The Crack in the Lens Read Online Free Page A

conduct fudgin’ business,” Ragsdale added, squint-sneering at Bales down the double barrels of his long nose. “And we don’t have to fudgin’ put up with that kind of fudgin’ talk in our own fudgin’ store. So do your fudgin’ duty and fudgin’ throw the fudgewit out, would ya?”
    Bales glared at Ragsdale and Bock for a moment, seemingly torn between doing his “fudgin’ duty” and putting bullets betwixt their eyes.
    When he’d made up his mind, he turned to me and Gustav and said one word: “Out.”
    “Now, just one minute, Milford,” my brother began.
    The marshal hit him with the same look he’d just given Ragsdale and Bock. “ Out .”
    I wrapped a hand around Old Red’s arm and tugged him toward the door.
    “Time we got goin’ anyhow, Brother. They might not peddle tail in here anymore, but the place still has a scummy kinda feel to it, don’t you think? Like a man could catch the clap just from breathin’ in the air.”
    “Fudge you!” Ragsdale called out as we walked away.
    I waved my free hand over my head without looking back. “ Vaya con fudge you, too, amigo !”
    As Old Red and I stepped outside, Bales and Coggins swung from our path like batwing doors. The second we were on the sidewalk, the clerk sidled around us and scampered inside with a cringe so craven it sparked in me the sudden, near-overpowering desire to plant a brogan toe between his butt cheeks. Yet something told me this would be a bad idea—my common sense, perhaps. I can’t be sure, for it and I usually aren’t on speaking terms.
    “My, what big cockroaches y’all have around here,” I said instead.
    “Leave him alone,” Bales snapped.
    He still didn’t strike me as imposing physically—with his tidy clothes and soft features, he would’ve been right at home behind a sales counter with Coggins—but the rage in his eyes was a warning not to push him any further.
    A warning I didn’t heed. There was something about the naked loathing on his full moon of a face, the impression that he was about to pop, that spurred me on.
    What can I say? Give a little boy a box of matches and a stick of dynamite and just see what happens.
    “You’re right,” I said. “Why take it out on poor little Coggins? It ain’t always a feller’s fault who he has to take orders from. I mean, just look at you and them two law-abidin’ taxpayers back there.”
    Bales eyed me warily, torn between disbelief and disgust. “Are you trying to piss me off?”
    I shrugged. “If you have to ask, I must not be doin’ it very well. Tell you what: I’ll try harder next time. We don’t wanna detain you any longer here, though. You got important work to do. Why, at this very moment, there might be fearsome desperadoes like ourselves terrorizin’ defenseless pimps all over town. So you just toddle along and do your duty, and we’ll promise not to inconvenience any more of your constituents today.”
    That was it—Bales finally exploded. Only not in the way I’d expected.
    It was an explosion of laughter that erupted out of him, one big burst of bitter amusement, too short-lived and barky to be what you’d call a guffaw. Maybe just a guff.
    He looked me up and down again, sour gaze lingering on the flaming red hair that’s such a perfect match for my brother’s. “You must be Otto.”
    I went pop-eyed with amazement. “Yessir, that’s right.”
    Bales shook his head. “You’re an even bigger pain in the ass than I’d imagined.”
    “Well, I’m pleased to see that my legend precedes me,” I said, and I shot a cocked eyebrow at Old Red—my standard (and oft-employed) “What the…?” look.
    “Milford here’s a fr—” Gustav cut himself off with an awkward cough, then started over. “Mr. Bales and I were acquainted when I lived down here.”
    “Oh, you don’t say,” I said with a solemn nod.
    And my brother likes to accuse me of stating the obvious.
    Old Red turned to Bales. “I never pegged you for a