Junkyard Dogs by Craig Johnson Page B

she golfs?”
    “Apparently.”
    He nodded as we passed the barbershop and the Owen Wister Hotel and approached the door of the Busy Bee Café alongside Clear Creek. The windows of the café were steamed with an inviting warmth and gave me a little hope that no matter how long the high plains winter might be, I’d have a place to go and eat.
    I started to take my traditional spot at the counter, but Ozzie kept walking toward a table in the back along the windows and away from the few patrons already in the place. The chief cook and bottle washer, Dorothy Caldwell, turned from the grill to give me the high sign, her hazel eyes following us with interest.
    Ozzie pulled out the chair in the corner, which left me with my back to the door and the room. I wasn’t used to that seat, but maybe developers in the modern West were more in danger of being shot in the back than sheriffs.
    I draped my jacket over my chair and sat just in time for the queen bee herself to appear with two glasses of ice water and a couple of menus. Why she brought me a menu I’ll never know, but it was a ritual and I found comfort in it.
    She looked around as if this portion of the restaurant was one in which she’d never been. “You guys hiding from the law?”
    I took the menu she proffered but then laid it flat on the surface of the yellow-speckled Formica table. “Yep, and if you see a deceptively diminutive deputy pull up, you’ll let us know?”
    She crossed her arms along with the tiny pad and stubby pencil and looked at me through her mostly salt and not much pepper bangs. “What did you do now?”
    “I didn’t know she golfed.”
    The expression on Dorothy’s face didn’t change. “That’s a new one.”
    “Yep.”
    Ozzie, figuring that the conversation was complete, handed his menu back to her. “I’ll have the BLT, hold the mayo.”
    Dorothy nodded, took his menu, and plucked mine out of my hands. “The usual?”
    “Yes, please.”
    Ozzie looked uncertain. “What’s the usual?”
    She looked at him. “I haven’t decided yet.”
    He paused for only a second. “I’ll stick with the BLT.”
    As Dorothy retreated behind the counter, Ozzie turned back to me and spoke in a low voice. “Before we get started, I just wanted to tell you I was going to drop those charges against George Stewart.”
    I was a little shocked, and my face probably showed it. “Well . . . I was hoping that would be the case.”
    He took a deep breath and exhaled through distended nostrils, continuing to make eye contact with only the table. “The man is dangerous, but I figure we ought to let bygones be bygones.”
    My plan was to just let him talk, but it appeared that he was done. “That’s very big of you.” I looked around to make sure I was sitting with the right guy. “Just so you know, he hasn’t filed any charges against you even though he bruised a few of his ribs and cracked his head open.” I tried looking out the windows but settled for watching the drops of condensation roll down at a low rate of speed. “I guess Geo’s not the kind to take that sort of thing seriously.”
    “And I am?”
    I took a sip of my water just to slow us down. “No, that’s not what I said.”
    The small man leaned in, the brim of his hat only a few inches from mine. “He walks up and down that fence line with a rifle like he’s in some kind of range war.”
    Probably waiting for your mother, I thought, but kept that to myself. “He shoots the rats that you’ve been complaining about.” I thought, with the turn of events, it was possible that Ozzie knew more about the relationship between the junkman and his mother, so I tested the waters. “Have you discussed any of this with your mother?”
    He looked genuinely surprised at that one. “What?”
    “Your mother, have you talked to her?”
    He shook his head as if to clear my words from it. “What does my mother have to do with any of this?”
    “Well, she was there.”
    His mouth hung open. I