Christ, what a mess. By the time I got there, there weren’t much to be done but pick up the pieces. Poor old Jimmy had his head stoved in like a dropped watermelon on the fourth of July and the whole place looked like fireworks had gone off. Chairs and tables were smashed, glass and beer and blood scattered all over the floors and walls. All the lights that still worked were on. Smitty still held his shotgun behind the bar, looking like he had the situation under control. He just stood there watching people crawling off, like this was the sort of thing that happened every day around here.
Nobody even thought to call me. I just happened to be driving by, taking the patrol car out for a cruise, when I noticed an inordinate amount of people limping away from Smitty’s before closing time. Just about everybody in town had been there, as far as I could tell, but nobody seemed to know what had happened. Nobody was telling me anyway. Shoot, I know I’m not supposed to take it personally, but sometimes it’s real lonely being Sheriff of this town.
Smitty pointed his shotgun toward the far wall, over by the pool table. Little Earl, all 220 pounds of him, slumped there with his head on his chest, either passed out or too dazed to be much trouble. I enlisted the help of a couple of young surfer dudes who were hiding in the corner to help drag him into the back of the squad car.
They seemed to be the only ones who hadn’t gotten involved in the fight, so I took their statements, for whatever that was worth. Since they weren’t locals they couldn’t name anybody and their descriptions were hazy at best. Probably stoned, but hell, that was the least of my concerns.
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