* * * * *
I stopped at a local diner, got some lunch and then headed back to my hotel room. By now, it was near to one o’clock. I tried to get hold of Ernie on the phone a few times, but Maisy still didn’t know where he’d gone. I told her that as soon as she heard from him, she was to tell him to call me immediately. I’d stay in my room until he called. I was starting to get a bit worried that maybe Ernie had gone off on a tear again.
At three o’clock, sharp, the phone in my motel room rang. Hoping it was finally Ernie, I grabbed the receiver, ready to curse the one-legged bastard for being so hard to find. Instead, the voice of Sheriff John Crump greeted me on the other end.
“Dafoe, this is Sheriff Crump. You get your ass over to my office, now.”
“Excuse me Sheriff, but is there a reason for this? I’m a busy man and let me say, the treatment I got at your office last time I was there doesn’t encourage any repeat performances.”
“Damnit son, get your ass over here immediately, or I’ll put an APB on you and have you hauled in.”
“I’ll have to contact my lawyer, Mr. Swinson, on this Sheriff. I don’t think he will be amused.”
“That’s gonna be damn difficult, you little snot-nosed bastard,” growled Crump, “considering the fact that Harry Swinson and Eric Slatterson were shot to death by Sonny not more than two hours ago.”
Shit. There went my free trip to Vegas.
Scrambled Hard-Boiled Page 42
