Mendocino Jones in No Place for the Weak at Heart

Speak, Frazier

Whatever fleeting illusions Frazier had about a new assignment were gone. As his predicament sank in, his eyes darted wildly. He stood. Frazier was as tall as Hank and Bobby but spaghetti-thin. Sunken cheeks, pitted skin, some missing teeth. Mendocino could've spotted him in a crowded stadium as a crystal meth user. The sad part was, if he was clean, Rex Frazier would have been a decent-enough-looking man.

Frazier glared at Bobby, who responded by tilting the rifle barrel at Frazier's midsection, stone-faced. Frazier's scrutiny shifted to Mendocino. He'd had enough scrapes with the law—he had to know Mendocino's Glock 22 was what almost every cop in Texas wore.

No one spoke.

Frazier turned back around facing Hank, and sat in the chair, his gaze trained on the floor. He couldn't be still; either a shoulder or a knee jerked incessantly. The room was silent but for the sound of rain pecking on the metal roof; and the occasional sound of Frazier shifting in his chair. Sometimes he tapped his heel on the floor.

Hank leaned on his desk, his eyes slicing into Frazier. "Son, you're not leaving here 'til you answer my questions. Now, I want to know what Sartain's doing on our family land at night."

Frazier turned around in his chair, snarling at Mendocino. "You cock-sucking son of a bitch."

Like one of the queen's guards, Mendocino stood expressionless.

Hank walked to the coffee pot, which sat on a counter to the left of the desk. He poured himself another cup of coffee, sat again, clomped his cup down on the desk loudly, and began pounding on the computer keyboard. Occasionally, he sipped. Or slurped. Several minutes dragged on as the downpour began to ease.

Hank occasionally interrupted the nerve-grinding silence by coughing or getting up and pouring more coffee; Mendocino and Bobby exchanged an occasional can-you-believe-this-shit glance.

"I'm a patient man," Hank said.

Frazier's leaned in. "Colonel would kill me."

"You're the second person who's told me that." Hank's heavy voice was as steely as the gun barrel. "I'll tell you what I told that other person. If he doesn't, I will."

Another drawn-out, nail-on-chalkboard silence. Frazier wasn't giving it up as easily as Mendocino predicted because none of them wore a badge.

He stepped beside the jittery man. "Rex, you're still young. You can have a long life. Are you willing to give it up for this colonel?" Mendocino put one hand on the arm of the chair and the other on the back, leaning into Frazier's space, his voice hushed. "Ask yourself, would he die for you? Does he deserve your loyalty?" He tilted his head toward Hank. "He's serious. You're not leaving until he gets his answers." Mendocino drew back, stepping aside. "Just think about it." He went back, standing beside Bobby at the office door.

Frazier lowered his head, staring at the floor, his leg jerking. "What about the colonel? What do you want to know?"

Scowling, Hank cracked his knotted knuckles, put his Glock into a desk drawer, and Bam! He slapped his desk with his open hand. Frazier jerked.

"Speak, dammit!" Hank pushed his chair back, standing. "Or I'll get my answers another way."

His head bowed, Frazier inhaled deeply and sighed loudly. "He will kill me."

"What's Sartain doing at the Bar W line camp?" Hank still stood.

Frazier lifted his head slowly, looking Hank in the eyes. "Drugs. Running drugs."

"What?" Hank leaned on his desk, his weight resting on his palms, looming over the man in the chair. For a moment, his face was as gnarled as his hands. "What did you say?"