something, something, something

Sheriff's something

He's aware that it's a nasty habit. Everyone he knows, from his deputy partner to the local drunk he regularly consigns to the tank for a weekend of sobriety, has found a reason to offer him their unsolicited opinions on the matter. But those cheap cigars he buys for five bucks a dozen have set a hook in him that he just cannot shake loose from. Even the Farsi speaking man and wife who own the corner liquor store at the end of the ten store strip mall, shake their heads in unison as if they are performing some sort of sacred ritual whenever he pays for his purchases. It's a friendly sort of ribbing that's typical for this cozy, multiethnic neighborhood in west Plano, Tx.

"Sheriff, we've got better quality cigars with a less offensive aroma that only cost a few dollars more." The wife seldom passes up an upsell opportunity no matter the customer or how long they've been shopping there. 

And his response is usually the same, "Thanks but I'm good with these and as long as you keep 'em in stock, I'll keep buying." He's aware of the other stuff of a mostly illegal nature they sell out of the small backroom office and as long as he keeps coming here every Friday, those mostly illegal transactions are held to a minimum. The small retail business merchants around here do what they can to keep ahead of the annual lease increases without passing too large of a percentage along to their equally strapped local customers. Just don't let the side transactions get so large they attract the attention of some tight ass newly hired Deputy District Attorney freshly graduated from the University of Texas Law School and all too eager to make a name for themselves.

Like his beloved but legally misguided lawyer daughter-in-law, is the unspoken motivation he reveals to no one but himself. Sweet down to earth jeans and tees girl who's an almost ideal mate for his technology whiz son but neither of them have much empathy for the struggles of the common folk, not like he, Sheriff Sam Crocker, does. It's a life long identity thing but who cares about history, psychology, or legalities when all you're trying to do is survive from one paycheck to the next one. And repay the payday loan before the interest rate reaches 2000% or thereabouts.

He presses the button on the car door armrest until the idling car's window rolls down just enough to tap off the one inch ash train growing at the fire end of the stogie. A few drops of the pouring rain manage to splash their way into the unmarked patrol car, just enough to mottle his dusty glasses, causing Sheriff Crocker to mutter his usual string of F oriented cuss words as he reaches inside his buttoned shirt for the edge of the cotton undershirt to wipe his despised spectacles dry without leaving an irritating dingy streak across each of the trifocal lenses.

Once the silver rimmed specs are once more properly balanced between the bumpy bridge and bulbous tip of his distinctly Bavarian nose, he shifts the transmission into D for drive and eases away from the curb. He takes a quick glance out the driver side window as he passes the house bordered by a tall, neatly trimmed hibiscus shrub. He notices a gap in the front window blinds close and deduces that his prolonged presence out front has not gone unnoticed by his often friend and sometimes foe, Rose Weathers, who feels cozily secure inside her fireplace warmed home, and who didn't give the signal that he'd be needed to deliver 'herbal' produce to one her most important customers today.

He assumed that indicated the judges and city officials over at the municipal courthouse must have enough 'groceries' in the pantry to last for a few more days. He was okay with having the weekend off to laze around and binge watch old TV shows on the Roku cable box.

His mobile phone began playing the melody for The White Cliffs of Dover. Shit. Miss Fanny. Whatever for is she calling from New Orleans?

"Sam, I'm in Dallas. And I hear you need my help." Double shit. "I heard that thought…and your next one, too."