It was just like that little sonuvabitch to call in sick at the last minute, making Bean pull a double shift on a Friday night. Fever, my ass, he fumed. The only thing fevered about Rusty was the head of his dick. Twenty bucks said he was across town at the Nevermore Trailer Park right now, in his “sick bed” with that big-titted bimbo Georgetta Stovall and a quart of Wesson Oil.

What a waste of good oil.

Jesus, had Susie hit the ceiling when he told her he had to work! Bean had hated to even call her—not that she had any kind of hold on him. Certainly not. They just lived together, and shared the rent and utilities, and a bed. It wasn’t really what he’d call a relationship, but whatever it was, it worked and he had no qualms in admitting that she was the best thing to happen to him in years. He really hated to disappoint her like this. He knew she’d had plans for tonight: there was a new Chuck Norris movie at the theater in Bedford, and they were going to catch the early show, then splurge on steaks and salad at the Golden Corral before taking a drive up to Lake Monroe. It was a chilly night out, but he was going to pack his heavy sleeping bag into the back of the station wagon along with a coolerful of Bud for him and Little Kings for her and shit, would they have been set!

There would be no lovin’ tonight, he realized. Susie’d still be on her high horse when he got home, and he guessed she had a right to be. He was on duty for the next couple of nights, and next week she had the second shift at the Woolworth, so no night out then either, and by the time they finally got around to it the movie would probably be gone and some damn Meryl Streep film in its place. Oh well, no sense complaining, he decided. If she bitches, she bitches. Nothing he could do. It was, after all, his job. They couldn’t just get someone else to fill in for Sanders—they were the only two deputies on Isherwood’s paltry three-man force. Okay, technically he could have backed out, could have simply patched the lines in to county authorities as they did every night when the last shift was over. But dammit, he needed the money. What with the bills, and child support to his ex, and that new Ruger P85 semi-auto on the market. If only they hadn’t waved overtime under his nose.

Rusty Sanders, you little shit. . . .