Junkyard Dogs by Craig Johnson

was fully aware of the historic antagonism between the two parties and familiar with the Stewart garage as he always got Lola, his vintage ’59 Thunderbird, serviced there.
    “I have a more than sinking feeling that it may be coming to a head.”
    “And how, if you do not mind my asking, is a golf tournament going to assist in this situation?”
    I uncrossed my legs, hitching my foot under my desk for balance, and leaned back in my chair. “I want to keep an eye on what could be potential conflict and was thinking that a higher profile for the sheriff’s department might calm things down a little.”
    The sarcasm in his reply was wader deep. “Yes, that has always worked before.”
    “C’mon, it’s not like I’m asking you to take a bullet—I’m asking you to go golfing.”
    “Do you remember the last time we golfed?”
    I paused. “California; we had a great time.”
    “We were arrested.”
    I looked down at the blotter on my desk. “That was almost forty years ago, and we’re mature adults now.”
    “Hmm.” This hmm sounded about as convincing as the last one. “Did she ask about me?”
    “Who?”
    “Mrs. Dobbs.”
    I figured I’d not feed his ego. “Why would she ask about you?”
    His head tilted back, and I could tell he was summoning up visions of his ill-spent youth. “I always found her attractive and thought she might’ve felt the same way.”
    “Well, she’s available.” That got him to turn and look at me.
    Vic appeared in my doorway with the delicate down-curve before the kicked-up corner of her lip; it could’ve been a smile, at least the way rattlesnakes smile. I glanced up at her. “You don’t happen to know any golfers, do you?”
    She flicked her eyes at Henry and then back to me. “Not in a February where the mercury hasn’t risen above the big fat zero I don’t.” She shook her head. “Have you got two harebrained schemes going at once?”
    I took my hat off and set it on my desk, brim up so the luck wouldn’t run out; lately, I needed all I could get. “Just a little community-oriented law enforcement.” I tipped the brim with my finger and watched it spin. “You think Saizarbitoria golfs?”
    She readjusted her shoulder on the doorjamb. “You can ask him when he gets back from checking the bar code on that crappy cooler with every friggin’ retailer in town. He should be in a really good mood by then.”
    “Speaking of, what kind of a mood has he been in?”
    “Shitty, when he’s in any mood at all. Most of the time he spends gazing out windows or at his own belly button.”
    I spun my hat some more. “Seems like textbook stuff?”
    “Pretty much, but you combine that with sleep deprivation because of the Critter . . .” She grew quiet, and we all three listened to the radiator.
    The intercom on my phone buzzed, and I punched the button. “Yes?”
    Ruby’s voice rattled from the plastic speaker. I don’t know why she bothered with the intercom; I could hear her down the hall. “We’ve got a 10-50 out on the bypass. I don’t suppose anybody would like to work for a living?”
    Vic yelled over her shoulder. “Got it!” She pushed off the doorway but still stood there, placing her fists on her hips. “This shit with the Basquo is complicated. Have you ever considered that you may not be able to keep him?”
    I glanced at Henry and decided to lighten the environs. “What, are you afraid of the competition?”
    There was that little bit of silence as you wait for a response, the one that tells you that you might’ve just said something wrong. Her eyes sharpened, she stepped over and palmed Henry’s coffee mug from my desk as a rudimentary form of housekeeping, and started out. I was about to say something when she abruptly turned, leaned in the doorway of my office, and studied me with a great deal of intensity. “No, I just don’t want you to do what you normally do in these situations and get your tender little feelings hurt.” I started to