Penny’s Pass the Parcel - Part 6

Part 5 at: https://www.abctales.com/story/makis/pennys-pass-story-part-five

Penny’s Pass the Parcel - Part 6

Back at the station, Sheriff Milton found himself staring at a computer screen. His head hadn’t been in the game since the incident with the silk purse. Worse still his psoriasis was itchy today. Absently reaching back over his shoulder, he scratched at the scabby patch on his neck.

A takeaway coffee in a Styrofoam cup sat on a cluttered desk, an in-tray silently beckoning for paperwork to be done. Documents rustled lightly, flapping as air from desk top fans dotted around the office was circulated from rotating fans whirring quietly. The AC unit was down yet again.

In front was a scrap piece of paper with conjecture scrawled in haphazard entries. He badly wanted to know where Snodgrass had gone.

Thoughts drifted to his previous wives. He had mixed feelings about number three walking out on him. He was not going to change for anyone. Hell no! Perhaps it was time to trade up to Missus Milton Mark IV. He pondered all the wifey things that he would want done. Andrew Tait was right about everything. How he enjoyed his totem’s online output. When he wasn’t watching porn or eating pizza.

Deputy Marandina had radioed in that he had an update on the case. Jeez…he was annoyingly good looking, Milton thought. He’d often sensed an unspoken conflict sitting just below the surface whenever he engaged with his erstwhile fellow officer. Quite why anyone would have a problem with an upstanding pillar of the community serving the Public with devotion and dedication was beyond him. Folks were strange at times.

Across the gaggle of desks scattered around the working side of a counter with flip top entrance, the tapping of keys distracted the sheriff. Officer Polanski was busy documenting citations. In his twenties and of Polish descent, Polanski was a striking individual, liked by the ladies with his chiselled chin and film star features. A rolled up ball of paper bounced off his cheek.

“Y’all gonna get the next round of Donuts, Officer Po-lan-Ski?”

Looking up from his keyboard, the rookie cop smiled then grimaced.

“Should you be eating that shit given your weight situation?”

“I beg your pardon. That sounds like insubordination to me. Just get the damn donuts!”

Despite being popular with most people in the district, it seemed that the odd citizen objected to him. He couldn’t think why whilst channelling his inner Trump. HE was always right, never wrong and despite the fact that he didn’t really approve of the Tangerine Turd, he did like his macho style.

Milton was the Sheriff and demanded respect even where it was begrudging.

Polanksi stood up with a noticeable lack of enthusiasm and recalcitrantly shuffled off day dreaming of setting his superior’s stupid squashed hat on fire.

“Y’all be back as soon as you can, y’hear.” Milton revelled in the fact that he was in charge.

With his subordinate suitably put in his place, the sheriff rocked back in his chair and returned to his daydreaming. Reaching into a crumpled shirt pocket, he pulled out a cheroot and lit up. Yes, he was the man with no-name. A latter day Clint Eastwood.

As proud as he was of his career to date, there had been some awkward partners over the years. In particular, Sel Ticman had been one of the most difficult. How many times had he struggled to understand that Scottish brogue? What was this guy even doing in the country? ICE enforcement soldiers were derelict in their duty in allowing so many reprobates and scumbags to inhabit his beloved USA.

Sel always had a particularly strange affectation with Burn’s Night or Neet as it sounded to the untranslated ear. One minute they would be drinking whiskey in a bar, the next a haggis would be wheeled out and a macabre ceremony conducted culminating in the stabbing of the wee beastie with a ceremonial knife to the sound of screams from those too close to proceedings.

Things had worked out, though. Eventually a guilty secret had become known that the Scot (semi adopted American) had been banished from his homeland due to a string of minor misdemeanours at soccer matches played in Glasgow. He had left under a cloud before Trump’s foot soldiers could catch up with him. The last sighting of the British outlaw had been a pink Cadillac throwing dust into the air, wheels screeching as the Gaelic renegade drove off into the sunset, arm outstretched with a theatrical V sign wafting at the Heavens.

There was a rumour that Snodgrass had been in Glasgow at one point in the past. Was there a link between Ticman and the missing local? Maybe they were both working for the Israelis.

Conspiracy theories raged like a storm inside his head.

Milton looked up as the front door swung open. Marandina bowled in, all limbs pumping and assertive stride.

“We got a lead.” He declared, beaming at first before looking serious once more.

“Okay, whatcha got?” The question was posed with a mix of indifference and reluctant interest.

“A VW Beetle driven by our very own Jenny Padget has just hotfooted across the county line to a printing works. Y’know, the wife of a known felon who just happens to have been incarcerated for forgery.”

Milton’s brain cells fired, thoughts jostling for place amongst any plan that he might have to take things forward. He was still annoyed at the incident with the counterfeit note that he’d been duped with.

“Did ya get a statement from her?”

“Nah….I was outside jurisdiction. I’ve decided to pay her a visit when she returns.”

The sheriff slowly stroked his chin.

For a few seconds an awkward silence pervaded.

The standoff was ended by the sound of shrill tyres breaking and shouts from outside.

Both men stared at each other, pondering what the commotion was.

The station door burst open and a middle-aged man sporting a goatee appeared wild-eyed and frantic.

“Come quickly, a man’s just been thrown from the back of an SUV. He’s been abandoned and lying prostrate in the gutter!”

Milton’s whole body froze.

“Damn Mossad agents again.” He postulated.

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