Stanley threw his arms around Wendell’s shoulder. They were about the same height, but Wendell looked diminutive beside the much younger man.
“You shouldn’t hate the car,” Stanley whispered in his ear. “It’s the future.”
“My ass,” Wendell said, pulling away and spitting into the dirt. Smoke stood nearby, one eye on the sheriff and one eye looking for the best direction to flee.
“We’ve got nothing to talk about,” Wendell acknowledged Jake with a glare.
“Listen fellows, we can do this the hard way or we can do it the easy way.” The sheriff tapped the handle of his gun to demonstrate the hard way. “As things stand, my cells are full of drunks and I don’t want to kick them out until they sober up.”
“Let’s go count some money!” Stanley cheered.
Wendell shrugged as if it was no matter to him, and he and Smoke followed the sheriff and Jake back to the Tumbleweed, where the sheriff ordered them a round—these types of negotiations left a bad taste in his mouth. He recognized Jake was aiming the light of justice so it shined directly on himself, but then again, it was pretty much his town.
Clem left the drinks and the hat in the middle of the table.
“I knew I’d get another one out of you,” Wendell said to Clem, and Clem grunted in reply.
Jake nodded to Stanley, who made a thing about pulling out his chair and sitting, as if sitting was his invention. He smirked at his uncle and
then turned toward Smoke and his smirk hardened—they had a history.
14
"A Fake Reality"
Marcos Carillo