Free The Night Visitor by James D. Doss

was headed for Angel’s Cafe and an early supper. Chicken-fried steak. Home-fried potatoes. Lots of brown gravy. He was leaving the cell block when he heard Flye’s urgent call.
    â€œHey there… waitaminute… Ossifer Moon!”
    He turned wearily. “Yeah?”
    â€œI just thoughta somethin’.”
    â€œWhat?”
    â€œWell, what with all the excitement, I’d plumb forgot. I’d appreciate it if you could bring my pickup and trailer over here. And park my rig right outside. And you gotta be careful how you handle that old truck. She’s got a manual choke—pull it out just about a inch and a quarter, then pump the gas pedal three times before you try to start ’er up. And when you get the rig over here, don’t set the hand-brake on the pickup. Sometimes the shoes stick and I gotta crawl underneath and bang on the brake calipers with a ball-peen hammer before I can get the wheels to roll.”
    â€œHalf-assed hillbilly truck,” Curtis Tavishuts muttered with a sneer. “You ought to get yourself a team o’ Arkansas mules to pull it.”
    Moon silenced the Ute prisoner with a glance. “We’re kind of shorthanded, Mr. Flye. When we can get around to it I’ll send somebody over and …”
    Horace was on his feet now, his brow furrowed into a field of wrinkles. His hands were white-knuckled on the door-bars. “You cain’t wait that long. She might get cold or hungry or somethin’.”
    â€œWho?”
    â€œWhy, my daughter. She’s in the trailer.”
    So this fuzzy-faced con artist had a daughter. And she’dkept herself holed up in the camper while her father was carted off to jail.
If blood tells, she’ll be every bit as wacky as her old man.
“Well, I’ll take your pickup keys to her. Then she can drive your rig wherever she wants.” Maybe all the way back to Arkansas.
    â€œOh no.” Horace Flye shook his head. “She couldn’t do that. She’s a good cook and housekeeper and such, but I ain’t taught her how to drive the truck.”
    â€œWhat’s your daughter’s name?”
    â€œButter,” Horace Flye said proudly.
    Moon was not surprised. It had been that kind of day. Horsefly begat Butterfly. The last—one might hope—of the ill-fated Mugwumps.
    Moon was pleased to see Officer Elena Chavez filling out her daily log. He paused by her side and waited.
    She signed the log, looked up, and smiled.
    Elena had long, black hair. And very pretty eyes set in an oval face—which was also pretty. Moon, temporarily distracted, gathered his thoughts, cleared his throat. “You busy, Officer Chavez?”
    â€œNot if you
need
me, Charlie.”
    Her eyes seemed to grow into big pools that a man could fall into. Unconsciously, Moon backed away a half-step. “I got to go see a young woman in a camp-trailer. I could use some help.”
    This piqued her interest. “Oh. You going to make an arrest?”
    Moon grinned. “Don’t plan on it. But somebody’ll need to drive the rig over here. So she can visit her father.”
    She zipped her leather jacket and made a mock salute. “Let’s ride.”
    They were nearing Tillie’s Navajo Bar and Grille. The home of unforgettable cheeseburgers. And fries made with real lard. Moon sighed.
    Officer Elena Chavez loosened her seat belt. She scooted across the Blazer seat. An inch closer to the tall man. “Bad day, Charlie?”
    He grinned weakly at his fellow officer. “You ever hear of a tribe called the Mugwumps?” Elena was attending the university every other semester, working on her law degree. And she was very proud of her recently acquired knowledge. Liked to show off a bit, in fact.
    A thoughtful frown furrowed her brow. “Mugwumps. Hmmm. I think that’s what they called Republicans who wouldn’t support James Blaine for president.”
    â€œBlaine? Never