The Old Gray Wolf

by James D. Doss

  In less time than it takes to tell about it, Scott Parris was on a dead run after the purse thief. Sad to say, Charlie Moon’s best friend was well past the flower of his youth, and carrying about sixty pounds more than the young man he was chasing. Add to that the fact that the grade was slightly uphill and what it summed up to was No Contest—the skinny criminal was putting an increasing distance between them. By the time Parris was within a stride or two of the Cadillac, he was puffing like an overloaded pack mule ascending La Veta Pass. Too winded to think and relying entirely on instinct, he wished that he … had a rock to throw at that thieving bastard. But he did not, and popping a shot at a petty perpetrator’s back was not strictly kosher, so the cop improvised right on the spot by grabbing the nearest object at hand, which was a can of black-eyed peas from a lady’s shopping cart. (That’s right—the very same lady whose purse had been snatched.)

  On this occasion, unlike the last, both the mother and the daughter were aware of the blatant thievery.

  Blissfully unaware of their wide eyes and gaped mouths, and recalling his days on an Indiana high school football team, Parris got a firm grip on the can with his trusty right hand, slowed to a light trot, and prepared to assume the classic stance and make that once-in-a-lifetime pass.

  Outraged, one of the victimized citizens (Momma) yelled, “You bring that back, you big fat thief!” The other (sweet little Betsy Lou) commenced to jump up and down and scream shrilly, “Call the po-leece, Momma—call the po-leece!”

  Was Scott Parris jarred by this verbal abuse? Not a bit. Your sure-enough, steely-eyed quarterback does not allow himself to be distracted by murderous threats from the hulking defense, much less flustered by rude yells from the bench, away-team fans with bloodlust in their hearts—or the opposition’s wild-eyed cheerleaders who would dearly love to beat him to death with pink pom-poms.

  The GCPD chief of police stopped dead still, raised the hefty (sixteen-ounce) can of black-eyed peas over his beefy shoulder, made a hasty estimate of where his uncooperative receiver would be when the missile arrived—and let ’er fly. Being a realist about his athletic prowess, Parris figured his chances of hitting the target were about one in twenty. Which, given the dismal twilight visibility and the decades that had passed since he’d last launched the ol’ pigskin, was somewhere on the yonder side of optimistic.

  But the over-the-hill athlete had given it all he had—look at it go!

  Up into the glare of a parking-lot light, to an apogee where it paused for an infinitesimal instant, then down … down … down.

  Clunk!

  Thud—thud!

  Why both a “clunk!” and a “thud-thud!”?

  An understandable query from those with Inquiring Minds. A detailed explanation is hereby provided:

  The “clunk!” was the satisfying (to Parris) sound of the can smacking the fleeing miscreant squarely on the back of his lice-infested skull.

  The initial “thud!” was made by the fleeing thief’s body as he slammed face-first onto the parking-lot pavement.

  Which raises the delicate issue of the secondary “thud!”

  It happened like this. The spot that Scott Parris had selected for his game-winning pass was on a patch of what is popularly known as black ice, which is not a nice place to get set up for a long toss—especially when your footwear is a brand-new pair of Roper boots with slick-as-snail-spit leather soles. This unfortunate combination was the root cause of Parris’s hard fall—flat on his back.

  What little wind he had left after the sprint was completely expelled from his lungs and the sudden experience of asphalt slamming him in the spine like John Henry’s nine-pound hammer driving a railroad spike into a crosstie was sufficient to daze our hero for a fleeting moment. Call it six seconds. Which was enough time for sweet little Betsy Lou—ignoring her mother’s yelled warnings to “stay away from that thieving white trash, honey—he’s probably all doped up and packing a knife!”—to arrive at the scene of the police chief’s mortifying accident and begin whacking enthusiastically at the prone man with her little white purse, which was an adorably cute girl-size version of her mother’s expensive leather fashion accessory. All the while, the mother was yelling, “Police—somebody call the police!”

  When Betsy ran out of steam and could no longer manage a healthy swing with her purse, she glared down at Parris and said, “You give my momma her black-eyed peas back right now or I’ll kick you a good one!”

  He couldn’t and didn’t and she would and did.

  Wincing at the sharp pains in his ribs, Parris gazed up at the darkened heavens and offered a heartfelt prayer. Please—somebody just shoot me.

  We may be thankful that Betsy Lou was not packing a classic .44 caliber Remington derringer in her purse. But being bereft of a deadly weapon did not discourage her—spunky as they get, she kept right on kicking his rib cage.

  The farce continued for quite some time, but there is no need to document the chief of police’s humiliation in excruciating detail. Enough has been reported to provide the cautionary element of this small episode, which was … We have forgotten. But it had something or other to do with the importance of a young person’s career choices, and the unparalleled satisfaction of public service—what with mediocre wages, doubtful health and retirement benefits, a generally ungrateful citizenry, and …

  Never mind.

  Accounting, computer science, and animal husbandry are worth considering.

  CHAPTER SIX

  WHERE WAS CHARLIE MOON DURING ALL THE EXCITEMENT?

  Another pertinent question, and one that shall be dealt with forthwith. Up until the instant when the thief snatched the purse from the lady’s shopping cart, Mr. Moon was seated behind the wheel of his parked Expedition, chatting with Sarah and Daisy about what flavors of ice cream Scott Parris would select. (The rancher leaned toward strawberry or butter pecan, Sarah hoped for pistachio, and Daisy opted for chocolate or vanilla because “that matukach cop has got about as much imagination as a cue ball.”)

  As soon as the purse was purloined and Parris took off after the purloiner, Moon eased himself gracefully out of the SUV. As the chief of police was about to make the soon-to-be-legendary pea-can pass, his teammate was positioning himself for the interception. No, not to receive the can of black-eyed peas. The hopeful interceptor had placed himself directly in the purse thief’s path. Like the instant quarterback, Parris’s sidekick harbored no hope that the missile would come anywhere near its intended target, much less actually connect and clunk! for a head-shot that would knock the felon flat onto his face.

  Which wildly unlikely event was, as we know, precisely what Moon witnessed. Along with Parris’s almost simultaneous flop onto the parking lot.

  Within a few easy strides, the long-legged Ute was standing over the fallen felon.

  When the dazed miscreant turned onto his side and muttered a curse, the deputy got a good look at the profile of the designated “suspect”—and caught a whiff of his distinctive aroma.

  The disoriented man, white purse still firmly in hand, rolled onto his back and gazed at the tall Indian with frank curiosity. In a tone that hinted of righteous animosity, he inquired, “Did you knock me down?”

  “No I did not,” Moon said softly. “But if you get up before I tell you to, I’ll be glad to oblige.” He aimed a forefinger at the stolen property. “Let go of that purse.”

  “No.” Sitting up, the perpetrator shook his shaggy head. “I won’t.”

  Bemused, Moon asked, “Why not?”

  Shaggy-head clutched the booty to his thin chest. “Because it’s mine and you can’t have it.”

  “Well, I suppose a grown man’s got a right to do as he pleases—but won’t you feel kinda silly struttin’ around town with a lady’s purse hangin’ over your shoulder?”

  The felon scowled. “Are you insinuatin’ that I’m some kinda sissy?”

  “The thought never occurred to me, mister. But not everyone in Granite Creek is as br
oad-minded as I am. So, to avoid any unnecessary embarrassment, why don’t you set the purse aside—and then get up real slow-and-easy-like.”

  The feisty fellow did get up, but he would not give up the white purse, perhaps because it was genuine Moroccan tooled leather—and might have been a sure-enough Gucci worth a wad of hundred-dollar bills. But that amounts to unwarranted speculation about undisclosed motives. What can be asserted with complete assurance is that as soon as Shaggy-Head was on his feet, he tossed the heavy purse at Moon’s face, and a knife flashed in his hand—with which cutlery he made a savage slash at the deputy, slicing a genuine buffalo-horn button from Moon’s new shirt. For this little piece of work, his wages were a hard uppercut that put his lights out right on the well-known spot; and for the second time in five minutes and the third time in twenty (remember Bertha’s toss through the saloon doors?), LeRoy Hooten took a sprawling fall. As his already-cracked skull hit a Please Leave Your Shopping Carts Here steel signpost, the unfortunate purse thief was down for the count and then some.

  At about the time Hooten hit the deck, Sarah Frank showed up at Moon’s elbow—ready to throw a punch of her own should the knife wielder pose any further threat to her man. Moon’s aunt arrived a moment later to mutter a Ute curse at the malefactor, the gist of which was that he was inferior to certain slithering vipers and loathsome amphibians. Leaving the unconscious fellow to his dreamless sleep, the trio strode to the spot where Scott Parris remained lying on his back. Charlie Moon’s best friend was enormously relieved that his pint-size, hard-kicking persecutor had been forcibly removed by her distraught mother. As the Ute and two of the three important women in his life approached, the white Cadillac was pulling away—the excited child shouting shrill imprecations behind a closed window.

  Charlie Moon squatted beside his fallen friend. “You okay, pard?”

  “Sure. Fine as frog hair. I just laid down here to take a short siesta.” A parking-lot light in his eyes, Parris was unaware of the ladies’ presence.

  “You sure picked a hard, cold bed to lay down on.”

  “It’s all a matter of perspective.” The cop grimaced. “To me, it feels soft as a mattress stuffed with baby-duck feathers.” Parris managed a painful grin. “Did you see that long throw I made?”

  “Sure did. That was some dandy pitch.”

  “Did I kill the purse-snatching son of a bitch?”

  “Seems unlikely.” Moon glanced back at the purse snatcher’s prone form. “He got up and gave me some trouble.”

  Scott Parris had no doubt of the outcome. “So you decked him.”

  “Mmm-hmm. Now what can I do for you, pard—d’you want a hand up?

  “Huh-uh. What I want is some chocolate and vanilla ice cream.”

  Daisy Perika snickered. “I told you so.”

  Parris blinked at the Ute elder’s shadowy figure. “And apple and peach pie.”

  Moon: “You still got ice cream and store-bought pies on your mind?”

  “You bet.” Parris’s mouth watered; his stomach growled approvingly.

  “I’ll take care of the purchase soon as you’re back in the car where you can warm up some. But in the meantime—” Moon helped his friend to a sitting position, “let’s get you forked-end down.”

  As the dizzy man got onto a pair of unsteady legs, a GCPD black-and-white with blue-and-red emergency lights flashing pulled into the supermarket parking lot. “Looky,” Parris said, mimicking the little girl’s shrill voice. “The po-leece has done showed up to arrest me for stealing food from that poor lady in the white Caddy. I grabbed a can of … of something or other.” What was it that little girl said—black beans?

  Right on cue, the dented steel cylinder came rolling down the slight incline. The container stopped conveniently at the toe of Charlie Moon’s left boot. “Black-eyed peas,” the deputy said.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  A PREMATURE CELEBRATION

  Despite the hard fall the chief of police had taken while making that long toss across the supermarket parking lot and—against enormous odds—connecting with the purse snatcher’s skull, Scott Parris hardly noticed the ache in his ribs. Matter of fact, GCPD’s top cop was in an upbeat mood. During the evening meal at the Columbine, he regaled his small suppertime audience with how “mighty fine it felt to throw the game-winning pass.”

  Daisy Perika smirked at her favorite matukach. “See if you can pass me the biscuits without dropping the platter.”

  Parris’s right arm did not fail him: he performed his mission with masterly precision and a touch of athletic elegance. “You want me to pitch you the butter dish?”

  “No thank you.” Charlie Moon’s aunt selected the choicest of the golden-brown biscuits. “You’d better slack off before you hurt your elbow.”

  Chuckling, the white cop turned to his Indian friend, who had also counted coup. “You ain’t said a word about decking that scum-bum.”

  Moon shrugged “There’s nothing to tell.” The hungry man sliced a meaty right triangle off his T-bone. “That petty thief was dazed from being conked with the can—and he was about half my size.”

  The exuberant chief of police did not appreciate this display of modesty in his deputy. “But the lowlife pulled a knife on you and practically sliced your—” Parris paused when he noticed Sarah cringe.

  Moon had also noticed. “The guy was so spaced out, he couldn’t have peeled a potato without cutting his fingers off.” The reluctant warrior winked at Sarah, then grinned at his best friend. “That thirty-pound little girl who beat you up with her purse could’ve handled him with one hand tied behind her back.”

  “I don’t know about that.” Parris frowned as he buttered his third biscuit. “But she sure was a feisty little brat—kicked at my ribs like an Arkansas mule. If you hadn’t come to help, she’d probably have done me in.”

  Daisy smiled at the memory of the spunky girl-child. “When her momma came to the police station to get her purse, did she take the can of pinto beans?”

  “Black-eyed peas,” Parris corrected. “No, she did not—that can is tagged and locked up in the GCPD evidence room.”

  “I bet it won’t be there next week.” Moon stirred a second spoon of Tule Creek Honey into his coal-black coffee. “Those black-eyed peas will end up on your mantelpiece—along with other memorabilia of your many exploits as a fearless lawman who always hits what he aims at.”

  You’re right about that. “There’s nothing wrong with a man taking a souvenir now and again.” Maybe there wasn’t, but Parris’s sunburned face blushed to a deeper shade of red. “I’ll buy the woman another can of peas.”

  And so it went, with Sarah Frank uttering not a word and Daisy edging in a barbed remark whenever the opportunity presented itself. With the possible exception of Miss Frank, a good time was enjoyed by all. When it was time for dessert, the young woman removed a pair of warmed-up pies from the oven, then opened the freezer to get the two half-gallon containers of ice cream.

  While the menfolk were leaning toward apple pie and vanilla ice cream, Sarah thought she would treat her sweet tooth to a thinnish segment of peach pie.

  Daisy Perika stoutly refused dessert. “No store-bought pie for me. And I don’t know how anybody but an Eskimo could eat ice cream in cold weather like this.”

  Sarah was about to slice the pie when—and such interruptions seem almost inevitable—the mobile phone holstered on Parris’s belt warbled a familiar tune. Not a surprise—he had expected a call from the GCPD dispatcher. He pressed the instrument to his ear. “H’lo, Clara—have we ID’d that purse snatcher?”

  “Yes sir. One LeRoy Hooten. Born in Oak Park, Illinois, in 1992. Young as he is, Mr. Hooten has a record a yard long.”

  “A real bad boy, eh?”

  “A born loser. Car theft. Assault and battery. Drug dealing. Been in and out of jail since he was sixteen.”

  “He’ll find out that the revolving door stops in Granite Creek.” Parris grinned across the dining table at Cha
rlie Moon. “Purse snatching. Evading a lawful arrest. Assaulting my deputy with a deadly weapon. Mr. Hooten will do some serious time in the Colorado clink.”

  “Well—I don’t think so…” Her voice trailed off.

  Parris steeled himself. “So what’re you trying to tell me, Clara?”

  “I’m sorry, sir.” The dispatcher took a deep breath. “Approximately ten minutes ago, Mr. LeRoy Hooten was pronounced dead in the Snyder Memorial ER.”

  The cop’s ruddy face blanched. “Did you say … dead?”

  “Yes sir. Cause of death is uncertain, but the ER doc says it was probably due to a concussion that caused internal bleeding in the brain. Death sometimes occurs immediately after the injury, but depending on how fast the blood is leaking, it can take hours.” A heartbeat. “The neurologist who usually checks the cranial CAT scans is at home with the flu, but the digital files have been uploaded to the Internet for a radiologist in Australia. We should know something more definite in a few minutes.”

  The deflated lawman closed his eyes. “Do we have a next of kin to notify?”

  “Not yet, but a couple of officers are working on it.” Clara Tavishuts added, “With a transient like Mr. Hooten, it might take few days to locate a parent or sibling.”

  “Thanks, Clara.” Disconnecting, Parris gave his host a barely discernible nod.

  The lawmen got up from the table and drifted listlessly down the hallway to the parlor, where Scott Parris filled Charlie Moon in on what the deputy hadn’t already guessed. “I suppose getting slammed on the noggin with a can of black-eyed peas ain’t nothing to laugh about.”

  “That can you tossed probably wasn’t what killed him.” Moon stared at a heap of dying embers in the fireplace. “When he pulled that blade on me, I guess I hit him harder than I needed to—and when the fella went down, he banged his head against a signpost.”

  * * *

  Miles away, and at the very moment when the remorseful lawmen were speculating about which of them had dealt the death blow to the late LeRoy Hooten, the person actually responsible for the unintentional homicide was serving a Budweiser beer and a light California white wine to a Rocky Mountain Polytechnic English-literature professor and a long-haul trucker from Butte, Montana. (Yes, respectively.) The 240-pound bouncer had dismissed LeRoy Hooten from her mind as soon as his odorous presence was outside her high-class saloon. B4 was laughing loudly at a coarse joke the university professor had shared with the trucker.