Chapter Twenty-Two

Sheriff Tommy started the car and reached into his back pocket. Pulling out a can of tobacco, he took a small pinchfrom the can, realizing it was his last dip. After putting the wad of tobacco in his mouth along his front two bottom teeth, he moistened his finger and rubbed it around to pick up the loose pieces resting in the sides of the can. He then sucked the remaining tobacco from his finger.

Satisfied, Tommy put the squad car in gear and started up the road, tossing the snuff can in the floorboard on the passenger side. Ransom was seated in the back examing the entire procedure.

“Damn. That's my last dip.”

“That causes cancer you know.”

“Yep.” The sheriff sounded completely indifferent.

“And that doesn't bother you?” Ransom was truly incredulous by his lack of emotion.

“Nope. I figure I got to go sometime. And in my line of work you never know when that day will be.”

Ransom snickered. “Oh, I'm sure. This is a regular downtown Detroit, huh?”

Tommy grabbed an empty soda can from the cup holder. The tab had been pulled off and the opening enlarged to allow for easier spitting. He held the can closely to his lips and emitted a string of brown juice into it. “Nope. We wouldn't let it get that bad,” he said after completing his spittle ritual.

“You know, I bet you've never even had to fire your gun. I mean, besides dropping it.”

“I've shot a few people.” Tommy grinned and spit again before continuing, “And only a couple of them was accidents.”

There was an awkward pause in the squad car. Ransom fidgeted a moment, feeling the discomfort of the cuffs against his wrists.

“So how did Mr. Philpot get cancer?”

“Nazi experiments during the big one. Old Philpot was one tough mother. He was POW for nearly three months in Europe. He told me once that he took a bullet right in the gut where the tumor is now growing; said that the Nazi's used some chemical concoction to try and patch him up, you know, experimental stuff.”

“Sounds painful. Why do they call it the BLT, anyway?” Ransom figured he’d at least get what he could for the story he may never even get the chance to write.

“Who told you about that?” The sheriff just kept on spitting, a veritable faucet of liquid disgust as he spoke. “Better ask the Mayor about that, we aren’t supposed to talk about it.”

“Does this town really believe the tumor is lucky? What in God's name could be lucky about having a tumor?”

“Like I said yank, you'd best talk with Mayor Barton.” Tommy’s eyes looked back through the rearview mirror. His stare was fierce and combative. It lasted a second too long. Having his attention diverted away from the road, he failed to notice an animal, about the size of large dog, step in front of the moving squad car.

Tommy tried to hit the breaks, but it was too late. The police car skidded a few feet before striking the animal with a deafening thud. Two quick thumps later, he pulled the vehicle over to the side of the road.

“Wait right here.”

The sheriff got out and first walked to the front of the car to inspect any damage that might have occurred from the collision. He nodded and circled the car, then walked back down the road a few dozen feet.

Although it was uncomfortable to turn his head around at that angle, Ransom looked back to watch. Tommy knelt down around a furry mass along the side of the road. Then he stood up, shook his head, and drew his sidearm again.

A single shot rang out with a burst of light from the muzzle. The sound of it rattled the partially cracked window in the squad car. The sheriff then walked over to the trunk of the squad car, opened it up and removed a large plastic bag. Ransom watched him hoist the animal up and begin placing it in the bag. It looked very much like a goat.

After fully bagging the animal, Tommy returned to the squad car, shut the trunk lid, and loaded the bag into the passenger seat, before getting back behind the wheel and moving out.

“What was it?”

“A goat, probably one of Parker's.”

“Was it alive? Why didn't you take it to the vet?”

“You some kind of animal lover?”

“No, I just wondered why you shot it.”

“It was a bleeding out the ears. Nothing could be done, there wasn't any good reason for it to suffer.”

“Is there ever?”

“Ever what?” Tommy looked back at Ransom through the mirror again.

“A good reason for something to suffer?”

“Yeah, I suppose sometimes there is. My cousin runs one of them there lamb farms where he raises baby lambs to make veal. He says the little lambs have to stand in these boxes that don't let 'em move left or right, forward or backward. They just stand there while their meat gets all soft.” Tommytookup thespit can once again. “You ever had veal?”

“Yes.”

“A lot better than goat meat.”

Ransom watched as the officer patted the goat beside him. It somehow seemed a more fitting thought than the Beethoven filling his earsduring his trip Bethlehem.

“But you didn't even look for an alternative. You just killed it. How could you be so sure in such a quick amount of time?”

“That goat was in the wrong place at the wrong time. It’s as simple as that sometimes.” Tommy took a right turn into what was for Ransom, a familiar street connecting to the town’s main square. Ransom gazed out the window and the sheriff continued. “Do you got any more wise comments, or are you going sit back there and pipe down like a good prisoner?”

“I just have one more question.”

“Yeah?”

“Who's Bo?”