Vanilla Ride by Joe R. Lansdale Page B

an erect horse dong. When I parked in the driveway and got out, the stench of that damn cigar wafted over to me and damn near curled the hair on my eyebrows.
    I went over, said, “Let me guess. No Enterprise Police Department.”
    “Ah, hell, man, you ain’t that smart,” he said, turning his head as if he wanted to pin me with just one eye. “You read that off the side of my car.”
    “You’re right.” I sat down in a lawn chair and looked at him. I said, “So, you took a wrong turn or what?”
    “No. I’m in the right place. They said you were a smart-ass, both of you were, and I figure you’re the white guy.”
    “That’s observant.”
    “Yep. I had a whole month of cop college and I read a book on fingerprinting once. I took a couple of courses in identification too.”
    “Wow!”
    He grinned at me around his cigar. He had strong creases around his mouth when he grinned and his eyes were slightly bloodshot. One ear floated out from the side of his head as if signaling for a turn. He didn’t strike me as over fifty. He had a hard body with a bit of a gut and arms that could twist a full-grown pig like wet wash. I remembered that Marvin had told me he was one of two fat guys. Boy, was he full of it. This John Law was big enough and mean enough looking to use an elephant’s ass to store his shoes and make the elephant like it.
    “You already talk to my buddy?” I asked.
    “No. Thought I’d talk to you. Hear you’re more reasonable and you don’t have lace on your panties.”
    “You’re right. I am. And that lace remark, not smart. Leonard heard you talk bad about him like that, he might stick you in your hat and piss in it after you.”
    “Doubt that.”
    “A man with confidence,” I said. “I like that. I know a lot of confident men Leonard has handed their teeth.”
    “Yeah, I hear you two think you’re tough guys. Be that as it may, what I know about you and him and me, I’d say I’m doing some better than either of you.”
    “Probably. Less graft in the jobs we have.”
    For the first time he didn’t look amused. “All right, let’s get formal. My name is Budd Conners. I’m half the law out of No Enterprise.”
    “Do the two of you count as one lawman?”
    He thumped ash from his cigar on the ground. “Let me tell you why I’m here.”
    “Let me guess. I stuck my dick in your territory.”
    “Something like that. You can wise off all you want, but I’m here to do you a favor.”
    “I could use some yard work done.”
    He leaned forward. “Listen, asshole. Listen good, and tell your partner what I’m going to tell you.”
    “Should I take notes?”
    “You can take notes, or you can just let it whistle through your ears. This way, I came to you and told you and I’m giving you a chance. Those guys you fucked over, shot one in the leg, took that girl from, flushed their dope down the shitter, they didn’t like it.”
    “Well, I hope not.”
    “They’re mad at you, and the more connected guys who work the dope through them, guess what? They’re pissed too.”
    “Get in line. Me and Leonard piss a lot of people off.”
    “I can believe that. I can believe you two are not going to listen and you’re going to wind up with your body parts in separate trash bags in different parts of the county.”
    “This isn’t the first time we’ve been threatened.”
    “I don’t doubt that, peckerwood. But this has put a little pressure on me. The organization that runs those turds you slapped around, they got folks that run them, and they are bad folks. The Dixie Mafia.”
    “Do they have Dixie flags and still whine over the South being unionized into the rest of the country? Do they talk about cotton a lot? Get weepy about the Old South? I don’t know about you, but nothing—absolutely nothing—touches me less or bores me more than those assholes. I was you, a black man, I’d throw my rag in with someone else.”
    “It’s bigger than any of that. Some of them, they come