Free Here Today, Gone Tamale by Rebecca Adler Page B

familiar.
    â€œWhere’d you find that?” Sheriff Wallace wiped his mouth and shoved to his feet.
    â€œDumpster.” The deputy held the bag up to the light.
    My breath caught as I recognized the bow tie.
    â€œAnd that ain’t all. There’s a near perfect shoe impression as well.”
    Didn’t he mean boot impression? That was old news. Hadn’t I, a mere civilian, seen the boot impression in the dimly lit alley? The Big Bend County Sheriff’s Department didn’t have anything on me.
    Unaware of my reaction, the sheriff and his deputies hurried out the back.
    Anthony bolted out the front door and I was right on his heels. “Wait!” With all the immigration issues throughout the state, I wasn’t surprised he wanted to avoid law officers, but Broken Boot was different. He didn’t need to be afraid.
    As soon as it became apparent that I wasn’t giving up, he stopped and slowly turned. “What do you want me to say?”
    â€œTry telling me why you’re on the run.”
    As if longing to leave me and my question in the dust, he glanced down the street toward the Broken Boot depot. “It’s mine.”
    He didn’t have to tell me, I already suspected. Though all of our employees wore a red bowtie, his was the only one with fringe at the bottom in the Mexican style.
    â€œThe sheriff won’t assume the worst if you’re straightforward with him.” I waited for Anthony to say something, but he merely shook his head and kept his gaze on the sidewalk. “Just tell him how it came to be in the Dumpster.” If there was ever a public official with integrity, it was Wallace.
    *   *   *
    Frustrated beyond belief at the continued delay, Aunt Linda sent our employees home. “We’ll have to clean it ourselves. After losing both lunch and dinner, I’m not paying a single solitary cent for anyone to clean up after the Big Bend County Sheriff’s Department.”
    My first impulse was to complain, but I immediatelysucked it up. If my aunt said we could do it ourselves, she actually meant we had to do it ourselves. Money was that tight.
    With each of us carrying a bucket of sudsy water and a rag, we began to wash away all traces of fingerprint powder in the bar.
    â€œIt is good,” Senora Mari gave me a stern nod, “to clean all fingerprints.”
    â€œPowder,” I corrected. “We’re washing away the fingerprint powder.”
    â€œHumph,” she muttered, her frown deepening. “I’m getting rid of all the germs the sheriff and his posse left behind.”
    Either way, we had hours of work ahead of us, but still no word as to whether or not we’d even be open for business the next day.
    Boots stomped down the hall and into the entranceway. “Linda,” Sheriff Wallace called out.
    Something about the tone of his voice pulled us up short. We traipsed into the other room without bothering to put down our buckets.
    Like a third-world leader on vacation in New York City, Anthony stood surrounded by a circle of officers on high alert. No guns were drawn, but Wallace’s crew had their chests out and their hands on their holsters.
    â€œWhat’s going on, sheriff?” I hugged my bucket to my chest, sloshing soap on my blouse.
    â€œNothing to get riled up about, ladies. We’re only taking Anthony in for further questioning.”
    With her usual swagger, Aunt Linda went nose to nose with Wallace. “Does he need a lawyer?”
    The older deputy butted in. “We’re about to find out.”
    â€œKeep your smart comments to yourself.” The sheriff leveled the other man with a narrow-eyed glare. With a sigh, he met my aunt’s worried gaze. “If he needs one, he’ll get one.”
    As the entourage herded out the side door to their cruisers,Lightfoot caught my eye. He shot a quick glance at Wallace’s retreating back before giving me a