so mad I will kill him.
My daughter’s raising herself just fine, spite of my best effort and that is all a kid ought to have to put up with.
Du Pré ran into the Sheriff at the courthouse in Cooper. The big loud cop was there to testify in a drunk driving case.
“Guy hit a car,” said the Sheriff. “Bounced up on my sidewalk, through my hedge, stopped with the hood all folded around a tree in my yard, fer Chrissakes. Three o’clock in the morning.”
The Sheriff had made his own arrest. Call “60 Minutes.”
“What are you here for?” he said, looking at Du Pré.
“My daughter was partying with some kids, had some beer, got caught, now they want to make her go listen to Bucky Dassault. Attend AA. She already goes to Mass. I am damn mad.”
“The Judge is a pussy,” said the Sheriff. “Don’t scare him.”
So Du Pré kept his mouth shut. Good thing, too. The Pussy Judge did all his talking for him anyway.
“Ssssince you are in … Lawn Forcement … waive … to your custody … don’t want to see her here again … serious matter,” said the Pussy Judge.
This so fucking serious, why that damn Bucky Dassault, thought Du Pré, while he looked respectful.
Du Pré said he took the whole matter very seriously.
The Pussy Judge went on to other matters, just before Du Pré would have lost his temper he had to stand and listen to any more of this bullshit. Which would have been tragic for everybody.
Du Pré asked God Who the Fuck was Minding the Store outside on the sidewalk. What the hell ever happened to kids will be kids, and kids do this sort of thing, practicing to be screwed-up adults like everybody else? Huh?
Du Pré drove back to Toussaint, sat in the bar which was empty except for the lady with the beehive hairdo who was washing everything. Du Pré drank whiskey, wished someone would come in he could kill—a Texan would be nice, can’t get convicted of killing a Texan in Montana. Maybe I go find a dog with a calloused butt and kick him.
The telephone rang, the lady at the bar looked at Du Pré. She pointed at the pay phone on the wall by the front door. Du Pré walked over to it, picked it up.
“Papa,” said Maria, “are you all right?”
“I just pissed off,” said Du Pré. “All these people butting in business isn’t any of theirs. Anyway, you don’t have to go and talk to that damn Bucky Dassault or any of the rest of that crap. But you not to get caught again, you hear? I don’t think it a bad thing that kids drink beer, long as they don’t drive around. But now you got a bunch of bad people paid by the government to mess with you, call it help, and that is a lot of trouble.”
“I know,” said Maria. “I get caught with beer again my papa gets sent to prison.” She laughed. So did Du Pré.
“I love you, Papa,” she said.
“Love you too,” said Du Pré. “Hey, I come and get you, we get Madelaine, we eat dinner here maybe.”
“I pick up Madelaine,” said Maria. Du Pré considered the fact that his daughter now had a car and a driver’s license, or anyway a car. Du Pré, shut up, he told himself.
“OK,” said Du Pré.
I know I don’t do this father job so good, so I wish you luck, Maria.
“When you get this car?” said Du Pré.
“I love you, Papa,” said Maria, hanging up.
Maria came to the bar alone. Madelaine was feeding her kids, she would come when they were cared for.
“Where’d you get the car?” said Du Pré, trying.
“Let’s dance,” said Maria. She put money in the jukebox.
CHAPTER 19
“I T HAS TO BE THE Headless Man,” said the Sheriff, “the report says the teeth have fillings in them and appear weathered.”
“Very interesting,” said Du Pré. “I got back to inspecting cattle right now. I got five shipments here, four there, I am a very busy brand inspector.” All yours, Jack.
“Where’d they bury the Headless Man, anyway?” asked the Sheriff.
“I don’t know,” said Du Pré. “Potter’s field,
My daughter’s raising herself just fine, spite of my best effort and that is all a kid ought to have to put up with.
Du Pré ran into the Sheriff at the courthouse in Cooper. The big loud cop was there to testify in a drunk driving case.
“Guy hit a car,” said the Sheriff. “Bounced up on my sidewalk, through my hedge, stopped with the hood all folded around a tree in my yard, fer Chrissakes. Three o’clock in the morning.”
The Sheriff had made his own arrest. Call “60 Minutes.”
“What are you here for?” he said, looking at Du Pré.
“My daughter was partying with some kids, had some beer, got caught, now they want to make her go listen to Bucky Dassault. Attend AA. She already goes to Mass. I am damn mad.”
“The Judge is a pussy,” said the Sheriff. “Don’t scare him.”
So Du Pré kept his mouth shut. Good thing, too. The Pussy Judge did all his talking for him anyway.
“Ssssince you are in … Lawn Forcement … waive … to your custody … don’t want to see her here again … serious matter,” said the Pussy Judge.
This so fucking serious, why that damn Bucky Dassault, thought Du Pré, while he looked respectful.
Du Pré said he took the whole matter very seriously.
The Pussy Judge went on to other matters, just before Du Pré would have lost his temper he had to stand and listen to any more of this bullshit. Which would have been tragic for everybody.
Du Pré asked God Who the Fuck was Minding the Store outside on the sidewalk. What the hell ever happened to kids will be kids, and kids do this sort of thing, practicing to be screwed-up adults like everybody else? Huh?
Du Pré drove back to Toussaint, sat in the bar which was empty except for the lady with the beehive hairdo who was washing everything. Du Pré drank whiskey, wished someone would come in he could kill—a Texan would be nice, can’t get convicted of killing a Texan in Montana. Maybe I go find a dog with a calloused butt and kick him.
The telephone rang, the lady at the bar looked at Du Pré. She pointed at the pay phone on the wall by the front door. Du Pré walked over to it, picked it up.
“Papa,” said Maria, “are you all right?”
“I just pissed off,” said Du Pré. “All these people butting in business isn’t any of theirs. Anyway, you don’t have to go and talk to that damn Bucky Dassault or any of the rest of that crap. But you not to get caught again, you hear? I don’t think it a bad thing that kids drink beer, long as they don’t drive around. But now you got a bunch of bad people paid by the government to mess with you, call it help, and that is a lot of trouble.”
“I know,” said Maria. “I get caught with beer again my papa gets sent to prison.” She laughed. So did Du Pré.
“I love you, Papa,” she said.
“Love you too,” said Du Pré. “Hey, I come and get you, we get Madelaine, we eat dinner here maybe.”
“I pick up Madelaine,” said Maria. Du Pré considered the fact that his daughter now had a car and a driver’s license, or anyway a car. Du Pré, shut up, he told himself.
“OK,” said Du Pré.
I know I don’t do this father job so good, so I wish you luck, Maria.
“When you get this car?” said Du Pré.
“I love you, Papa,” said Maria, hanging up.
Maria came to the bar alone. Madelaine was feeding her kids, she would come when they were cared for.
“Where’d you get the car?” said Du Pré, trying.
“Let’s dance,” said Maria. She put money in the jukebox.
CHAPTER 19
“I T HAS TO BE THE Headless Man,” said the Sheriff, “the report says the teeth have fillings in them and appear weathered.”
“Very interesting,” said Du Pré. “I got back to inspecting cattle right now. I got five shipments here, four there, I am a very busy brand inspector.” All yours, Jack.
“Where’d they bury the Headless Man, anyway?” asked the Sheriff.
“I don’t know,” said Du Pré. “Potter’s field,
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