The Bookshop From Hell

by David Haynes

  The police didn’t send anyone. There was nobody to send.

  *

  Paul Weaver parked the truck a block away from the station. Something big was going down there. Ambulances and cop cars from all over the county had been coming and going all afternoon. He’d been at home when Lori called and told him about it. It was just an excuse, she was checking up on him, making sure he wasn’t out somewhere chasing girls or in Sandy’s. Fucking bitch. He was getting tired, really tired, of all her moaning. And what was it with Law? He’d seen them exchanging looks when she thought he wasn’t watching. He was always watching. He could feel a reckoning coming.

  He thought he might have drifted off to sleep when she called. He’d been reading. Fancy that – Paul Weaver reading. What would his old English teacher, that miserable bastard Mr. Shaw, say about that? He chuckled to himself. The book had been good, so good that it had been a struggle to pull himself away from it. He didn’t remember actually concentrating on it though. It had been effortless, as if he was hearing all the words and not having to waste time reading. Maybe that’s what a good book could do. Anyway, things felt a bit clearer now. He knew what him and Brad had to do about this mess.

  “Reckon Palmer broke out and started shooting the place up?” Brad said, grinning.

  “Shut the hell up,” he replied. “This is nothing to do with Palmer. This is cop on cop.”

  “You think so?”

  He nodded. “Gotta be.” He paused, an idea already forming in his mind. “They’ll close the place down after this.”

  “What?” Brad took a handful from his bag of pork rinds and stuffed them in his maw.

  “They’ll have to. At least for a while.” He turned in his seat, looked at Brad. “How many cops work this place? I mean, usually.”

  Brad shrugged. “I don’t know, three, four maybe.”

  “Two,” he replied. “Two full-time cops and one part-time. They lost one last year, never replaced. No call for them in a place like this. It’ll all go through Rainworth.” He reached over and took a handful of pork rinds. “Which leaves Silver Lake without a PD.”

  “You serious? They wouldn’t do that.” Brad spoke through a mouthful of crisp pork fat.

  “Oh, they would and they will.” He sat back, watched the comings and goings at the station for a moment.

  “Jeez.”

  “We can’t let that happen, Brad. I won’t let that happen.”

  Brad took a sip from his beer, crumpled the can, letting it fall into the footwell along with the others. “What we going to do about it?”

  “I reckon it’s about time Silver Lake got a new type of law enforcement. One that doesn’t take any shit. From anybody.” He waited for the implications to settle on Brad. Subtlety wasn’t something he usually understood.

  “You mean us?” he said, eventually.

  “You got it,” Paul replied, reaching across and opening the glove box. He took out his Springfield XD-S and showed Brad. “We’re the new PD. You and me.”

  Brad grinned and tipped the bag of pork rinds into his mouth, finishing them.

  Paul put the truck into drive and pulled away.

  “Where we going?” Brad asked.

  “Back to my place first, pick up a couple of those tabards I got from that construction job last year. And then we patrol the streets.”

  29

  As it turned out, patrolling the streets in his truck wasn’t quite as exciting or rewarding as Paul had hoped. After the third circuit of the town and the residential areas, he was bored. They drove past the park and pulled over. He’d seen movement over by the benches. He grabbed a flashlight and shone it that way.

  “That your kid?” he asked Brad. The boy was sitting on one of the benches with what looked like a book in his hand. He was reading it by the light on his mobile phone. He looked about as feral as one of the cats that lived in the woods up by the lake.

  Brad leaned over and peered out. “Looks like it.”

  “Dad? That you?” the kid shouted.

  “What you doing out here?” Brad shouted back. “It’s after eleven.”

  Paul frowned. Since when had Brad shown any fatherly instinct? He didn’t know where his kid was from one moment to the next.

  Ryan walked toward them and leaned in through the open window. He wafted at the cigarette smoke seeping from the car with the book. “What you guys doing?” he asked, sliding the book into his varsity jacket.

  Paul didn’t particularly like the kid. He was everything he’d been at school: good-looking, popular, star of the football team. And although he wouldn’t admit it to anyone, he was more than a little jealous. Although by the look of Ryan over the last couple of weeks, there was something wrong with him. Drugs, maybe.

  “Why you wearing those?” He pointed at the bright orange tabards they were wearing.

  “We’re patrolling,” Paul replied. “The cops are busy so we’re taking over for a while.”

  “I heard there was a shooting down there today.”

  Paul nodded. “A few got shot up. Not many got out uninjured. That’s what I heard.”

  “Me too,” Ryan replied. He paused. “You want any help?”

  “From you?” his dad laughed. “I don’t think so, son.”

  Paul didn’t reject the offer quite so quickly. The boy was, or at least had been, popular; the kids might listen to him. He reached into the back seat and grabbed a tabard.

  “Here, put this on.” He threw it at Ryan.

  He held it up. “Brogan’s Construction? Really?”

  “Just turn it inside out,” Paul replied.

  “What the hell are you doing? The kid can barely tie his own shoelaces, he can’t be a cop!” Brad shouted.

  Paul ignored him, watched Ryan slip the tabard over his head. Now there were three of them.

  “Now go in the back of the truck and grab that baseball bat. Anyone gives you any trouble, you show them your swing. Got that?”

  Ryan grinned. “This all above board? Sanctioned by the PD?”

  Paul nodded. “They need us to help them out for a while.”

  Ryan walked around the back of the truck to take the bat. Paul watched him take it off the flatbed, take a couple of practice swings, and then he drove away.

  “Damn, Paul, you know my kid’s got a screw loose, right?”

  “I’m counting on it.”

  “I mean it, man. I’ve heard him talking to himself in his room, saying all sorts of crazy shit. He scares me.”

  “Hey, look, he’s just a kid, you were fucking messed up when you were his age too.”

  “Not that messed up.” Brad opened a bottle of Bud Light and passed it to Paul. He opened one for himself and took a long drink. “So, where next?”

  Paul was out of ideas. The only person they had seen all night was Ryan and now he was part of their little posse, so he didn’t count.

  “We could go hang out at Sandy’s?” Brad suggested. “Maybe catch last orders.”

  Paul nodded. The only drinking place in town was as good a place as any to spend some time. He turned onto Main Street and parked up in the parking lot. There was a time when he could spend all weekend in this place without getting any grief. Lori didn’t care for that, even though he’d tried to encourage her to join him, she didn’t want to waste their weekend.

  “Reckon we should take these off?” Brad said, grabbing his tabard.

  Paul was already out of the truck and striding toward the door, the silver strips on his tabard reflecting off the streetlights. He walked like he thought a cop would walk.

  Inside, Sandy’s was about as lively as ever. Paul scanned the room, searching out anyone who hadn’t heard his Palmer story. There wasn’t anyone left to tell.

  He sat down at the bar. Grady Boyce was nursing a beer, an ever-present stogie hanging from his mouth. It was unlit. He grunted at Paul and then nodded at Brad.

  “See you boys have got off your asses and got a job at last,” he said, gesturing at the
tabards.

  “That’s right.” Paul signaled Sandy. “Two beers,”

  The owner prized himself away from the TV, grabbed two beers from the chiller and pushed them across the bar. He resumed his vigil.

  “They got you on that new road over in Rainworth?” Boyce asked.

  “No,” Brad replied. “We’re not doing any construction.”

  Boyce shifted on the stool. “What the hell you wearing them for?” He turned to Sandy. “It ain’t Halloween yet, is it?”

  Sandy didn’t even acknowledge the question.

  “We’re patrolling,” Brad said.

  Paul wished Brad would learn to keep his mouth shut. He was always shooting it off at the wrong time. He elbowed him in the ribs. Hard.

  “What Brad means is that we’re just keeping our eyes out while the PD’s all tied up. Just helping out.” He sipped his beer.

  Boyce laughed for long time, wiping tears from his eyes. “You guys? Helping out! Jeez, you guys only know how to help yourselves! You’ve got to be kidding me. You’re fooling around, right?”

  Paul took a deep breath. He was starting to feel angry. “No, I’m not kidding. You think the cops are going to have the time to walk our streets now? You’ll be lucky if you ever see one again. They’re all dead or dying in the hospital. Silver Lake needs someone to keep the town safe.”

  “And that someone’s you, right? And him?” He pointed at Brad. “He can barely lift his fat ass off the stool to take a shit. What’s he going to do to keep the town safe? Roll…”

  “Shut your pie-hole, Grady,” interrupted Brad. “At least we’re doing something and not just sitting in here all day, like you.”

  “You were yesterday,” Boyce said. He shook his head. “Reckon I’ve heard it all now. A fat retard who can’t read his own name and a stupid drunken bully who still thinks it’s 1990.” He laughed long and hard again.

  Brad started to stand but Paul put his hand on his arm. He was livid, almost shaking with rage, but he had to keep it under check. They couldn’t be seen to be brawling in bars, not when they were supposed to be Silver Lake officers.

  “You’re entitled to your opinion, Grady. Let’s just leave it there,” he said. It hurt him to speak like that to the guy.

  “As you wish, officer,” Boyce said. “Sandy! Another beer for me and one each for these men. Silver Lake’s finest!”

  Paul nodded and turned to Brad. “We’ll finish these and go take a look up at the school. We haven’t…”

  “Say,” Boyce interrupted. “What do you plan to do about that robbery at the bank today? You got any leads?” He chuckled to himself. “You might want to think about talking to Pope about that. I heard he’s about to lose that farm of his.” He slapped his leg. “You think we need Sherlock Holmes and Doc Watson on that case, Sandy? You know, I think we do. How about it, boys? What say you two look into it for us, for the good folk of Silver Lake!”

  Paul clenched his fist. Who did this old fuck think he was, talking to him like that? He was trying his best to look after people and all Boyce could do was poke fun at him. He wanted to grab hold of him and ram the pool cue all the way down his throat, keep going until it came out of his ass. Maybe that would shut him up.

  Boyce drained his beer and slid off the stool. “I can’t take all this laughter, it’s not doing me any good. I need to go home.” He dropped a few bills on the bar and slapped Paul on the back as he walked past him. “You guys kill me,” he added.

  Paul took a drink, waited a couple of minutes and then got off his stool.

  “Come on,” he said. “We’re going.”

  “Where to?” Brad said, picking up his bottle.

  Paul didn’t answer. He shoved the door open and walked outside. Grady Boyce was walking away from the bar, toward the residential area on the other side of the street. Paul walked quickly to the truck and climbed inside. He started the engine and drove away with Brad still hauling his frame into the seat.

  He drove a few yards past Boyce and pulled over, waiting for him to walk alongside.

  “Hey, Grady? Need a ride?” he called out.

  Boyce stopped. “Keeping me safe, huh? Well, I guess I could do with a ride from Silver Lake’s finest. Don’t mind if I do.” He climbed into the back seat. “I was only joking back there,” he added. “Riding your ass a bit.”

  Paul turned the truck around and drove the other way.

  “Hey!” Boyce shouted. “You’re going the wrong way. I live back there.”

  “Oh, I know where you live, Grady,” Paul replied. “But we’re not going there.”

  “What? You can’t do this! Where are you taking me?”

  Paul turned to Brad. “What say we take Mr. Boyce for a ride in the country?”

  Brad laughed. “I’d say that on a night like this, it would be a fine idea.”

  “You guys are crazy. Stop the fucking truck!”

  “No can do, Mr. Boyce. You see, you’re under arrest, and we need to straighten you out a little.” He pressed a button on the dashboard and the door locks clicked down.

  “You…you…you can’t do this! You can’t arrest me, you’re not cops, you’re fucking crazy!”

  Paul whistled and turned the truck off the road and onto the track that led up to the lake. He felt great, better than he’d done in a long time. The book was right, he was someone. He was exactly who he was supposed to be. He was the law. Silver Lake law.

  30

  The headlights cut through the mist that seemed to have gathered over the lake and stayed there for the last couple of weeks. It was a familiar sight to Paul. When he was a kid, he used to drive up here in his dad’s car and make out with girls late at night.

  On the drive up, Boyce hadn’t stopped flapping his gums. He’d whined, pleaded and tried to buy them off. He’d even threatened them. That made Paul laugh. How the hell was he going to call the cops? For one thing there weren’t any in town, for another he didn’t have a cell.

  He parked up, tucked the Springfield into his waistband and got out the truck. Brad climbed out the other side. Paul opened the rear door.

  “Get out,” he said.

  Boyce shook his head, pushed himself away from the door. For once, Brad thought as quickly as he acted and opened the door on his side. He grabbed Boyce by the neck and hauled him out backward. He grunted as he hit the ground.

  Brad laughed and kicked him in the arm. “Who’s the fat retard now, huh?”

  Paul moved around the side of the truck, pulling his gun free. The look in Boyce’s eyes gave him a thrill. He was scared, really scared.

  “Please!” he shouted. “Please don’t kill me!”

  He pulled him to his feet and looked around. He couldn’t see anything.

  “Grab the flashlight,” he said to Brad. “I’m not going to kill you, but I am going to teach you not to be so disrespectful.”

  “I won’t do it again,” Boyce whined. “I promise I won’t!”

  He could give him his lesson here and now. Nobody was about, nobody would hear it. But he had to be careful.

  “Here.” Brad passed him the flashlight.

  He tucked the gun inside his jeans again and reached for it. Grady Boyce took his chance. He put his shoulder down and barged into Paul, knocking him off balance. As he tried to steady himself, Boyce punched him in the cheek. It did the trick, sending him crashing to the ground. The gun jumped out of his waistband.

  Boyce was running, sprinting across the parking lot toward the trees. He ran like a man half his age.

  “Shit!” said Brad.

  “Get after him!” Paul shouted, reaching out for the gun.

  Boyce had a good twenty years on them both but he had half of Brad’s weight. He was into the woods before Brad had taken a dozen steps and before Paul had chance to level his Springfield.

  “Come on!” Paul shouted, sprinting into the trees. Brad panted loudly behind him, coughing and spluttering like a broken-down truck.

  He paused, scanning
left and right. He couldn’t have gone far, not in this terrain, not in the darkness.

  “Which way?” Brad was bent over double, hands on knees.

  “Pass me that.” He snatched the flashlight from Brad, pointing it one way and then the other. The beam bounced off Boyce’s green coat.

  “There!” he shouted and set off running again.

  Within twenty feet, the gap between them had closed. He could hear Boyce’s heavy breathing, his wheezing. It surprised him to hear that Boyce was crying too. He was only going to smack him around a bit. No worse than what he deserved and certainly no worse than what Paul dished out to Lori. She never cried. Not once. He was too lenient. That was his problem.

  Boyce stopped, turning around, spitting onto the ground. He put his fists up as if he were going to fight. The sight almost made Paul laugh.

  “Hey, come on Grady. No more fooling around. You know we can’t let you get away with disrespecting the law.”

  “You’re not the fucking law!” Boyce shouted. “Just let me go and I’ll forget all about it. I won’t tell anyone. I swear!”

  Paul took a step toward him, prompting Boyce to take a swing. He avoided it easily. Boyce was breathing heavily. Not as heavily as Brad but he looked ready for a coronary. They both did.

  Paul stepped to the side and hit Boyce in the guts. The man went down, winded.

  “Pick him up,” he said to Brad. “Hold him for me.”

  Brad did as he was told and pulled Boyce to his feet. The man retched, spitting bile onto the ground. “Gross,” said Brad.

  “Now then, Grady. I’m afraid I can’t let you go around disrespecting me and my colleague. If I let you get away with that, why, we’ll have chaos. I have to maintain order.”

  “You’re fucking crazy,” Boyce spluttered.

  Paul slapped him across the cheek, snapping his head around. He did the same the other side. Boyce howled. Brad laughed. He had him in a bear-hug from behind, arms pinned to his side.

  “Now, I’d like you to apologize to Officer Simmons here and then you can apologize to me.”

  “Fuck you!” Boyce spat blood. It landed on Paul’s boot.