Junkyard Dogs by Craig Johnson

sounds as if this condition might be familiar to you.”
    I nodded and smiled. “Yep, I had a little dose or two.”
    The Doc shook his head, mildly scolding. “All right, what is it you’re planning to do?”
    “Well, whether he stays or goes I want to make sure he knows he’s all right. In the long run it’s best for him to learn that he’s not bulletproof. I just want to remind him that he might be just a little bullet-resistant.”
    “And how are you intending to do that?”
    I took a deep breath and tipped my hat back. “Haven’t a clue, but I figure that if I keep him occupied with the thumb it’ll at least hold his interest until I come up with something.”
    “Walter, I don’t need to remind you that you are not a professional in dealing with these types of things and that there are people who . . .”
    “I know that.”
    “Your friend, Dr. Morton, at the VA over in Sheridan?”
    “Yep, but that would make it official, and I’m not sure Santiago would be willing to go for that.”
    The Doc pulled at his nose, readjusted his glasses with a middle finger, and studied me for a long moment. “What do you want me to do?”
    I shrugged. “Nothing illegal, but if you could feign a little ignorance about the nature of the evidence and possibly keep it quiet if anybody comes in with a telling injury . . .”
    He pulled the all-knowing clipboard from his chest, flipped a page over, and read. “Mr. Felix Polk of Route 16, Rural Delivery Box 12, appeared here yesterday at approximately 11:22 a.m., wanting to know if anybody had shown up with the end of his thumb because he, and I quote, ‘Wanted to get it back and have it made into a key chain,’ unquote.”
    I took a breath. “Well, this might end up being a little harder than I thought, but I’ll think of something.” I started to go but then remembered that I wanted to ask him about Mrs. Dobbs. “Hey, Doc, do you remember Betty Dobbs?”
    He thought for only a second. “School nurse and teacher. Retired, isn’t she? Married well, as I recall, but he died two and a half years ago, I think.” He didn’t hesitate in adding, “Salt of the earth. Why?”
    “Just curious.”
     
     
    Ozzie Dobbs apparently wanted to press charges, but I thought that Geo didn’t, so I took the trail of least resistance and went to visit the junkman first. I knocked on the door of his room, but there was no response. I could hear the television, so I waited a second and then swung the door back. Geo was walking around in a hi-here’s-my-ass gown, barefoot, and looking for his clothes. He was still wearing his disreputable hat with the flaps sticking straight out at the sides, so it looked like Geo was clear for takeoff.
    “Whatta ya think them nurses did with ma pants?”
    Burned them, I thought, but I wasn’t going to be the one to tell him. “I think you’re supposed to be in bed, Geo. They have to give you one more going-over before they’ll let you go; probably something to do with the insurance.”
    The response was predictable.
    “Gaddam insurance.” He stood there in the middle of the room with his fists on his hips. His tan, still holding through the winter, started just above his eyebrows and paused in a deep V at his throat along which there was a substantial scar that appeared to run from ear to ear. The tan then recommenced at his wrists and ventured to his fingertips. I guess they had cleaned him up, with or without his permission, because the rest of him looked like boiled chicken. “Somebody gotta feed Butch and Sundance.”
    “What about Duane or Gina?”
    His answer was accompanied with a vague gesture. “Went off to Sheridan to go to the show and visit friends.”
    “How about Morris?”
    “Drinks.”
    I thought about how I was supposed to have met Vic an hour ago, and how my current popularity was plummeting along with the mercury. “Well then, I can take care of that.”
    He studied me from the corner of his eye. “Got a bird.”
    I