Page 70 of Peaches & Pistols

I get the mixer started paying no mind to the controls—because Judge Wilby isn’t here for paint. She’s here for information, and the loud paint mixer is the perfect cover.

“You beckoned?” she snarks. Doesn’t look good for an officer of the law to be trading favors with the likes of a Clark. But it’s the family business for generations and it’s served me well over the years.

“I’m going to call in a favor here soon and wanted to give you some motivation.”

“Is that so?”

I nod. Silence is the best tactic to get people talking, and I have no problem waiting.

The paint mixer whirs and clanks, blending the “bathroom wall” color.

I never offer information first or freely. It’s useful to know what someone wants, and how bad they want it before I reveal anything.

Swiftwater is a sleepy town, but not without its own cesspool of issues. Illicit substances passing hands, bets being placed and cashed out, theft, and other petty crime are commonplace.

More often than not, the information I trade is more personal in nature. I’d put any paparazzi, reporter, or teenage girl to shame with the amount of gossip I peddle.

“Do you know where I can find Barker?” she asks, impatiently.

Ted Barker’s a frequent flier in our local jail. You’d think after two DUIs, license suspension, jail time, fines and community service, a person would stop getting behind the wheel of a goddamn car after knocking ‘em back.

Not Ted. This time, he plowed through the field at the park in broad daylight. Thank god kids were in school and not out playing, but people walk that path regularly and he could’ve killed someone.

He’s done-for this time, and he knows it. Which is why he’s holed up in an abandoned fishing cabin a few miles down Whitetail River.

I know this because his wife made a deal with me to obtain proof that her sister’s husband was having an affair. In exchange for that proof, Ted’s wife told me where he hides out when he skips town.

She sold out her husband for her sister, and after the hell Ted’s put her through, I can’t blame her.

“I do,” I answer, obscured by the rattling paint machine.

The judge eyes me, her jaw clenching rhythmically.

“What do you need in exchange?” she asks.

“Does it matter?” I counter.

Her silence is all the answer I need.

“Fishing cabin where the Whitetail forks by Burnett’s south pasture.”

I stop the paint mixer and hammer the lid on. Whether or not the paint is ready is of no concern. Judge Wilby pays for her periwinkle paint and steps out into the freezing afternoon.

I’ve been stocking up favors for when Mia needs help getting out from under her low-life, soon-to-be ex-husband.

I’d happily call in every favor I’m owed to protect her.

A few more customers come and go before I check the time. The girls will be bouncing through here after school any minute.

I’m just sliding my phone back into my pocket when it rings. The screen displays the saved contact for Swiftwater Elementary.

“Hello?”

“Mr. Clark?” a female voice asks.

“Yep.”

“I’ve got Harper and Everly Whitaker with me in the front office. Mia didn’t come to pick up the girls.”