“That was a long time ago,” Burdette said.
“Sure it was. But not long enough, don’t you see? And that surprises me. Because I can’t imagine what in hell you was thinking of. But I know one thing: you made a mistake coming back here. You never should of did that. Now get out of the car.”
Burdette didn’t move. “You can’t do anything to me,” he said. “It’s been eight years. The statute’s already run out.”
“You been talking to lawyers?”
“I talked to a couple of them.”
“You wasted your time. That don’t mean anything. That don’t mean diddly-shit.”
“Sure it does. It’s the same everywhere.”
“No,” Sealy said. “It don’t mean a thing.” He opened the car door. “Now listen to me. I’m through talking. I already been nice.”
Burdette refused to move. He sat slumped against the steering wheel of the Cadillac, his head lolled back against the headrest.
“Okay, then,” Sealy said. “I told you once. I did do that much.” He withdrew the gun from its holster on his belt and suddenly he jammed the short barrel into Burdette’s ear.
Burdette sat up. He tried to move his head away. But Sealy followed his head with the gun.
“Jesus Christ,” Burdette said. “What in hell you think you’re doing?”
“Get out,” Sealy said.
Now Burdette did move. He rose up out of the Cadillac and stood onto the pavement, tall, heavy, massive, a presence above the sheriff. He was dressed in plaid shirt and dark pants; he was wearing shoes but no socks. His clothes looked as though he’d been sleeping in them.
“Turn around,” Sealy said.
“Now goddamn it, Bud. What the hell?”
Sealy poked him with the gun. “Turn around.”
Burdette grunted, but slowly he turned so that his back was toward the sheriff. Sealy removed a pair of handcuffs from his back pocket and locked them around Burdette’s thick wrists. It took some effort to get them closed.
“Well Jesus,” Burdette said. “You mean to tell me, you mean you’re not even going to read me my rights?”
“What rights is that? You don’t have no rights. Not no more. Now hold still while I feel you.”
“You son of a bitch,” Burdette said.
“That’s right,” Sealy said. “That’s just exactly right.”
He began to run his hands over Burdette, feeling up and down his pants legs and along the fat over his ribs. He turned his pockets out. When he was satisfied that Burdette was carrying nothing more dangerous than a wallet and some pocket change, he stood for a moment behind Burdette’s wide back, staring at the massive and wrinkled shirt.
And yet it was still that quiet hour on Main Street, that brief elusive moment of peace and nothing was moving; there wasn’t another person anywhere on the street. And so, without thought, I suppose without even knowing he was going to, while the two of them stood beside the gleaming red Cadillac in that brief tranquillity of a November evening, the sheriff smashed Jack Burdette in the back of the head with the butt of his gun. Burdette howled and fell across the hood of the car. He began to curse.
“No,” Bud Sealy said, looking down at the blood trickling from the back of Burdette’s head. “I thought you was smarter than that. I did think you knew better than to come back here. What in hell was you thinking of?”
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