Part 2 of a trilogy. Final installment will be posted tomorrow.

When Chief Martin finally freed himself he went into the kitchen, and took out a jelly glass. One of the tall ones his wife had used for iced tea, not a short one she used for orange juice. He set it on the yellow ceramic tiled countertop, went to the cabinet atop the Frigidaire, and got out the bottle of Johnny Walker Red Label he kept there. He poured the pungent amber colored liquid to almost the top of the glass. He took a sip or two. Then a gulp. Then he carried it into his den and sat in the dark at his desk.

Reaching for the pack of Marlboros, he pulled out the leatherette memorandum at the back of the center drawer.  Pulling the book of Lucky Lady matches out of the cellophane in the front of the pack, he shook out a single cigarette and put the whole pack up to his lips so he could pull out the one he’d shaken out the top of the pack.  He pulled out one match from the book, closed the cover and slid it across the striking surface a lot harder than he needed to.  The head of the match exploded like his own anger would if he allowed it to.

He found the number in the small memorandum he’d been looking for, took another gulp from the jelly glass, and slid the heavy black desk phone over in front of him on the desk.  Two long drags on the Marlboro.  One more gulp from the jelly glass.  Then he dialed the number.  Within three rings, the phone whose number he dialed was picked up.

“Yeah?” Was all the gruff voice on the other end said.

“It’s Martin,” he said.  If anyone had been in the room to hear the call, they’d have been surprised at that.  He always referred to himself as Chief Martin, giving himself the same level of formality and respect he demanded from everyone else.  “I got a job for you.  Be here in an hour.”  Fifty minutes later Olson pulled up in front of Martin’s house, the tires on his Mercury locking up when he hit the brakes on the pea gravel driveway in front of Martin’s porch. 

Martin was waiting for him on the porch.  When the Mercury came to a complete stop he walked around the front of it, glancing down to notice the damage to the bumper and headlight on the driver’s side.  He handed Olson a small jelly jar glass of Red Label as he managed his big frame out the driver’s door and stood up.

Maybe fifty, disheveled enough for folks to assume he was single, Olson was a thick man.  Not one for small talk.  Small talk didn’t pay the bills.  Getting enough facts to do his job did.

“You’re early,” Chief Martin said.

“If you’re on time, you’re late.  If you’re early, you’re on time.”  Olson took the glass and finished half of it the first time it hit his lips.  “What’s the job.”

Martin looked back at the front of the car.  “What happened to the front of the car?”

“It doesn’t always take a Smith and Wesson to take a man down.  Sometimes it just takes a headlight and bumper.”  He finished the contents of the jelly glass the second time it hit his lips and he handed it back to Chief Martin.

Folks say that some people look like their dog.  Olson certainly didn’t have a dog, but damned if he didn’t look just like his car.  The suit he wore was the same shade of faded navy blue.  The JC Penny tie he wore was black like the vinyl top.  His eyes were set wide apart, just like the headlights on the ‘61 Mercury Monterey, one even looked off oddly into the distance, just like the Mercury, the result of taking a Lone Star beer bottle to the side of the face while attempting to cuff someone he’d been trailing for better than three weeks.  He’d still gotten the bounty, but it blurred the vision in that eye and made Olson even more careful walking into dark bars.

“The guy’s name is Roberts. Glen Roberts. I’ll get you a file on him. Hasn’t been out of Huntsville State Penitentiary three days,” Martin said, clipping each word as he spoke. “He’s with my daughter. Here’s what she looks like.” Martin handed Olson a picture of his only girl. “I want her back as soon as you can find ‘em. I don’t want to see him again. Or anyone else to see him again.”

Olson tipped the brown pork pie hat back and looked at Chief Martin with his good eye.  “You got a whole force of cops that can handle this.  Why me?”

“It’s personal,” Martin said.  “This thing between me and him goes way back.  He came and tied me up in my own home.  Took my girl for the second time.  She went willingly.  Again.  First time she was underage and I put him away.  This time she’s plenty old to make her own decisions.  Even bad ones.  I want her back in Fort Stockton, and him dealt with.  No one can know I let myself be tied up in my own home.  I’d lose the respect of the community.”

“Understood.  But there’s a big difference between collecting a bounty legally and making a man disappear,” Olson said.

“You got a headlight on the other side.  And a bumper that could take out a Holstein.  Don’t have to make it look like murder.  Just have to make it final.”

Olson stood next to the Mercury for a long minute, thinking Martin might offer to refresh the contents of the jelly jar.  It became obvious that extended hospitality was not part of the plan.  He opened the door of the Mercury Monterey and slid his girth behind the wheel.  Once in place, Chief Martin tossed an envelope through the window that landed in Olson’s ample lap.  He looked inside and quickly counted the stack of bills.  He folded the flap of the envelope back down and tossed it into the glove box before he turned the key, bringing the 352 V8 to life.

“There’s another envelope just like that one when the job is done and my daughter’s back home.  I’ve reserved you a room at the Naughty Pine Motel.  I’ll have a packet delivered to the front desk in the morning that will give you everything there is on Glen Roberts.  He’s been in the Marines.  He’s been in Huntsville.  He broke into the house of the Chief of police and made off with his daughter.  All that to say, he’s got some balls.  Be careful.  Don’t lose the use of your one good eye.”

Olson looked up from the driver’s seat and dropped the gear shift into DRIVE.  “I don’t need to be told to be careful.  You ain’t the first man in west Texas to have a daughter run off.”

Chief Martin drained what liquid was left in the bottom of the big jelly juice glass in his hand and dropped the smaller one Olson had handed him into the bigger one. “They’re probably heading west. They’re in a ‘59 Olds Ninety-Eight convertible. White over red. Be ready to check out of the motel and get on ‘em the minute the courier drops off all the intel on Roberts. Have her back home by the weekend and there’ll be a third envelope for you. And you can keep the ‘59 Olds as a bonus.”

Olson hit the accelerator.  The Mercury sedan spun pea gravel as he pointed it back towards town, grabbing the black leatherette wrapped steering wheel and spinning it around like the captain of an old sailing ship on the open water.  Chief Martin watched the six small red taillights get smaller and smaller as the Mercury got further away till eventually they looked like six small bullets in the night.  “Six bullets,” Martin chuckled to himself.  “That’d be okay with me.  Or just one bumper and headlight.  Whatever it takes.”

Olson was familiar enough with Fort Stockton to know where to look for information without sticking out like a sore thumb.  He had no intention of watching the black and white TV he knew would be in his room at the Naughty Pine.  He damn sure wasn’t going to be cracking the Gideon’s Bible in the nightstand.  Time was money.  If enough of it was wasted, it’d cost him an envelope.  There was a little darlin’ he knew up in Dalhart who would know just how to thank him for the gift of a ‘59 Oldsmobile.  Olson pointed the chrome concave nose of the worn Mercury Monterey in the direction of the Lucky Lady Lounge to see what he could learn about Glen Roberts, Lauren Martin, and maybe the Chief of Police, himself.