Read Online Crystal Meth Cowboys by John Knoerle - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: John Knoerle
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away. Bell let his look linger. The man turned to the driver, another well-barbered Mexican, and said something. They both laughed.
When the light turned the El Camino rumbled into gear. Bell kept his boot on the brake and his eyes left. As the Chevy pulled away the pommaded Mexican gave Bell a down smile and a thumbs up. The line of cars behind the LTD Crown Victoria waited patiently until Bell released the brake and proceeded through the intersection. "What the fuck was that all about?" he said.
Chapter 8
"Fuck me! Kill me!"
She was laying on her back on the oil-smeared concrete of the carport. A pitted orange '76 Mustang sat in the adjoining space but Wilhemina Fredericks had the corner slot all to herself.
"Fuck me, kill me! Fuck me, kill me!"
The crowd of onlookers flared back as she began to heave upwards with every outburst. Bell and Lyedecker stood on the sidewalk next to the carport. It was 5:41 PM.
"Fuck me, kill me, fuck me, kill me!"
She wore only a Pep Boys t-shirt that came halfway down a great white belly veined with purple stretch marks. With every upward thrust her thighs parted, presenting her rubicund vulva to the rapt crowd.
"Fuck me kill me fuck me kill me fuck me kill me!"
The motor oil from the concrete floor stained her suety haunches and inner thighs as she writhed on her spine.
"2-8-3-6 H-Hill Street, in the carport," droned Bell into his lapel mike. He glanced down at the large woman. "We'll need the truck," he said and keyed off.
Wilhemina tugged her t-shirt down over her crotch and emitted a low moan as she rocked back and forth on the oil slick. The spectators grew restive. "C'mon mama," said a voice. "Show the titties."
Wes tore his eyes away from the writhing woman, thinking that there certainly seemed to be a lot of nudity associated with police work.
Bell advanced, arms wide. "Let's back it up. Let's go, show's over, let's go." Wes locked his hands on either side of his gunbelt and followed Bell's right shoulder.
The crowd dispersed, some heading across the alley or up the stairs to their apartments, bantering loudly in English, Spanish and Tagalog. Some hung back by the overflowing garbage dumpster, scuffling around, sheepish, waiting to see what was next. Wes wondered how they could stand the smell.
The cops turned back to the supine woman. She was silent now, her eyes rolled up into her head, her meaty legs twitching like a spaniel dreaming of jackrabbits. Bell squatted down and made soothing noises while he felt the woman's thick wrist for a pulse. He gazed at his wristwatch for a long moment, then looked up at Lyedecker. "Either this woman is dead or my watch has stopped."
Wes had heard the joke before and considered it in the worst possible taste given the circumstances. But he brayed out a sharp laugh before covering up with a couple of coughs. The dumpster men stood on tiptoe, craning their necks to see.
Wilhemina snorted violently. Her eyes popped open. Her zinc gray irises were thin halos around her distended pupils. She fluttered short pale lashes, looked up at Wes hopefully and said, "Wayne?"
------
Wes listened to the crickets. He had always considered crickets to be soothing background noise but the chirping crickets in the culvert next to the kale field where Bell and Lyedecker were parked were
loud
. Two Taco Bell supreme burritos, one supreme taco and a pintos'n'cheese lay scuttled on the bottom of Wes Lyedecker's stomach like that Russian sub in the Marianas Trench. He felt sluggish. The Miscellaneous Service card on his knee was half filled out. Bell drummed long white digits on the steering wheel. They were laying for Farmer John.
Wes sat in the bright bell of high-intensity light from the crookneck reading lamp. He had reached the space on the MS card that demanded a call code number. He dug under the pile of pinch books in the middle of the bench seat and pulled out the call code directory. He flipped through page after page of numbered violations,
When the light turned the El Camino rumbled into gear. Bell kept his boot on the brake and his eyes left. As the Chevy pulled away the pommaded Mexican gave Bell a down smile and a thumbs up. The line of cars behind the LTD Crown Victoria waited patiently until Bell released the brake and proceeded through the intersection. "What the fuck was that all about?" he said.
Chapter 8
"Fuck me! Kill me!"
She was laying on her back on the oil-smeared concrete of the carport. A pitted orange '76 Mustang sat in the adjoining space but Wilhemina Fredericks had the corner slot all to herself.
"Fuck me, kill me! Fuck me, kill me!"
The crowd of onlookers flared back as she began to heave upwards with every outburst. Bell and Lyedecker stood on the sidewalk next to the carport. It was 5:41 PM.
"Fuck me, kill me, fuck me, kill me!"
She wore only a Pep Boys t-shirt that came halfway down a great white belly veined with purple stretch marks. With every upward thrust her thighs parted, presenting her rubicund vulva to the rapt crowd.
"Fuck me kill me fuck me kill me fuck me kill me!"
The motor oil from the concrete floor stained her suety haunches and inner thighs as she writhed on her spine.
"2-8-3-6 H-Hill Street, in the carport," droned Bell into his lapel mike. He glanced down at the large woman. "We'll need the truck," he said and keyed off.
Wilhemina tugged her t-shirt down over her crotch and emitted a low moan as she rocked back and forth on the oil slick. The spectators grew restive. "C'mon mama," said a voice. "Show the titties."
Wes tore his eyes away from the writhing woman, thinking that there certainly seemed to be a lot of nudity associated with police work.
Bell advanced, arms wide. "Let's back it up. Let's go, show's over, let's go." Wes locked his hands on either side of his gunbelt and followed Bell's right shoulder.
The crowd dispersed, some heading across the alley or up the stairs to their apartments, bantering loudly in English, Spanish and Tagalog. Some hung back by the overflowing garbage dumpster, scuffling around, sheepish, waiting to see what was next. Wes wondered how they could stand the smell.
The cops turned back to the supine woman. She was silent now, her eyes rolled up into her head, her meaty legs twitching like a spaniel dreaming of jackrabbits. Bell squatted down and made soothing noises while he felt the woman's thick wrist for a pulse. He gazed at his wristwatch for a long moment, then looked up at Lyedecker. "Either this woman is dead or my watch has stopped."
Wes had heard the joke before and considered it in the worst possible taste given the circumstances. But he brayed out a sharp laugh before covering up with a couple of coughs. The dumpster men stood on tiptoe, craning their necks to see.
Wilhemina snorted violently. Her eyes popped open. Her zinc gray irises were thin halos around her distended pupils. She fluttered short pale lashes, looked up at Wes hopefully and said, "Wayne?"
------
Wes listened to the crickets. He had always considered crickets to be soothing background noise but the chirping crickets in the culvert next to the kale field where Bell and Lyedecker were parked were
loud
. Two Taco Bell supreme burritos, one supreme taco and a pintos'n'cheese lay scuttled on the bottom of Wes Lyedecker's stomach like that Russian sub in the Marianas Trench. He felt sluggish. The Miscellaneous Service card on his knee was half filled out. Bell drummed long white digits on the steering wheel. They were laying for Farmer John.
Wes sat in the bright bell of high-intensity light from the crookneck reading lamp. He had reached the space on the MS card that demanded a call code number. He dug under the pile of pinch books in the middle of the bench seat and pulled out the call code directory. He flipped through page after page of numbered violations,
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