Free Bill Crider - Dan Rhodes 08 - Winning Can Be Murder by Bill Crider Page A

thing up in a neat package right now:  Rapper killed Brady Meredith in an argument about the payment for steroids.
    Somehow he didn’t think it would be that easy, however.
    When he got to the bottom of the hill, he looked around for a place to park.  There was a wide, flat grassy area near the tank dam about thirty yards from the tents.  He didn’t want to walk that far in the rain, but he didn’t suppose he had much choice in the matter.  Anyway, the rain seemed to be slowing down a bit.
    Rhodes drove onto the grass, parked, and got out.  The rain was no longer falling hard; it was more like a heavy mist in the air now, but it clung to his hair and soaked into his shirt and pants.  The grass was so wet that cold water was squishing in his shoes by the time he’d walked halfway over to the tents.  He told himself that if he ever bought himself a Western hat, he’d get some boots, too.  Waterproof boots.
    By the time Rhodes got near the tents, Rapper was already standing in front of one of them looking at him.
    Rhodes had never liked Rapper, because there had been nothing about him to like.  He’d proved himself to be a congenital liar and a bully.  He was short and pudgy, with his thinning hair greased straight back in a widow’s peak.  He was wearing dirty jeans and a denim jacket with the sleeves ripped off at the shoulder seams, and even in the dim light under the lowering clouds Rhodes could see the Los Muertos gang tattoo on his arm.  He looked a little like Eddie Munster, grown old and gone to seed.
    “Hey, Sheriff,” Rapper said.  “Fancy meeting you here.”
    “I didn’t think I’d ever be seeing you again, Rapper.  You must like it in Blacklin County.”
    Rapper held up a hand that was missing the ends of a couple of fingers, thanks to his last encounter with Rhodes.
    “Not much,” he said.  “You know, I think if you’d cared about me, you’d have looked for the rest of my fingers.  Maybe I could’ve had them reattached.  They can do stuff like that now, even in backwoods town like yours.  These stumps hurt like hell when it rains like this.”
    Rhodes wasn’t sympathetic.  “Then you should stay out of the rain.  In fact, maybe you should just stay out of the county.  Why don’t you pack your tent and move on before it gets completely dark.  That way we won’t have a problem.”
    Rapper turned to the tent next to his own.  “You hear that, Nellie?  The sheriff thinks we oughta move on.  What do you think?”
    Nellie came out of the tent.  He was pretty much as Rhodes remembered him, thinner and more fit-looking than Rapper, with wavy graying hair slicked back on the sides.
    “You tryin’ to tell us what to do, Sheriff?” he asked.  “Seems like you’d have figured out by now that Rapper and I don’t take very well to bein’ told things.  Ain’t that right, Rapper?”
    Rapper took a step toward Nellie and thumped him in the chest.  “I’ll speak for myself, Nellie.  When I ask you what you think, don’t you ever try to speak for me.”
    “Sorry, Rapper,” Nellie said, cringing a little.  “I didn’t mean anything by it.”
    “And it won’t happen again,” Rapper said.
    “And it won’t happen again.”  Nellie backed up a step.  “I promise.”
    “I guess I can’t blame you for what you said, Sheriff,” Rapper said, turning back to Rhodes.  “I guess it’s just natural for you to get a little uppity with me, when even the help doesn’t seem to know its place.”
    “I’m not getting uppity,” Rhodes said.  “I’m telling you to move on out of here.”
    “I heard you, but we’re not moving anywhere.  We like it here.”
    “Yeah,” Nellie said.  “We like it here.”
    Rapper didn’t chastise him this time.  Apparently it was all right for him to back up the boss, just as long as he didn’t try to express the boss’ thoughts.
    “While you’re here, then, we might as well have a little talk,” Rhodes said.
    “What