheerful for that early in the morning, “I came back at 0430, and the door was standing open. I’ve cleared the inside, and Joe Bob says the only thing missing is three boxes of steaks from the walk-in freezer.”

  I squinted at Joe Bob, “Did you fire her?”

  “Who?” grunted the sheriff.

  “Yeah,” grouched Joe Bob, “I fired her last night at closing. No thanks to you, by the way.”

  “He hired Big Mama’s Pearl as a waitress,” I said to my boss. “Decided he made a mistake and wanted me to fire her for him.”

  “Moron,” grunted Himself, although it was unclear to whom he was referring. “Anybody know where Pearl is staying these days? I think we might want to have a chat with that girl.”

  As if on cue, a 1970-something Primer Gray Buick Doorless pulled into the parking lot of The Feedlot, and Pearl eased out of the driver’s seat through the gaping hole where the door used to be.

  “’Mornin’, Mr. Randy, Mr. Joe Bob. I done heard about the thievin’, and I know some people who know some people, and I thought since you was a nice man ’n’ all, I’d get you a couple’a box of steaks to replace the ones that done got stoled” said Pearl, just as chipper as all hell.

  She lifted two white boxes out of the back of the Buick and placed them on the trunk lid.

  “Now, Pearl,” murmured the sheriff, laying a hand on a box, “That’s almighty neighborly of you.”

  I’m sure that it was random chance that caused the sheriff’s hand to cover the orange-and-white sticker that read: “Deliver to The Feedlot, Bugscuffle, Texas.”

  I nodded, wandering up on the other side of Pearl.

  “Hey,” said Joe Bob, “That’s… OW!”

  “Sorry, sheriff,” said Bubba, “I seem to have accidentally stepped upon Joe Bob’s foot.”

  “Now, Mr. Joe Bob, I done bought these here boxes at twenny dolla’s each. Just to show there ain’t no hard feelin’s ’tween you ’n’ me and ’cause you is in a bad way right now, I’ll sell ’em to you at twenny each. I won’t take no profit ’cause I like you.”

  “Well, now, Pearl,” smiled the sheriff, “That doesn’t seem hardly right. Tell you what we’re going to do. Seeing as how Mr. Joe Bob can’t lock up his place, we’ll take these steaks down to the office, so they’ll be safe. While we’re there, I’m going to write you a receipt for the boxes, and we’ll get the town Good Samaritan Fund to pay you fifty dollars for this good deed.”

  “That’s awful nice of you, Mr. Randy,” Pearl said as Bubba gathered up the boxes and put them in the back seat of his cruiser.

  I smiled real big at Pearl and held open the back door of the sheriff’s cruiser, as with every indication of courtesy and manners, the sheriff gently took her arm, patted her hand, and led her to his car.

  We were just about in the clear when Joe Bob ruined everything.


  “Are you blind?” bellowed Joe Bob, as he waved one of the stickers from the steak boxes in our general direction, “These are my own [deleted] steaks! Are you [deleted] stupid enough to pay her for the [deleted] steaks she [deleted] STOLE?!”

  *sigh*

  Things went rodeo from there.

  Pearl planted her feet as the sheriff attempted to shove her inside the backdoor of the cruiser, I jumped forward and snagged a good grip on her other arm, and Bubba came sprinting at us, unlimbering his can of OC.

  I fired a solid knee-strike into Pearl’s thigh with the intention of distracting her, but she was apparently too busy smacking the sheriff across the parking lot to notice. Seeing as how Plan A was well-and-truly paws-up, I kneed Pearl a second time and attempted a takedown.

  Unfortunately, right after I threw the knee, I felt her arm straighten out, and then she got my full and complete attention, along with a huge pawful of the bifurcation of my jeans.

  She yanked up, and I was more than happy to jump whichever way she was wanting to go. Unfortunately, I bobbled the landing a bit and hit the parking lot at Pearl’s feet.

  Bubba lined up on Pearl’s face with his can of OC, but held fire as the sheriff jumped up onto Pearl’s back and snaked an arm around her neck. She dug her chin into her chest, blocking the sheriff’s choke, reached out for a pawful of Bubba’s face, and proceeded to throw him bodily across the parking lot. Then, she turned and started lumbering toward her car.

  Seeing no other choice, I reached up and wrapped both my arms around her leg, forcing her to drag me along. She took about four steps and then stopped to try to pull the sheriff off her back, so I took the opportunity to weasel my slapper out of my vest pocket. She started dragging me in a circle, trying to shake me off while I held on for dear life.

  Bubba pulled himself out of the gravel, took a couple of steps, and then kicked the hell out of Pearl’s other leg, rocking her and giving me the chance to wrap my legs around her leg and to start beating the absolute whey out of her thigh with my slapper.

  Between Bubba kicking at her left leg, me wrapped like a rabid spider monkey around her right leg and pounding on it with a lead weight, and the sheriff furiously trying to lock in that choke hold, it was only about another five minutes before Pearl finally gave up the fight.