Chump Change by G. M. Ford

or needed to give birth, or just run out of the gumption they needed to keep pushing west, cause other than that, there’s no good reason to stop in Harriman at all.”
    “Let’s go find some breakfast,” I said. “I’m starving.”
    Grabbing the shift lever was as far as we got.
    I heard the whoop-whoop of the siren in the second before I caught sight of the police cruiser sliding to a stop about three inches from our back bumper. I turned to the kid. “Put your hands on the dash and leave them there,” I said.
    I watched as a truck-sized county mountie took his good ol boy time getting out of the patrol car. He had that general unhurried indolence that cops seem to get after a while on the job. If money changes everything, so does carrying a gun on your hip every day. Kinda skews your view of the world.
    I took my own advice and kept both hands on the wheel as he hitched up his belt and sauntered up to the side window. The blue light coming through his windshield told me he had the dash cam running. I buzzed the window down.
    “Morning, officer,” I said.
    He had a wide, pockmarked face covered with the sort of oily skin that never really clears up after adolescence. His gold American flag nameplate said he was Asotin County Sheriff’s Deputy Rockland Moon. The deputy was chewing gum. His right hand rested casually on the butt of a holstered automatic.
    “What you fellas doing up here?” he asked.
    “Waiting for morning,” I said.
    “Comes in regular,” he commented.
    Before I could come up with a snappy rejoinder, he said, “License, registration, and proof of insurance, please.”
    I opened the little pocket in my sun visor and found my registration and proof of insurance. I made it a point to move slowly as I twisted myself up onto my side and pulled out my wallet. Sliding my Washington driver’s license out from under my Costco card, I handed the paperwork out the window to the cop. He gave me five full seconds of his most baleful stare.
    “Be right back,” he said, finally.
    I watched in the mirror as he got back into his patrol car and began to run my paperwork through the system. These days it takes about two minutes. He let us sit there for ten, then lumbered up to the window again. “Car belongs to you,” he announced.
    “You don’t say?”
    At which point, the deputy joined the legion of misguided souls who don’t find me funny. Humor’s relative, I guess.
    He bent at the waist and poked his big head in the window.
    “You boys mind if I have a look through the car?” he asked.
    “Yes,” I said. “I mind.”
    I could hear the kid squirm in the seat.
    Deputy Sheriff Moon nodded like that was what he’d figured.
    “Got something to hide?”
    “Just exercising my constitutional rights,” I said.
    Now he was amused. “Your constitutional rights, huh?”
    “You know . . . things like probable cause. Those sorts of silly things. Kind of things keep the ACLU so busy.”
    I was betting the farm that a couple of ACLU lawyers showing up on his doorstep was somewhere in the vicinity of this guy’s worst nightmare. He confirmed my assumption by going all smarmy on me.
    “Well . . . I don’t know, Mr.”—he looked down into his hand and grinned—“Waterman . . . you know, you find a couple of guys sitting in a car way the hell out here . . . middle of the night . . . you gotta wonder. You know what I mean?” He stopped just short of winking at me.
    “Oh . . . you mean the blow jobs,” I said cheerfully and waving a diffident hand. “We finished those hours ago.”
    First thing he did was pull his big head back out of the window. Took him five full seconds to decide I’d been kidding.
    “You think that’s funny, do you?” he demanded.
    “Not when done properly,” I assured him.
    Now he was certain . . . he didn’t like me at all.
    “Lemme see your ID,” he rumbled at Keith.
    The kid started to reach. I put a restraining hand on his arm.
    “He’s not