Page 12 of Monk
Singer gives him a nod. “Cosmo.”
He turns to me with eyes the color of dull jade that are so familiar to me, it sends a sharp pain through my heart. I look down for a moment to collect myself, then raise my gaze to his.
“Can I help you with somethin’, Sheriff?” I ask.
“Yeah. Think you can,” he says. “Heard there was a dust up down at Randy’s yesterday.”
“That right?”
He nods. “Yeah. That’s right. Thought you might know somethin’ about it.”
One thing I’ve learned from dealing with the cops as often as I have since I rotated home is that you do not offer up information. About anything. You make them work for every single syllable you utter. Some are more persistent than others and will drag you for anything and everything. But if you give them nothing, and they have nothing on you, eventually, they give up.
“Why would you think I knew anything about it?” I ask.
“Description of the guy who beat the snot out of some Sac State student passin’ through sounded awfully familiar,” Singer replies.
I laugh to myself and shake my head. Singer’s face suddenly darkens, and his eyes flash dangerously.
“Somethin’ funny?” he asks, his voice deep and gruff.
“Just that some things never change.”
“How’s that?”
“Whenever somethin’ bad happens around here, I’m the first one you hassle. How long’s it been now? More than a decade? Time to let some things go, man.”
“In my experience, dirtbags don’t change,” he snaps. “You were a dirtbag as a kid, and you’re still a dirtbag.”
“Glad to know our police force, tasked with protecting and servin’ us, keeps such a clear and unbiased mind.”
Singer’s been on my ass since I was a kid. He’s had it out for me for a long time, and I’ve had more than my fair share of run-ins with him. For a long time, every time something bad happens in Blue Rock, Singer has always come looking for me first. Despite the fact that there are plenty of bad guys in our town—as there always have been—I’ve always been the baddest. The top of his “most wanted” list.
I cut a glance at Cosmo, who’s standing off to the side, an amused smirk on his face. Obviously, nobody at Randy’s has given me up. Not the employees because they’re loyal, and certainly not the tourists because they don’t know me. It tells me the best Singer has gotten is a description, so he’s here rattling my cage because he’s got nothing.
Looking back at the sheriff, I give him a shrug. “Somebody beat up a Sac State kid. Damn shame.”
“You want to tell me why this kid got a busted nose and had two teeth knocked out when according to him, he and his buddy were just passin’ through and stopped for a beer?”
I squat down and run my rag over the tailpipe of my bike again. “I don’t know what happened, so I can’t speak for this mysterious guy. Obviously.”
“Don’t jerk me off, Tulowisky.”
“Sorry, Sheriff, you’re not really my type,” I say. “But, hypothetically speaking, I’d say this Sac State kid—frat brat, probably—had it comin’. Can’t say for sure, but I’d imagine that this kid probably got a little too handsy with the waitress.”
Singer stood there, his eyes boring into me, his jaw clenched hard enough to shatter rock.
“I should haul your ass in for assault,” he sneers.
“With what evidence, Sheriff? I’m pretty sure I could beat this accusation even without a lawyer from legal aid. But how about we spare the taxpayers a few bucks so that we don’t have to find out, huh?” I say to him.
“You know why I don’t like you, Tulowisky? Why I’ve never liked you?”
I don’t say anything except hold my head high. I’m sure he’s about to give me the same speech he’s given me a thousand times over the years.
“It’s because you’ve got a shitty attitude and a smart mouth. You think you can do whatever the hell you want and never suffer the consequences.”
Sometimes, I hate being right all the time. The first time I ever heard that little screed was when I was seventeen years old. I look at him and drop the rag onto the seat of my bike.
