Free Carnosaur Crimes by Christine Gentry Page B

“Wake up.”
    When there was no response, Flynn walked over to a scarred oak end table and turned on a pole lamp with a stained, yellow shade. Ochre light washed away little of the room’s sloth and despair. The man wearing only blue jeans rolled over onto his side, swatted at the long coppery hair falling into his face, then slid back into a deep sleep.
    Flynn roused him with a stiff push to the left shoulder. “Get up. We’ve got to talk.”
    Cyrus’ torso bolted up from the frayed black cushions, blue eyes wide but disorientated. “What the fuck,” he yelled as his dilated pupils finally settled on Flynn’s annoyed face. He began coughing in hoarse spasms, then stopped. Goose flesh covered his arms. “What are you doing here, man?”
    Flynn surveyed Cyrus’ lineless face. Normally a looker, according to the ladies, tonight his skin was pasty beneath a surprisingly well-trimmed, reddish moustache and beard. Dark smudges underscored his lower lashes.
    â€œYou don’t look good, Cyrus. You’ve lost weight. I saw the booze and I can smell the pot. What else are you jacked up on? Amphetamines? I thought you were clean since Riverton.”
    Cyrus’ gaze solidified into a piercing green stare. “I’m clean enough. I’ve just been sick. Got the flu or something. The pot helps me sleep. Besides it’s all gone.”
    Flynn didn’t bother arguing. He walked over to the recliner, body tense and ready to spring into action. Cyrus could get feisty without warning. “You’re violating your parole.”
    Cyrus snorted. “Things that slow in that cowpunch Mecca of yours that you’re checking up on me for the DOC?”
    â€œDon’t get smart, laddie,” Flynn warned.
    Wisely dropping his challenging gaze, Cyrus reached toward a crumpled pack of cigarettes on the junk-cluttered table. Besides the trash, an assortment of over-the-counter cough medicines and lozenges peeked out.
    â€œSorry about the pot and the beer. I promise it won’t happen again. So what can I do for you,
Chief
Flynn?”
    â€œI’m looking for information. Have you ever seen or heard about a young Indian with a claw foot who might have worked around the rodeos or somewhere else busting horses or bulls?”
    Flynn watched with a mixture of irritation and awe as Cyrus adroitly delayed his response by using a disposable lighter to stoke his smoke. Every turn of the head, hand gesture, and body twist was smooth and slow despite his condition. Cyrus always used his good looks and animal charisma as a lethal weapon. Just like a glossy sidewinder’s undulating crawl was malevolent yet mesmerizing, the man knew how to work every muscle so you did absolutely nothing as he made a slick, inevitable approach into your strike zone.
    As a cop, Flynn had always been intrigued by the spiritual concepts of good and evil in human beings, as if he could figure it out given enough time and study. He’d known Cyrus since he was a toothless, undernourished baby and over thirty years of staring and cogitating on the remorseless soul locked inside that pearly, unblemished skin still had him mystified. Mostly because Cyrus had gone bad as an eight year old child. What he did know was that genetic fluke or psychological disease, the man was morally and socially defective and well beyond saving.
    Cyrus completed his ritual. “An Indian? No way. I don’t pal around with tee pee trash.”
    Flynn cringed and his thoughts wandered, as they often did around Cyrus, toward Ansel Phoenix. Dark and light. That’s what they both represented to him: the in-your-face, physical reality of the differences between what could be either Heaven and Hell on Earth.
    â€œMaybe somebody you know knows him. I want you to ask around.”
    Cyrus brushed hair away and sneered. “I’m not a snitch.”
    â€œThis is important. You’re going to do it, and then