Page 89 of Big Britches
“I know. Is this about Kinko’s? I finished going over the papers last night. Everything seems in order. You and Alden are going to make a pretty penny on that deal.”
“That’s not why I’m calling, Tuttle.”
“Well, if it’s about the papers your father had me draw up regarding the house, I got those, too.”
“No,” Titus said. “I got something else. It’s more of an emergency.”
“Well, I’m not busy. I’m old and, apparently, no longer the hotshot attorney in Spoon, what with Ross Pirkle and Associates opening that fancy-schmancy office over in Morehead. Have you heard those commercials? Ambulance chasers, that’s what they are. Not me. No way.”
“Yes, sir.”
“I’m happy to help a Shepherd any day, Titus, you know that. If it weren’t for your Grandpa Trent, I wouldn’t even be a lawyer. He rescued my daddy’s farm from the IRS back in ’55. Helped us refinance, consolidate debt, and expand my daddy’s dairy business, giving him enough money to put me and Bess through school. Yes, sir. If it weren’t for Trent Shepherd, I’d probably be a janitor or something worse... maybe a used car salesman. Speaking of used cars, did you?—”
“Tuttle,” Titus blurted. “Sorry to interrupt, but it’s an emergency. Remember?”
“Oh. Yes, son. I’m sorry. I tend to be long-winded sometimes. At least that’s what Rosemary says. What’s going on?”
“Well,” Titus began, then stopped. He took a deep breath and exhaled before continuing. “If you’re representing us, I can’t have you going in blind. I need to come clean about some stuff you don’t know.”
“Has this got anything to do with that Mexican gardener I hear you’ve been shacking up with?”
When Titus and Tuttle arrived at the Sheriff’s office, Misty Norris, receptionist and dispatch, was manning the desk and switchboard. Tuttle stood a good foot and a half shorter than Titus. He was sporting a crisp and professional, if somewhat dated, suit.
“Good morning, Misty. We’re here to see Junior.”
“He’s busy,” Misty said, glancing at them over her glasses and popping her chewing gum. “He told me that unless it’s an emergency, he’s booked all day.”
Titus stepped forward to speak, and Tuttle raised an arm to stay him.
“Booked?” Tuttle said. “Since when do deputies require appointments? I need you to tell Junior that if he knows what’s good for him, he’ll talk to us before this thing gets way too big for him to handle.”
Junior hollered from the back. “It’s OK, Misty. Let ’em come back.”
Misty popped her chewing gum again. She gestured toward the voice without speaking.
Titus and Tuttle walked down the hall, passing long bulletin boards of Wanted and Missing Persons fliers, to an open office door. There they found Junior. He was seated, leaning back in a chair with his feet up on the desk, paging through a Hustler magazine.
“Yeah. You look real busy,” Titus said.
“This here is important stuff, Titus.” Junior unfolded a centerfold and held it up for them to see. On the glossy paper was a sultry woman, completely nude, with her legs spread wide. Using both hands, her fingers were spreading herself even wider. “But you wouldn’t know about that kind of stuff, would you? You’re too busy packing fudge.”
Titus casually raised his hand, extending his index finger, and pushed the bottom of Junior’s shoe with it. Junior lost balance, toppling over backward, magazine flying out of his hand as he flailed to the floor.
“Goddammit!”
“Where’s your daddy?” Tuttle asked.
Junior scrambled to his feet. “Over in Morehead on business. What’s it to you?”
“First,” Tuttle began, “Titus, would you please shut that door? This town has ears, you know.”
Titus did as instructed. Junior grew pale, betraying both his youth and his macho-cop façade. “What’s going on here?”
“I’ll tell you what’s going on,” Tuttle said. “We know you planted those tools in Pedro Torres’s truck.”
“That’s not true. Damn queer Mexican stole ’em.”
Titus made for Junior, but Tuttle stepped in between them. “Titus, let me do my job.”