“I’ll talk to the boy first. You think you’re a hard case. He doesn’t.”
“He’ll tell you what I will,” Arlen said, “because it’s all we can say. Let me tell you something else, Tolliver—you lay into the boy, I’ll see it dealt with. You’re the law here. You ain’t the law all over.”
“Nothing I enjoy more,” Tolliver said, “then a handcuffed man who offers threats. I’ll see you shortly.”
Arlen leaned back on the cot until his head rested against the stone wall, wishing for his flask. This journey had been a mistake from the first. You didn’t leave a good place to go to an unknown one. He’d let the kid talk him into it, and more than a year of comfort and steady work had lulled him, allowed him to think it was a fine time to move on, and the Keys a fine place to go. What he knew now was that from almost the moment they’d crossed the state line, trouble had swirled around them like an angry wind.
The sheriff wasn’t with Paul Brickhill for long—twenty minutes, maybe—and when he came back he wasn’t alone. There was a tall, broad-shouldered man in a suit and a white Panama hat at his side. He wore glasses that glittered under the overhead lights and turned his eyes into harsh white squares. Tolliver glanced at the man twice as they approached, and the look held a quality of deference. Tolliver was no longer in charge of the show.
The sheriff unlocked the cell and held the door so the new man could enter first. Then he stepped in behind him and banged the door shut.
“Arlen Wagner,” the sheriff said, pronouncing it with the V again. “This here is Solomon Wade. He’s the judge in Corridor County.”
“You going to charge us?” Arlen said.
Solomon Wade blinked at Arlen from behind the glasses. They didn’t seem to suit his face; he looked too harsh for them. He was young for a judge, but the youth didn’t suggest a lack of assurance. Rather, every step and glance bespoke a man who was used to having command.
“What brings you to Florida?” he said as if Arlen hadn’t spoken. His voice was thick with southern flavor, and soft, but still had a timbre that would hold men’s attention, and hold it fast.
“I expect the sheriff has told you,” Arlen said. “I came for work. We were bound for the Keys.”
“This isn’t the way to get there from Alabama.”
“We had a detour.”
“Bad time to head to the Keys,” Wade said. “Bad time.”
“Yeah?”
“Storm coming. It’s all they’re talking about on the radio. They’re going to have a hurricane down south, down Miami way.”
“A damned hurricane,” Tolliver said under his breath, and a frown creased his broad face. He seemed genuinely distressed.
“All due respect,” Arlen said, “but if we’re going to talk about the weather, I’d like to be on the other side of these bars.”
The sheriff looked at Solomon Wade and gave a rueful shake of his head, a What did I tell you? gesture.
“I’d likely imagine you would,” Wade drawled. “But that’s going to take some cooperation on your part.”
“I’ve been cooperating.”
“Al here disagrees,” Wade said. “He suspects you of dishonesty.”
“Al is wrong.”
“Al is not often wrong. In my experience he’s been a fine judge of character. And you, sir, will address him as Sheriff. I believe in a culture of respect in my jail. You don’t show much of it.”
“Everybody has an off day now and again,” Arlen said.
Solomon Wade looked at Tolliver but didn’t say anything. Tolliver ran a hand through his thinning gray hair. His shoulders were relaxed, his demeanor casual, as if they were all strangers on a train, pleasant but unfamiliar. He didn’t appear to do so much as tense a muscle before he swung one of those meaty hands and caught Arlen flush on the side of the head. It was more slap than punch, but it rang Arlen’s bell, knocked him sideways and put a flash of color in his eyes. He caught himself sliding off the cot, stood, and allowed a smile.
“Aw, hell,” Tolliver said, “you’re one of those kind. Enjoy being hit.”
“No, Sheriff, I’m not.”
“Just a cheerful son of a bitch, then?”
“Yes, sir.”
He expected another blow, and Tolliver seemed prepared to administer one, but then Solomon Wade raised a hand.
“The boy sticks to his tale,” he said. “And he’s too damn green to be a good liar. I’ve got an expectation that the part about you all coming down from Alabama will check out well enough. What will not check out is the notion that Walt Sorenson drove you for a full day out of the goodness of his black heart. I’d be willing to believe, maybe, that he gave you a ride a mile up the highway. But the story the boy tells? Of you riding with him all day and making stops along the way at establishments that are well known to me? That don’t carry water.”