All That I Have Read Online Free
Author: Castle Freeman
Cumberland Union. Basketball player. Lyle went to the Police Academy and took a job out of the county, with the police department in St. Johnsbury, looking to get into the state police. But the state police wouldn’t have him. I don’t know why. Lyle’s a smart fellow, but, of course, with the state police smart won’t do it for you. You have to have a genius IQ, or pretty close. Look at Trooper Timberlake.
Anyway, Lyle didn’t take to it up in St. Johnsbury, so he applied to join our department, and I hired him. That’s four or five years ago.
Again, Lyle’s bright, and he’s honest. He works hard. The occupational disease of sheriffing, you could say, is laziness, and Lyle don’t have a lazy bone in him. Fact is, he might get too far over on the other side. Because Ripley Wingate used to tell us (me and his other deputies): Don’t be lazy, but it’s okay to look lazy. Lyle don’t even look lazy. Far from it: his uniform’s always pressed, his radio’s always on his belt. He carries a gun.
I don’t wear a uniform; no need of one. People around here know me. They know who I am. They know what I do. They don’t have to see me in a fancy suit. I don’t have a uniform, and I don’t carry a weapon. Wingate never went armed. No guns, he said. Leave it in your car. And leave your car at home. I learned from Wingate. Of course, I have a gun. I have Wingate’s old army .45 that he brought back from World War Two. It’s in my sock drawer, where a gun ought to be. I also have the county’s expensive Remington police shotgun in the trunk of the sheriff’s car. At least I think it’s in there. It was last time I looked. I don’t much use the sheriff ’s car, though. I like my truck. Plus, it saves the county money.
Saving money is big. The sheriff is a county officer, but in this state the county don’t have taxing authority; the towns do. Towns that don’t have their own police forces — and that’s practically all the little country towns — make a contract with the sheriff ’s department to take care of policing within their limits. Those town fees are what make the sheriff ’s budget. Therefore, the towns reckon that budget is their business — and that’s fair enough. But, I mean, look at that Ambrose selectman the other day: those town boards and treasurers want to bite every dime you spend. They want to count your paper clips. They want to look over the tires on your patrol cars, and if they can see any tread at all on those tires, they want to know why you’re asking for money to buy new ones. You’re a bookkeeper, is what it is. It don’t ever end, and for time, it seems like it’s two thirds of the job.
Wingate’s right: you don’t need a gun to be the sheriff. You don’t need a badge or a uniform. You do need an adding machine.
I guess I could tell Lyle and my other deputies they’re not to carry guns, the way Wingate told us years ago. I haven’t done that. There are different kinds of people passing through here from what there used to be. Not long since, there was a sheriff ’s deputy up near White River who was shot and killed in a traffic stop. As near as anybody could tell, he’d pulled over a car for speeding or some other violation, went up to the car, and the driver shot him through the window and took off. Nobody ever found him. So I won’t tell my deputies they can’t arm themselves. Some of them do and some of them don’t. I tell them to figure it out for themselves, do what they want. (Within reason: no nuclear weapons.) Again, Wingate didn’t give them the choice, not in that, but Clemmie says I’m more Wingate than Wingate.
Clemmie’s fond of Wingate. Wingate never married, he’s all alone, and she feels sorry for him. After he’d retired we’d have him over for dinner now and then, or we’d take him out someplace, but not so much lately. He don’t want it. He’s by himself in his place over here in South Cardiff; it’s just Wingate and his bees. He
Anyway, Lyle didn’t take to it up in St. Johnsbury, so he applied to join our department, and I hired him. That’s four or five years ago.
Again, Lyle’s bright, and he’s honest. He works hard. The occupational disease of sheriffing, you could say, is laziness, and Lyle don’t have a lazy bone in him. Fact is, he might get too far over on the other side. Because Ripley Wingate used to tell us (me and his other deputies): Don’t be lazy, but it’s okay to look lazy. Lyle don’t even look lazy. Far from it: his uniform’s always pressed, his radio’s always on his belt. He carries a gun.
I don’t wear a uniform; no need of one. People around here know me. They know who I am. They know what I do. They don’t have to see me in a fancy suit. I don’t have a uniform, and I don’t carry a weapon. Wingate never went armed. No guns, he said. Leave it in your car. And leave your car at home. I learned from Wingate. Of course, I have a gun. I have Wingate’s old army .45 that he brought back from World War Two. It’s in my sock drawer, where a gun ought to be. I also have the county’s expensive Remington police shotgun in the trunk of the sheriff’s car. At least I think it’s in there. It was last time I looked. I don’t much use the sheriff ’s car, though. I like my truck. Plus, it saves the county money.
Saving money is big. The sheriff is a county officer, but in this state the county don’t have taxing authority; the towns do. Towns that don’t have their own police forces — and that’s practically all the little country towns — make a contract with the sheriff ’s department to take care of policing within their limits. Those town fees are what make the sheriff ’s budget. Therefore, the towns reckon that budget is their business — and that’s fair enough. But, I mean, look at that Ambrose selectman the other day: those town boards and treasurers want to bite every dime you spend. They want to count your paper clips. They want to look over the tires on your patrol cars, and if they can see any tread at all on those tires, they want to know why you’re asking for money to buy new ones. You’re a bookkeeper, is what it is. It don’t ever end, and for time, it seems like it’s two thirds of the job.
Wingate’s right: you don’t need a gun to be the sheriff. You don’t need a badge or a uniform. You do need an adding machine.
I guess I could tell Lyle and my other deputies they’re not to carry guns, the way Wingate told us years ago. I haven’t done that. There are different kinds of people passing through here from what there used to be. Not long since, there was a sheriff ’s deputy up near White River who was shot and killed in a traffic stop. As near as anybody could tell, he’d pulled over a car for speeding or some other violation, went up to the car, and the driver shot him through the window and took off. Nobody ever found him. So I won’t tell my deputies they can’t arm themselves. Some of them do and some of them don’t. I tell them to figure it out for themselves, do what they want. (Within reason: no nuclear weapons.) Again, Wingate didn’t give them the choice, not in that, but Clemmie says I’m more Wingate than Wingate.
Clemmie’s fond of Wingate. Wingate never married, he’s all alone, and she feels sorry for him. After he’d retired we’d have him over for dinner now and then, or we’d take him out someplace, but not so much lately. He don’t want it. He’s by himself in his place over here in South Cardiff; it’s just Wingate and his bees. He
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