The Man With the Barbed-Wire Fists

THE PACK

ONE

The deputy’s name was Vin Miller, and the waitress’s name was Vera Marlowe. Truth be told, Vin didn’t much like Vera, but Vin wasn’t one to let like get in the way of need.

Vera did have her faults, though. She was a little on the plump side, and she kept the jukebox in the diner jumpin’ with Dion and Fabian and Bobby Rydell and even Elvis, now that the hillbilly cat was out of the army and had a new set of tunes to peddle. The deputy was a Marty Robbins/Johnny Horton/Jim Reeves kind of guy, so that teenybopper stuff didn’t sit well with him. But neither did the diner’s menu, a wide array of overcooked meat dishes which were invariably served with either undercooked fries or lumpy mashed potatoes lathered with greasy gravy.

Vin figured that Vera had a real taste for that gravy, judging by the swell of her Playtex girdle. Still, Vera had a pretty nice ass if you stacked it up against the local competition. There were far too many rawboned Okie asses around these parts for the deputy’s taste — flat dust-bowl behinds that had cannonballed into the local gene pool thirty years back without hardly making a splash.

Personally, Vin preferred something he could hold on to, and Vera had plenty of that. Plus, she took real care with her hair and make-up. Why, if Vin squinted just right, the waitress looked kind of like a meatier Carroll Baker, and Vin thought a whole hell of a lot of Carroll Baker. But Vera wouldn’t go out with him even though he’d been piling on the tips since the sheriff had first pinned a star on his chest three months before.

Three months on the graveyard shift in a one stoplight town. For all the headway he’d made, the deputy might as well have arrived yesterday.

Just like Elvis, Vin was a veteran. He’d come to California from Germany, where a stint as an army private had ended in an honorable discharge, just barely, and only because all military defense attorneys weren’t the chuckleheads you’d imagine. But that was in the past, and Vera was part of the future. Vin knew that in a podunk town like this one he had to take it where he could find it. And if he couldn’t even make it with the queen of the local diner, he was going to have one hell of a time getting to the undertaker’s daughter, or the straight-razor tottin’ lady barber, or the banker’s wife. All three were on the deputy’s short list.

So when Vera brought the prisoner’s meal over to the jail herself — instead of sending the Mexican clean-up boy, as was the usual case — Vin had an inkling that things might be taking a turn for the better. And when she moved close to Vin — so close that he could smell that sweet gravy on her breath — he had a sudden premonition that he’d be hearing a whole hell of a lot of Elvis Presley in the very near future.

Vera’s eyes sparkled in a way that the diner’s silverware never dared. “Did you really catch him all by yourself?”

‘‘Yeah,” Vin said. “The sheriff didn’t have a damn thing to do with it.”

The waitress nodded, almost blushing, and for the first time Vin could see her noticing his big arms, his big chest, the way he filled out his uniform.

Vin stood up so Vera could see the way he filled out his slacks, too. “You want to get a good look?” he asked.

Now she did blush, but Vin pretended not to notice. “It’s no problem,” he said innocently, shooting a thumb over his shoulder. “He’s right back there, locked up good and tight. You can look all you want.”

“Could I? I mean, isn’t he dangerous?”

Vin slapped the six-gun strapped to his thigh and attempted to keep his voice television cowboy cool in the manner of Cheyenne Bodie or Paladin. “Honey,” he said, “when it comes to me, the thing locked back there in that cell ain’t nothin’ but a hound dog.”

The cellblock was red brick that had faded pumpkin orange over the years. A narrow hallway fronted five iron-barred cells — four of them empty. Along the hallway ceiling, a lone electric line looped from one overhanging, tin-hooded light to the next. The cord was badly frayed, as if it had been chewed, and the dull, waxy circles of illumination that spilled from the fixtures looked as if they had been chewed as well.

The prisoner sat on a cot in the last cell, well out of the light. The deputy and the waitress couldn’t see him, but he could see them. “You got to do something about this bed,” the prisoner said. “Goddamn fleas are eatin’ me alive.”

Vera laughed. Her Bakeresque breasts jiggled in spite of Playtex cross-your-heart engineering, and the dinner plate danced on her little tray. “You hear, that, Vin?” she said. ‘Your wolfman has fleas.”

Vin chuckled and gave Vera a quick squeeze, one hand on her hip but not too low. She felt nice and warm and just soft enough under that Playtex — the girl had some muscle on her and that came as a surprise — and Vin started to think that maybe he could get a “yes” out of the waitress if this little sideshow expedition went just right.

The prisoner chose that moment to step into the light. He was looking down, at Vin’s hand, and then his gaze drifted to the right, to the bulge that strained against Vin’s tight slacks.

The prisoner shook his head as if disgusted. “Must be tough, livin’ in a small town. Slim pickin’s.”

Vin’s hand came off of Vera’s hip like it was a hot skillet, but she didn’t see the connection. She was too busy staring at the skinny boy locked up in the cell, at his black leather jacket and greasy blue jeans and scuffed engineer’s boots and the weird tattooed star on the back of his left hand. “What gives?” she asked. “He ain’t no werewolf. He’s just a kid who’s seen too many Marlon Brando movies.”

The prisoner winked at the deputy. “Oh, she’s a brain surgeon, this one, ain’t she?” He laughed, snapping his fingers in Vera’s direction. “Ain’t gonna be no full moon tonight, sweetcheeks. Unless, of course, you want to bend over and raise that tight skirt of yours. Big white moon like you’ve got, well… it’s bound to make me howl, at the very least.”

Vera gasped. Vin said, ‘You watch your mouth, punk.”

But the kid wouldn’t quit. “I’ll shut up when I’m good and ready, Deputy Fife. This your little Juanita from the diner? That what we have goin’ on here? My my my… what’s Thelma Lou gonna make of this, Deputy Fife?”

Blood raced to Vin’s cheeks. Then the smartass kid sang it just the way Don Knotts did on television… Juanita, Jua-a-a-nita. Next he started to pop his fingers, whistling the theme from The Andy Griffith Show.

Vera laughed, and the kid stopped instantly. “See, your girl thinks I’m funny.” He moved to the bars, wiggled his nose, as if catching Vera’s scent for the first time. “You smell just good enough, baby. Full moon’s comin’ tomorrow night. I’m gonna have quite an appetite, and that big behind of yours might be just enough to fill the bill.”

Vera dropped the dinner tray. The plate broke. Undercooked french fries leapt onto the floor like albinos abandoning a sinking ship.

The kid’s leather-sheathed arm was between the bars in a flash, and he snatched the hamburger just that quick. Tossed the bread and lettuce and various condiments aside. The hunk of gray meat disappeared down his gullet in one swallow.

“See how hungry I am, baby? I’ll even eat dried-out, overcooked cowbutt. But that big behind of yours, it’s gonna take three or four bites, minimum, and I’m gonna have it raw and bloody.” As punctuation, the kid grinned, his lips still slick with hamburger grease. Then he started up whistling Andy Griffith again, real high-pitched.

Vin’s ears hurt. He was all tense, quivering muscles straining the seams of his shirt.

“He scares me, Vin.” Vera latched onto the deputy’s rocklike biceps. “Is he crazy? Or is he… is he really what he says he is?”

Vin barely heard her. He had the key to the cell in one hand, and his gun was in the other, and all he could see was the puckered smirk plastered on the kid’s whistling mouth.

Vin sucked a deep bread. A button popped off his shirt.

“I don’t know if he’s a wolf,” the deputy said finally. “But you watch me bring the dog out of him.”