13.
 Hawkin came by again. He was waving a sheet of paper. He backed Tom behind the garage. It was just getting dark and nobody saw what happened next. "I got a sheet here," Hawkin said sharply. His crisp lines radiated fury. "You phony goddamn bastard. I got fingerprints off you, man, and I ran them. I ran them, man, and they came back Anthony Dwayne Fariello. And sure as shit, I said, please dear Mr. Kansas City police chief, send me a picture of this Fariello. And this is what came over the Internet." He waved the picture close to Tom's face. "This is you, Anthony Dwayne Fariello."
Tom felt himself stepping out of another man's body, and his fists were balled. "Okay, you stupid cop. So what? What if I change names every day? So what?"
Hawkin's dark eyes glittered. His angry, decent face rippled with emotion. "I watch this town like a miser watches his coins. That's my job. I protect this town, man, and I smell someone like you from miles away. I knew it the day you ran into that tree. You know what else, Fariello, or should I say, A.J.?" Tom didn't answer, and the cop went on: "The car you ran into the tree. It was used in a robbery. Armed robbery. I checked every inch of the car and I couldn't find the gun, but I've got cops from here to Kansas City looking, and when they find it, I'm hauling you in for attempted murder."
"I tell you, I bought the car from a guy."
"Right. Don't we all. The guy you shot is alive, you'll be pleased to know. The bank guard. Remember him? Little old French guy? Children, grandchildren, all the things you'll never enjoy in life because you don't deserve them."
"Are you going to tell Antonio?"
"I'm planning to. Unless you leave town now. Right now."
"So you don't have anything on me."
"I'm working on it. Meanwhile, just get out of town."
"This is a game for you, isn't it? I don't have a car."
"Damn." Hawkin looked aside. "I feel like buying you one, but that doesn't go with the job description."
"I'm saving up to buy one," said Anthony. He held up a wad of bills. "At the rate Antonio pays me, it will take a while. I'll just buy an old car."
"All right. What did you do the last five years?"
"Drove around."
"You're too much. Why do you want to piss me off like this?"
"I really don't know that my past is any concern of yours."
Hawkin stuck his face in close. "Yeah? Well I have news for you, Mr. Fariello. I'm making your life my concern, okay? I'm making—."
A.J. hit him twice, once on the eye, once on the cheek. Suddenly he didn't care the other man had a badge and a gun. Fury filled him like a drug—adrenaline made his limbs tremble with energy. His vision sharpened tenfold as he hopped in close for another one. Only he tripped on a slippery spot and fell backwards.
Hawkin was quick though, up in a crouch with his gun in both hands, cradled like an object of love. "One more step, Fariello. One more step and I'll empty this thing into you."
A.J. stared up the barrel of the gun. He felt his face contract into a snarl. He lay on one elbow, rubbing his bruised knuckles in the other hand. "Go ahead, Hawkin. Kill me. I beg you. Make it easy for me. Give me relief, man. Go on, pull the trigger."
Hawkin's eyes were like bottle caps. His jaw was corded as if his teeth were trying to crush each other. His nostrils moved rapidly with the pace of his breathing. His stance remained frozen, crouched, the large black automatic aimed straight into the center of A.J.'s head. The center of his soul.
"Go on. Kill me right now. I'm showing you respect, man. I'm not laughing in your face. This isn't funny at all, and I'm serious. Pull the trigger. Pull it. Now!"
Abruptly, Hawkin lowered the gun and stood straight. "I'm not done with you yet." He turned to walk away. "Next time, give me some warning, and I'll box with you. You might last half a round with me if I just play with you."
Tom waited until the headlamp came on and the Harley-Davidson engine kicked into its patented growl. He waited until the motorcycle pulled around in a tight turn and headed up the hill, out of the canyon.
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Copyright © 2018 by Jean-Thomas Cullen, Clocktower Books. All Rights Reserved.
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