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aeroport_artTitle: The West Coast Two-Step (8/9)
Characters: Brad/Nate, Ray, Poke, Walt, Rudy, etc.
Author:![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
aeroport_art
Rating: NC-17 overall
Warnings: western!AU
Word Count: 36k (3,500 this part)
Summary: 1888, Reno, NV. Sheriff Brad Colbert used to get along just fine...that is, until a morning shootout broke out in his town leaving three men dead. A babyfaced stranger by the name of Fick rolls in around the same time, and Brad ain't convinced the two events aren't related.
It’s a dark night. Thick eddies of clouds swim across the moon, making it difficult to navigate the Truckee. Their horses follow the sound of flowing water, and Brad and Ray have no choice but to trust their beasts to lead them in the right direction. Luckily, they do.
Still, this is some job they got; miles and miles to search, and Brad doesn’t even know what they’re searching for. A basement? A house? A hollowed out tree, an overturned carriage—what?
As it happens, he needn’t even ask the question. Fifteen, twenty miles west of Reno, a swarm of police marks a hotspot of activity. Can’t miss it. Feels like the whole city police force is out, officers lit up in eerie, orange light cast from hand-held torches as they scurry around loading burlap sacks into an ox-drawn wagon.
Brad approaches the scene, making out a wooden shanty right on the bank of the Truckee, its flat, aluminum roof reflecting firelight. Must be where Cocheta was keeping her dope.
Looks like the city police beat them to it, which is great. Just fucking great.
“Schwetje,” Brad calls out, pulling Hummer up to stop in front of the foot-mobile Chief. Schwetje turns around from where he’s watching his men come in and out of the shed.
“What are you doing here?” Brad asks heatedly. “I’ve been working this case with my men all week.”
“Case?” Schwetje asks. Brad ain’t got the patience to explain, so gestures for him to keep talking. Schwetje continues, “I don’t know what case you’re referring to, Sheriff, but I’m here because someone tipped me off that this storehouse would be here.”
“Someone?” Brad urges his horse a few steps nearer, close enough to make Schwetje have to look up from where he’s standing in order to maintain eye contact. “Someone who?” Brad asks.
“The United States Marshals Service,” Schetwje replies proudly.
Nate, Brad thinks darkly.
If this is a final fuck you after ditching Reno like it was teeming with plague, well, Nate’s made his point. Brad can take a fucking hint.
Disgusted, Brad jerks his reins to the side and Hummer does a messy about face, hooves flinging up mud as they set off towards the congregation of Brad’s team.
Everyone backs up on their horses to give Hummer room when Brad approaches. “We’re going home,” Brad says curtly.
“Is Fick here?” Ray asks, stretching his neck to look behind Brad towards the commotion of policemen coming in and out of the storehouse.
"How should I know?" Brad replies. "Listen, gents. We’re done here. Case closed.”
His team looks shocked for a second, but then everyone starts talking all at once. Poke and Rudy press for details while Ray and Walt protest loudly.
Brad quickly explains, “The dope’s been found but our Injuns are long gone. Cocheta ain't none of our business anymore. Unless she's still in our backyard, hosing down men with fucking bows and arrows or tomahawks, it ain't up to the Washoe police to nab her.”
"Aren’t we being hasty, Sheriff?" Rudy asks. “Even if she did leave the dope behind, she couldn’t have gotten that far.”
“It takes less than three hours to ride out of county borders in every direction, boys. Trust me, she’s gone. As for us, we stay in our fucking jurisdiction."
Ray shoots him a look that clearly reads he ain't buying it. "Is that why we took that field trip to Mexico last year, just for the babes and beaches? And that whole part where Jumping Chav accidentally ran wrists-first into your handcuffs...totally coincidence, right?"
Sometimes, Brad wishes his Deputy would drop dead. But then he'd have to deal with the specter of Joshua Ray Person, and the thought of that hopped up voice whispering into his ear for the rest of eternity makes Brad want to cry. Even warriors cry sometimes.
"Ray," Brad says. "Shut—"
"Up. Got it," Ray says.
"Ray's got a point," Walt says timidly. "I mean, not to encourage him, but we do stretch the rules sometimes, Sheriff. Cocheta sounds pretty nasty...if the U.S. Marshals can't pin her down, maybe somebody ought to."
Poke lifts both palms in the air. “Fuck that, dog. I'm with Brad on this one. If it ain't our business, I ain't inclined to stick my neck out for the white man, just so he can further oppress my people."
Brad stares at his officer. "Poke, you're Mexican. Just because Mexicans and Injuns are both brown, don't mean y'all are the same people."
Poke lifts both eyebrows at him in a way Brad's sure he picked up from his wife.
Brad shrugs. “Anyway, I don’t know about you folks, but I’m going home. It’s almost midnight—”
“Sheriff!”
A voice cuts through the dusty air and Brad’s team turns to the sound. A flame bobs towards them, lighting up a familiar face as its bearer approaches.
It’s one of Schwetje’s henchmen, some yes-man named Griego or Gringo. Brad forgets.
“Sheriff,” the officer repeats, huffing as jogs up on foot. “I need you to sign this before you go.”
Brad looks down, where Griego’s holding a typewritten sheet that he passes over.
Brad scans the document, feeling everyone’s eyes on him. When he gets to the bottom, Brad reads aloud:
“ ‘The signatory below accepts full transfer of goods and/or monetary funds from the Reno City Police Department in amounts stated on separate sheet.’ “ Brad lowers the paper. “I’m not following.”
As soon as the words leave his mouth, however, Brad pieces it together.
He recalls the state laws—all the rules buried in some molding book that nobody reads more than once but still complies with—and remembers that confiscated goods get passed up from smaller bureaus to larger bureaus. In this case, the city police discovered Cocheta’s storehouse, so all its contents go directly to the county department.
If Brad and his team had been the ones to raid it, they would’ve had to turn everything over to the state police, keeping zilch in the process.
“Merry Christmas,” Griego says grumpily from the ground. “We’ll write up the full inventory when we’re done taking stock.”
Brad says blankly, “There’s something like two hundred pounds of dope in there.”
“Yeah, and at least $25,000 in cash, too,” Griego mumbles. “Trust me, Sheriff, I didn’t make the rules.”
Behind him, he hears Ray breathe, Holy shit.
Holy shit indeed.
Brad runs a hand over his face. “Pen?”
-----
People often mistake Brad for being a born-and-bred Nevadan. Must be the confidence in his gait, or the practicality of his wardrobe, his lifestyle. No white shell buttons or flashy belt buckles for this cowboy, nosirree.
Most can’t even imagine Brad outside the context of a beige-colored backdrop, cracked earth beneath his cowhide boots. And sure, it suits him, but the truth is Brad misses the ocean so bad he can still taste the salted air on his tongue.
He was born under the sun, yes—but sun glinted off silver waves, lapping onshore from the horizon. Sun filtered through palm trees or, when you get inland, through evergreens. It’s the same damned sun in the sky, don’t get Brad wrong, but she’s fairer in the west. Sweeter, more gentle; a friend you meet each daybreak with a kiss on the cheek.
Brad hasn’t been back to California in eight and a half years. For all he knows, his former state could be overrun by labor-thumping socialists now, its grounds pillaged of all mineral wealth and so damned pot-holed you could see straight out to China.
But to Brad, California remains endless sea of vagaries, of halcyon youth and hidden darkness so intertwined, you don’t know which you’re faced with until one day you find yourself flat on your back, dizzy and lost. It could be the seductive weather that put you there—you fall asleep on the beach, you wake up burned. It could be the friends you make. You fall complacent, you wake up betrayed.
(Specifically, you wake up and your fiancée’s not in bed. She’s at the doorway greeting your best friend. They’re holding hands.)
Brad misses the ocean, but he’s learned to appreciate Nevada’s aridity, its desert land. In Washoe, you can see things coming a mile away.
That is, he could until a week ago. Nathaniel Fick, and the way he wormed inside Brad’s head? That came from buttfuck nowhere.
Nate’s like California—intoxicating, full of promise. But unlike Brad’s personal history, he doesn’t know how this story goes. Doesn’t even know what Nate wants from him. With the dope bust trailing behind him and twenty-five grand lining his pockets, courtesy of the aforementioned, what’s Brad supposed to think?
His ex-fiancée might’ve been duplicitous, but at least she was never obscure.
Brad can’t decide which is worse.
-----
The next day, three o’clock Friday, Deputy James Trombley stops by the county department.
Brad sees him coming through the window of his office. Trombley’s got a wailing baby slung over his shoulder, the hold he’s got on its back and bum looking mighty precarious.
“Fuck, Trombley,” Poke says, striding up to the door to gather the baby into the practiced cradle of his arms. “It’s not a fucking virgin on your honeymoon, you’ll kill it like that.”
The rest of the Washoe police stampede towards the entrance, meeting Trombley with backslaps and open tins of dip. Brad comes out of his office for practically the first time all day, but he hangs at the back of the room and watches the scene, smiling to himself.
Trombley’s been dealing with the newborn all month, which can’t be easy. As for the rest of the team, Lord knows the kind of week they’ve had. It’s good to see them all together in high spirits, horsing around like nothing’s changed.
Trombley notices him and they make eye contact. The team parts, giving Brad a direct line to his erstwhile deputy and he takes it, sauntering over.
“Hey Sheriff,” Trombley says, pulling his hat off. “How’s it going?’
Brad looks down at the baby in Poke’s arms. It’s stopped crying, but its face is tomato-red and there’s an alarming amount of snot coming out of its tiny, pinhole nostrils. The baby gurgles and stretches out its pudgy arms.
Everyone watches him expectantly, but Brad’s not really sure what he’s supposed to be doing. He finally asks, “You land on a name?”
“Well, Irene didn’t like Jesús—”
“Jesus!” Ray claps his hands together in delight.
“She said it’s pronounced hay-SOOS, idiot.”
“Little tyke will always be Jesus to me,” Ray says, poking the baby in one fat cheek.
“So ‘James’, then,” Brad guesses. Trombley was deciding between the two, last he left off.
“Yeah,” Trombley says. “We named him James Edgar Trombley.” He smiles self-consciously and adds, “Edgar after Irene’s dad.”
Brad looks back to the kid, who suddenly squeals with delight and squirms in Poke’s arms.
Trombley continues to watch Brad’s face though, like he’s waiting for approval or something. Well hell, it ain’t like Brad’s got any fucking sage advice, but he meets his young deputy’s gaze and says firmly, “You’re a dad now, Trombley. Don’t fuck it up.”
At his shoulder, Poke grins at Brad like he’d said something else entirely—something decidedly moronic, from the way his entire team smiles at Brad like he’d declared his everlasting love for all things newborn and helpless. Audaciously, Poke tries to pass the baby over.
“Get that thing away from me,” Brad says, backing away as Poke shoves little Trombley in Brad’s face and starts to remove his hands.
Brad automatically grabs the baby around its ribs, holding the giggling thing away from his body.
Jesus Christ, that’s one tiny ribcage. He could crush it if he wanted.
“That’s sweet,” Walt says from somewhere behind him.
Brad rolls his eyes, just as the baby blows a snot bubble. Rudy and Walt coo like pussies while Ray makes a face at it, bubbling spit out his mouth that earns a revolted expression from Poke but makes the baby cackle with glee.
While it’s distracted, Brad hands the baby off to Walt, who looks more than happy to take it.
“Fellas,” he says, and even the baby turns to listen. “If y’all keep this up in front of me, my dick’s gonna drop off.”
“Is that a promise?” Ray asks. “Because you get all the bitches in Reno, it ain’t fair—”
“It’s Friday afternoon, and I could use some peace and quiet to finish up. Why don’t I look the other way for a few minutes, and if y’all happen to disappear, that’s my own damned fault for blinking.”
The men exchange looks. Rudy’s the first to pipe up, “You sure, brother? I ain’t done going through the inventory from last night—”
Brad crosses his arms. “It’ll keep.”
Walt starts, “I was gonna start pulling contacts that could—”
“Already done,” Brad answers. He brooks a gaze at his team, raising his eyebrows to challenge anymore protests they could possibly have.
Finally, Trombley pipes up, “We’ll see you Sunday, right Sheriff? I’m roasting the pig around five.” He takes his son back from Walt, holding the baby correctly this time. “You should come by, sir.”
“Yeah, and take a break from jerking off thinking about—”
Walt claps Ray over the mouth and in unison, the team stares at Brad uneasily like he’s gonna break down and start crying. Fucking hell, a guy has one bad week and everyone starts walking on fucking eggshells around him.
“Sure, whatever,” Brad says. “Sunday at five. Now, do you want an early weekend or not, gents?”
The answer appears to be a collective yes. Everyone rushes to their desks, gathering up belongings and pulling on jackets, checking their side-shooters. Brad thumps Trombley on the shoulder before turning around to go back to his office.
He leaves the door ajar this time, listening to the sounds of his team vacating the department. The silence that greets him after is a breath of fresh air.
-----
Brad stays until the sun goes down. The Washoe County Police Department has had a helluva week, and the sheer paperwork coming out of it could keep him busy for months.
Brad intends to tackle it with brute force. Especially since there ain’t much waiting for him at home, other than too much time, too much space. Makes his mind wander down unpleasant pastures, so he’d rather keep it at bay with productivity.
At his desk, by the dwindling light of a candlestump, Brad composes a letter to Ojo Caliente informing the reservation that their missing Apaches have been accounted for. Not that anyone there would shed a tear; the reservation just needs to cross the names off their list.
It’s almost unfair, Brad thinks, as he pens each name of the Injuns they killed during the horseback firefight. The Washoe police gets away with this—is applauded for it, even—while the Injuns get locked up and murdered for no reason other than simple existence.
It makes the pit of Brad’s stomach churn. He wonders if Nate ever felt this way.
Well, nobody ever went into law enforcement because they wanted to be kind.
Without warning, the candle goes out and the room falls dark. The smell of smoke fills up Brad’s nose. There’s still wan light filtering through the windows, though, so Brad lets his eyes adjust as he sifts through his desk drawer, pulling out a fresh candle. Strikes a match, the room flaring into light—
A muffled knock resounds, echoing through the empty office.
Brad looks up. The sound was quiet, maybe coming from outdoors rather than the front of the department. He waits, listening. Nothing follows though, so it’s probably nothing—
His fingers snatch back from a burn, Brad hissing as the match hits the table and goes out. He sticks his thumb in his mouth where the skin’s tender and shoves back his chair, knees cricking as he stands up and walks out of the room.
As Brad crosses the office, still nursing his burned finger, another knock echoes through the door.
Brad yanks it open.
On the wooden deck, the visitor turns around. It’s just a young teenager with red curls sneaking out from under his cap, wearing a courier’s uniform. The front of his shirt reads Western Union Telegraph Company, embroidered in brown thread over his breast pocket.
Brad wipes his thumb on the side of his jeans. "C'n I help you?"
"Does Mister Colbert work here?" the courier asks. There are freckles all over his face, probably from being out in the sun so much.
"At your service."
"Telegram for you."
Brad eyes him warily, noting the kid’s horse-toothed grin with suspicion. Nobody should look that happy delivering messages all day. Brad takes the telegram anyway and the courier leaves with a jaunty wave.
Brad looks down at the cream-colored envelope in his hand. He lets the door fall shut behind him and walks back to his office, slicing the envelope open messily and pulling out cardstock printed on Western Union letterhead.
He gets back inside his office and puts down the telegram long enough to light the new candle, then plunks down in his chair to read:
DATED: July 2, 1888
TO: Washoe County Police Department, High Sheriff Brad Colbert
On behalf of the United States Marshals Service of the U.S. Department of Justice, I would like to extend an offer of temporary employment as Special Deputy United States Marshal under sponsorship of U.S. Marshal Nathaniel Fick.
Classified debrief to follow in person—
The swooping script runs into the bottom of the card and Brad flips it over, where the message continues.
— at Southern Pacific Railway - Reno Station at 1900h Sunday, July 5th 1888. Your contact Deputy Marshal John Christeson will meet you at the above location, train route as of yet undisclosed. Bring supplies to last for two weeks' travel.
The sender address comes directly from the Office of the U.S. Marshals Service, and it's stamped at the bottom with the words “Department of Justice”, on top of which someone has scribbled, Lt. Col. Stephen Ferrando.
Brad reads the message again, then once more. Finally, he holds it over his trash can and lets go. The card drops in silently.
Whatever game Nate’s playing at, Brad ain’t dumb enough to hope there’s anything salvageable between them. Not after Nate’s wordless departure. Not after Nate dropped twenty-five grand into Brad’s lap like he’s some charity case. Nate’s a fucking prima-donna for thinking he can curry favor with cash—this ain’t the East fucking Coast. Dignity matters here.
Brad crumples up the envelope and tosses that in the trash as well. He quickly finishes out the letter he was writing to Ojo Caliente and leaves it on his desk to send out Monday morning.
That’s it, he’s done for the week. Brad’s done for—fuck it, he’s just done.
Brad grabs his bag and blows the candle out, hastening to get out of the suddenly claustrophobic office.
-----
Brad gives a light kick to Hummer's flank, starting them towards home, but a few blocks down he changes his mind. With a sharp tug of the reins in the other direction, Brad turns south. Doc's back in town a day early, and Brad figures he might as well take advantage by dropping into Mathilda for a small nightcap.
As the only building still lit from the quiet street off Ralston, Mathilda is familiar and inviting, candles dancing in the small windows like the wooden building is alive, breathing.
Brad goes in. There, his small nightcap turns into kind of a big nightcap as the evening slips by, greased on easy conversation with Doc Bryan. They talk about Doc's patient in Silver Springs, a young boy whose broken leg was probably doled out by his father, but whose unsavory situation seems unlikely to change anytime soon. They talk about the Washoe lawmen, how Trombley must be going stir-crazy taking care of his new baby.
They talk about the last horse race and laugh over Ray's bad bet. They talk about the weather, the useless sitting president—Arthur was ineffectual, but at least he wasn't a fucking Marxist like Cleveland. They talk about dogs.
What they don't talk about are the bags underneath Doc's eyes, dark from more than just lack of sleep. They don't talk about the fifth whisky shot Brad downs like water after Doc asks how the case with the Injuns turned out.
There are things men share between men on the frontier, like the gnawing ugliness of a choleric death, or the silent beauty of a blood-red sunset. But the ghosts that they, each and every one of them, keep? Ain't one of those shared things.
Brad doesn't get home that night. He crashes at Doc’s place, the both of them stumbling in at dawn as Doc sticks him on the spare bed normally reserved for patients, as if self-inflicted drunkenness is the same as scurvy or influenza.
A bed’s a bed, though. Brad passes out to the sounds of the street groaning awake, horses led outside and the street-side water pump creaking away.
Back | Next
Characters: Brad/Nate, Ray, Poke, Walt, Rudy, etc.
Author:
aeroport_artRating: NC-17 overall
Warnings: western!AU
Word Count: 36k (3,500 this part)
Summary: 1888, Reno, NV. Sheriff Brad Colbert used to get along just fine...that is, until a morning shootout broke out in his town leaving three men dead. A babyfaced stranger by the name of Fick rolls in around the same time, and Brad ain't convinced the two events aren't related.
It’s a dark night. Thick eddies of clouds swim across the moon, making it difficult to navigate the Truckee. Their horses follow the sound of flowing water, and Brad and Ray have no choice but to trust their beasts to lead them in the right direction. Luckily, they do.
Still, this is some job they got; miles and miles to search, and Brad doesn’t even know what they’re searching for. A basement? A house? A hollowed out tree, an overturned carriage—what?
As it happens, he needn’t even ask the question. Fifteen, twenty miles west of Reno, a swarm of police marks a hotspot of activity. Can’t miss it. Feels like the whole city police force is out, officers lit up in eerie, orange light cast from hand-held torches as they scurry around loading burlap sacks into an ox-drawn wagon.
Brad approaches the scene, making out a wooden shanty right on the bank of the Truckee, its flat, aluminum roof reflecting firelight. Must be where Cocheta was keeping her dope.
Looks like the city police beat them to it, which is great. Just fucking great.
“Schwetje,” Brad calls out, pulling Hummer up to stop in front of the foot-mobile Chief. Schwetje turns around from where he’s watching his men come in and out of the shed.
“What are you doing here?” Brad asks heatedly. “I’ve been working this case with my men all week.”
“Case?” Schwetje asks. Brad ain’t got the patience to explain, so gestures for him to keep talking. Schwetje continues, “I don’t know what case you’re referring to, Sheriff, but I’m here because someone tipped me off that this storehouse would be here.”
“Someone?” Brad urges his horse a few steps nearer, close enough to make Schwetje have to look up from where he’s standing in order to maintain eye contact. “Someone who?” Brad asks.
“The United States Marshals Service,” Schetwje replies proudly.
Nate, Brad thinks darkly.
If this is a final fuck you after ditching Reno like it was teeming with plague, well, Nate’s made his point. Brad can take a fucking hint.
Disgusted, Brad jerks his reins to the side and Hummer does a messy about face, hooves flinging up mud as they set off towards the congregation of Brad’s team.
Everyone backs up on their horses to give Hummer room when Brad approaches. “We’re going home,” Brad says curtly.
“Is Fick here?” Ray asks, stretching his neck to look behind Brad towards the commotion of policemen coming in and out of the storehouse.
"How should I know?" Brad replies. "Listen, gents. We’re done here. Case closed.”
His team looks shocked for a second, but then everyone starts talking all at once. Poke and Rudy press for details while Ray and Walt protest loudly.
Brad quickly explains, “The dope’s been found but our Injuns are long gone. Cocheta ain't none of our business anymore. Unless she's still in our backyard, hosing down men with fucking bows and arrows or tomahawks, it ain't up to the Washoe police to nab her.”
"Aren’t we being hasty, Sheriff?" Rudy asks. “Even if she did leave the dope behind, she couldn’t have gotten that far.”
“It takes less than three hours to ride out of county borders in every direction, boys. Trust me, she’s gone. As for us, we stay in our fucking jurisdiction."
Ray shoots him a look that clearly reads he ain't buying it. "Is that why we took that field trip to Mexico last year, just for the babes and beaches? And that whole part where Jumping Chav accidentally ran wrists-first into your handcuffs...totally coincidence, right?"
Sometimes, Brad wishes his Deputy would drop dead. But then he'd have to deal with the specter of Joshua Ray Person, and the thought of that hopped up voice whispering into his ear for the rest of eternity makes Brad want to cry. Even warriors cry sometimes.
"Ray," Brad says. "Shut—"
"Up. Got it," Ray says.
"Ray's got a point," Walt says timidly. "I mean, not to encourage him, but we do stretch the rules sometimes, Sheriff. Cocheta sounds pretty nasty...if the U.S. Marshals can't pin her down, maybe somebody ought to."
Poke lifts both palms in the air. “Fuck that, dog. I'm with Brad on this one. If it ain't our business, I ain't inclined to stick my neck out for the white man, just so he can further oppress my people."
Brad stares at his officer. "Poke, you're Mexican. Just because Mexicans and Injuns are both brown, don't mean y'all are the same people."
Poke lifts both eyebrows at him in a way Brad's sure he picked up from his wife.
Brad shrugs. “Anyway, I don’t know about you folks, but I’m going home. It’s almost midnight—”
“Sheriff!”
A voice cuts through the dusty air and Brad’s team turns to the sound. A flame bobs towards them, lighting up a familiar face as its bearer approaches.
It’s one of Schwetje’s henchmen, some yes-man named Griego or Gringo. Brad forgets.
“Sheriff,” the officer repeats, huffing as jogs up on foot. “I need you to sign this before you go.”
Brad looks down, where Griego’s holding a typewritten sheet that he passes over.
Brad scans the document, feeling everyone’s eyes on him. When he gets to the bottom, Brad reads aloud:
“ ‘The signatory below accepts full transfer of goods and/or monetary funds from the Reno City Police Department in amounts stated on separate sheet.’ “ Brad lowers the paper. “I’m not following.”
As soon as the words leave his mouth, however, Brad pieces it together.
He recalls the state laws—all the rules buried in some molding book that nobody reads more than once but still complies with—and remembers that confiscated goods get passed up from smaller bureaus to larger bureaus. In this case, the city police discovered Cocheta’s storehouse, so all its contents go directly to the county department.
If Brad and his team had been the ones to raid it, they would’ve had to turn everything over to the state police, keeping zilch in the process.
“Merry Christmas,” Griego says grumpily from the ground. “We’ll write up the full inventory when we’re done taking stock.”
Brad says blankly, “There’s something like two hundred pounds of dope in there.”
“Yeah, and at least $25,000 in cash, too,” Griego mumbles. “Trust me, Sheriff, I didn’t make the rules.”
Behind him, he hears Ray breathe, Holy shit.
Holy shit indeed.
Brad runs a hand over his face. “Pen?”
-----
People often mistake Brad for being a born-and-bred Nevadan. Must be the confidence in his gait, or the practicality of his wardrobe, his lifestyle. No white shell buttons or flashy belt buckles for this cowboy, nosirree.
Most can’t even imagine Brad outside the context of a beige-colored backdrop, cracked earth beneath his cowhide boots. And sure, it suits him, but the truth is Brad misses the ocean so bad he can still taste the salted air on his tongue.
He was born under the sun, yes—but sun glinted off silver waves, lapping onshore from the horizon. Sun filtered through palm trees or, when you get inland, through evergreens. It’s the same damned sun in the sky, don’t get Brad wrong, but she’s fairer in the west. Sweeter, more gentle; a friend you meet each daybreak with a kiss on the cheek.
Brad hasn’t been back to California in eight and a half years. For all he knows, his former state could be overrun by labor-thumping socialists now, its grounds pillaged of all mineral wealth and so damned pot-holed you could see straight out to China.
But to Brad, California remains endless sea of vagaries, of halcyon youth and hidden darkness so intertwined, you don’t know which you’re faced with until one day you find yourself flat on your back, dizzy and lost. It could be the seductive weather that put you there—you fall asleep on the beach, you wake up burned. It could be the friends you make. You fall complacent, you wake up betrayed.
(Specifically, you wake up and your fiancée’s not in bed. She’s at the doorway greeting your best friend. They’re holding hands.)
Brad misses the ocean, but he’s learned to appreciate Nevada’s aridity, its desert land. In Washoe, you can see things coming a mile away.
That is, he could until a week ago. Nathaniel Fick, and the way he wormed inside Brad’s head? That came from buttfuck nowhere.
Nate’s like California—intoxicating, full of promise. But unlike Brad’s personal history, he doesn’t know how this story goes. Doesn’t even know what Nate wants from him. With the dope bust trailing behind him and twenty-five grand lining his pockets, courtesy of the aforementioned, what’s Brad supposed to think?
His ex-fiancée might’ve been duplicitous, but at least she was never obscure.
Brad can’t decide which is worse.
-----
The next day, three o’clock Friday, Deputy James Trombley stops by the county department.
Brad sees him coming through the window of his office. Trombley’s got a wailing baby slung over his shoulder, the hold he’s got on its back and bum looking mighty precarious.
“Fuck, Trombley,” Poke says, striding up to the door to gather the baby into the practiced cradle of his arms. “It’s not a fucking virgin on your honeymoon, you’ll kill it like that.”
The rest of the Washoe police stampede towards the entrance, meeting Trombley with backslaps and open tins of dip. Brad comes out of his office for practically the first time all day, but he hangs at the back of the room and watches the scene, smiling to himself.
Trombley’s been dealing with the newborn all month, which can’t be easy. As for the rest of the team, Lord knows the kind of week they’ve had. It’s good to see them all together in high spirits, horsing around like nothing’s changed.
Trombley notices him and they make eye contact. The team parts, giving Brad a direct line to his erstwhile deputy and he takes it, sauntering over.
“Hey Sheriff,” Trombley says, pulling his hat off. “How’s it going?’
Brad looks down at the baby in Poke’s arms. It’s stopped crying, but its face is tomato-red and there’s an alarming amount of snot coming out of its tiny, pinhole nostrils. The baby gurgles and stretches out its pudgy arms.
Everyone watches him expectantly, but Brad’s not really sure what he’s supposed to be doing. He finally asks, “You land on a name?”
“Well, Irene didn’t like Jesús—”
“Jesus!” Ray claps his hands together in delight.
“She said it’s pronounced hay-SOOS, idiot.”
“Little tyke will always be Jesus to me,” Ray says, poking the baby in one fat cheek.
“So ‘James’, then,” Brad guesses. Trombley was deciding between the two, last he left off.
“Yeah,” Trombley says. “We named him James Edgar Trombley.” He smiles self-consciously and adds, “Edgar after Irene’s dad.”
Brad looks back to the kid, who suddenly squeals with delight and squirms in Poke’s arms.
Trombley continues to watch Brad’s face though, like he’s waiting for approval or something. Well hell, it ain’t like Brad’s got any fucking sage advice, but he meets his young deputy’s gaze and says firmly, “You’re a dad now, Trombley. Don’t fuck it up.”
At his shoulder, Poke grins at Brad like he’d said something else entirely—something decidedly moronic, from the way his entire team smiles at Brad like he’d declared his everlasting love for all things newborn and helpless. Audaciously, Poke tries to pass the baby over.
“Get that thing away from me,” Brad says, backing away as Poke shoves little Trombley in Brad’s face and starts to remove his hands.
Brad automatically grabs the baby around its ribs, holding the giggling thing away from his body.
Jesus Christ, that’s one tiny ribcage. He could crush it if he wanted.
“That’s sweet,” Walt says from somewhere behind him.
Brad rolls his eyes, just as the baby blows a snot bubble. Rudy and Walt coo like pussies while Ray makes a face at it, bubbling spit out his mouth that earns a revolted expression from Poke but makes the baby cackle with glee.
While it’s distracted, Brad hands the baby off to Walt, who looks more than happy to take it.
“Fellas,” he says, and even the baby turns to listen. “If y’all keep this up in front of me, my dick’s gonna drop off.”
“Is that a promise?” Ray asks. “Because you get all the bitches in Reno, it ain’t fair—”
“It’s Friday afternoon, and I could use some peace and quiet to finish up. Why don’t I look the other way for a few minutes, and if y’all happen to disappear, that’s my own damned fault for blinking.”
The men exchange looks. Rudy’s the first to pipe up, “You sure, brother? I ain’t done going through the inventory from last night—”
Brad crosses his arms. “It’ll keep.”
Walt starts, “I was gonna start pulling contacts that could—”
“Already done,” Brad answers. He brooks a gaze at his team, raising his eyebrows to challenge anymore protests they could possibly have.
Finally, Trombley pipes up, “We’ll see you Sunday, right Sheriff? I’m roasting the pig around five.” He takes his son back from Walt, holding the baby correctly this time. “You should come by, sir.”
“Yeah, and take a break from jerking off thinking about—”
Walt claps Ray over the mouth and in unison, the team stares at Brad uneasily like he’s gonna break down and start crying. Fucking hell, a guy has one bad week and everyone starts walking on fucking eggshells around him.
“Sure, whatever,” Brad says. “Sunday at five. Now, do you want an early weekend or not, gents?”
The answer appears to be a collective yes. Everyone rushes to their desks, gathering up belongings and pulling on jackets, checking their side-shooters. Brad thumps Trombley on the shoulder before turning around to go back to his office.
He leaves the door ajar this time, listening to the sounds of his team vacating the department. The silence that greets him after is a breath of fresh air.
-----
Brad stays until the sun goes down. The Washoe County Police Department has had a helluva week, and the sheer paperwork coming out of it could keep him busy for months.
Brad intends to tackle it with brute force. Especially since there ain’t much waiting for him at home, other than too much time, too much space. Makes his mind wander down unpleasant pastures, so he’d rather keep it at bay with productivity.
At his desk, by the dwindling light of a candlestump, Brad composes a letter to Ojo Caliente informing the reservation that their missing Apaches have been accounted for. Not that anyone there would shed a tear; the reservation just needs to cross the names off their list.
It’s almost unfair, Brad thinks, as he pens each name of the Injuns they killed during the horseback firefight. The Washoe police gets away with this—is applauded for it, even—while the Injuns get locked up and murdered for no reason other than simple existence.
It makes the pit of Brad’s stomach churn. He wonders if Nate ever felt this way.
Well, nobody ever went into law enforcement because they wanted to be kind.
Without warning, the candle goes out and the room falls dark. The smell of smoke fills up Brad’s nose. There’s still wan light filtering through the windows, though, so Brad lets his eyes adjust as he sifts through his desk drawer, pulling out a fresh candle. Strikes a match, the room flaring into light—
A muffled knock resounds, echoing through the empty office.
Brad looks up. The sound was quiet, maybe coming from outdoors rather than the front of the department. He waits, listening. Nothing follows though, so it’s probably nothing—
His fingers snatch back from a burn, Brad hissing as the match hits the table and goes out. He sticks his thumb in his mouth where the skin’s tender and shoves back his chair, knees cricking as he stands up and walks out of the room.
As Brad crosses the office, still nursing his burned finger, another knock echoes through the door.
Brad yanks it open.
On the wooden deck, the visitor turns around. It’s just a young teenager with red curls sneaking out from under his cap, wearing a courier’s uniform. The front of his shirt reads Western Union Telegraph Company, embroidered in brown thread over his breast pocket.
Brad wipes his thumb on the side of his jeans. "C'n I help you?"
"Does Mister Colbert work here?" the courier asks. There are freckles all over his face, probably from being out in the sun so much.
"At your service."
"Telegram for you."
Brad eyes him warily, noting the kid’s horse-toothed grin with suspicion. Nobody should look that happy delivering messages all day. Brad takes the telegram anyway and the courier leaves with a jaunty wave.
Brad looks down at the cream-colored envelope in his hand. He lets the door fall shut behind him and walks back to his office, slicing the envelope open messily and pulling out cardstock printed on Western Union letterhead.
He gets back inside his office and puts down the telegram long enough to light the new candle, then plunks down in his chair to read:
DATED: July 2, 1888
TO: Washoe County Police Department, High Sheriff Brad Colbert
On behalf of the United States Marshals Service of the U.S. Department of Justice, I would like to extend an offer of temporary employment as Special Deputy United States Marshal under sponsorship of U.S. Marshal Nathaniel Fick.
Classified debrief to follow in person—
The swooping script runs into the bottom of the card and Brad flips it over, where the message continues.
— at Southern Pacific Railway - Reno Station at 1900h Sunday, July 5th 1888. Your contact Deputy Marshal John Christeson will meet you at the above location, train route as of yet undisclosed. Bring supplies to last for two weeks' travel.
The sender address comes directly from the Office of the U.S. Marshals Service, and it's stamped at the bottom with the words “Department of Justice”, on top of which someone has scribbled, Lt. Col. Stephen Ferrando.
Brad reads the message again, then once more. Finally, he holds it over his trash can and lets go. The card drops in silently.
Whatever game Nate’s playing at, Brad ain’t dumb enough to hope there’s anything salvageable between them. Not after Nate’s wordless departure. Not after Nate dropped twenty-five grand into Brad’s lap like he’s some charity case. Nate’s a fucking prima-donna for thinking he can curry favor with cash—this ain’t the East fucking Coast. Dignity matters here.
Brad crumples up the envelope and tosses that in the trash as well. He quickly finishes out the letter he was writing to Ojo Caliente and leaves it on his desk to send out Monday morning.
That’s it, he’s done for the week. Brad’s done for—fuck it, he’s just done.
Brad grabs his bag and blows the candle out, hastening to get out of the suddenly claustrophobic office.
-----
Brad gives a light kick to Hummer's flank, starting them towards home, but a few blocks down he changes his mind. With a sharp tug of the reins in the other direction, Brad turns south. Doc's back in town a day early, and Brad figures he might as well take advantage by dropping into Mathilda for a small nightcap.
As the only building still lit from the quiet street off Ralston, Mathilda is familiar and inviting, candles dancing in the small windows like the wooden building is alive, breathing.
Brad goes in. There, his small nightcap turns into kind of a big nightcap as the evening slips by, greased on easy conversation with Doc Bryan. They talk about Doc's patient in Silver Springs, a young boy whose broken leg was probably doled out by his father, but whose unsavory situation seems unlikely to change anytime soon. They talk about the Washoe lawmen, how Trombley must be going stir-crazy taking care of his new baby.
They talk about the last horse race and laugh over Ray's bad bet. They talk about the weather, the useless sitting president—Arthur was ineffectual, but at least he wasn't a fucking Marxist like Cleveland. They talk about dogs.
What they don't talk about are the bags underneath Doc's eyes, dark from more than just lack of sleep. They don't talk about the fifth whisky shot Brad downs like water after Doc asks how the case with the Injuns turned out.
There are things men share between men on the frontier, like the gnawing ugliness of a choleric death, or the silent beauty of a blood-red sunset. But the ghosts that they, each and every one of them, keep? Ain't one of those shared things.
Brad doesn't get home that night. He crashes at Doc’s place, the both of them stumbling in at dawn as Doc sticks him on the spare bed normally reserved for patients, as if self-inflicted drunkenness is the same as scurvy or influenza.
A bed’s a bed, though. Brad passes out to the sounds of the street groaning awake, horses led outside and the street-side water pump creaking away.
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