Paw Enforcement 02 - Paw and Order (10 page)

A collective and sympathetic “Oooh!” rose from the crowd. We were all thinking the same thing.
That had to hurt!

The horse bucked a couple more times for show, then seemed to realize it was a waste of energy since he'd already ditched the cowboy. While the clowns shooed the horse toward the exit, the rider stood, clutching his shoulder. His arm hung limply at his side. He released his arm just long enough to give a wave to the crowd before leaving the arena. Looked like the paramedics would be busy tonight. I only hoped Clint wouldn't need their services.

As we watched, a young man joined the girls' group next to me. He wore a powder-blue shirt with embroidered white roses along with a shiny silver belt buckle featuring a towering oil rig. Far be it from me to stereotype, but something told me he might be more into bulls than heifers.

The second rider's performance was mediocre. He started off well enough, but after four seconds slid sideways on the horse and was thrown forward on a spin.

“Clint's up now!” cried a black-haired girl in the group hanging near me.

The girls and guy pressed forward en masse, squishing themselves up against the gate next to me.

“There he is!” called another, pointing across the arena where Clint was heading toward the chute.

“That is one
fine
cowboy,” said another. “I wouldn't mind giving him a ride. Except I hope he'd hang on for more than eight seconds!”

As the girls laughed, my hand reflexively found the baton at my waist. I supposed I had no right to feel jealous. Heck, Clint and I had only spoken for a few minutes yesterday and for a matter of seconds today. It's not like the two of us were dating or anything like that. Still, the thought of them lusting after Clint made my blood simmer. I'd enjoyed his attention, maybe even
needed
it, and I didn't want to share it with anyone else.

“Next up is local favorite Clint McCutcheon!” the announcer called with enthusiasm through the loudspeakers. “McCutcheon is a two-time winner of the Houston rodeo, a three-time winner at the rodeo in Checotah, Oklahoma, and winner of last year's Oklahoma Buck-Off. Clint also placed second last year at the PRCA National Finals in Las Vegas, Nevada. Clint will be riding the notorious Tornado Loco, who's thrown more riders than Nolan Ryan threw home runs. Ladies and gentlemen, let's show Clint some love!”

The girls squealed and clapped and jumped up and down in their hand-painted boots, one even going so far as to put two fingers in her mouth and let out a whistle.
Thweeeee!
The rest of the crowd went wild, too, their applause roaring through the arena as many of them stood. Evidently Clint was a minor celebrity around these parts.
Who knew?
Not me, that's for sure. Then again, the rodeo wasn't my usual scene.

As Clint settled on the horse's back, my heart went still, as if trapped in its own chute. Clint could end up unconscious or hurt, like the earlier riders. Then who would flirt with me, make me feel desirable and witty and interesting?

Clang!

The horse bolted from the enclosure, dashing forward only three steps before bucking so high and hard it was a wonder he didn't flip over. Clint spurred over the horse's shoulders, virtually standing in the air given the horse's extreme angle. The horse bucked a second time with equal force, yet Clint hung on. When he failed to clear Clint with a third forceful buck, Tornado Loco lived up to his name, sending his body into a crazy leaping spin. How Clint was able to fight against the spinning force was a mystery, one that was solved not by Colonel Mustard in the conservatory but by Clint McCutcheon on the abdominal machine in the gym.

Rather than tire out, the horse only seemed to gain momentum as the seconds ticked by. Clint managed to stay on for the requisite eight seconds, defying both the odds and gravity. Finally, the horse effectuated a surprise sideways snap maneuver, bending nearly in half one way then the other to toss Clint. Amazingly, Clint landed on his feet, bouncing to absorb the impact. He stood, took off his hat for a quick bow, and trotted to the side, circling his hat over his head and pumping his fist in victory.

“Men want to be him,” the black-haired girl said dreamily, watching Clint, “and women want to be with him.”

“I don't know,” their male friend said, tilting his head as he checked out the ass framed between Clint's chaps, “I think I'd rather be with him, too.”

“Watch out for those spurs,” I said as I turned to go. I'd seen, and heard, more than enough. Seemed everyone wanted a piece of Clint. I only wondered whether there was enough of him to go around.

I wandered back outside to patrol. A half hour later, as Brigit and I circumnavigated the perimeter, loud chanting from the parking lot drew my attention. I stepped up to the chest-high fence to see what was going on.

A dozen people stood in the parking lot just outside the fence, carrying signs. Some of the signs were raised on sticks over their heads, others were scribbled on poster board and carried in their hands.

SPURN THE SPURS!

RODEOS: CRUELTY FOR A BUCK

REAL MEN RIDE BIKES.

THERE'S NO EXCUSE FOR ABUSE!

BUCK THE RODEO!

My eyes landed on two of the protestors, a curly-haired blonde and a thin man with a bushy gray beard. Sherry and Michael Lipsomb. I'd met the two not long ago at the Shoppes at Chisholm Trail, a mall in my usual beat, the place where the Tunabomber had planted his first bomb. The couple had been on site the day the bomb exploded, protesting the mall's fur store. They'd initially been suspects in the bombing, but had later been cleared. Though firmly dedicated to their causes, the two were a pair of relatively harmless hippies.

I stepped to the fence. “Hello, Mr. and Mrs. Lipscomb!” I called, waving a hand.

Sherry turned my way and lifted a hand in acknowledgment. Michael cast a glance in my direction and raised his chin, but didn't smile. The couple probably had mixed feelings about me. Though I'd supported their protest at the mall, telling them to let me know if anyone gave them any hassles, I'd also tagged along with the detective who'd interrogated them about the bombings. Nevertheless, I wanted them to know I was on site. Protesting at a rodeo where beer flowed freely on a Saturday night probably wasn't the safest thing to do. I had no right to send them away and they had every right to speak their minds, but frankly they were asking for trouble. I decided to stick close by.

Minutes later, I noticed Clint heading through the milling crowd toward me. He was back in uniform and back atop Jack. Yet another shiny belt buckle graced his belly, today's selection proclaiming him the bareback champion of the Houston rodeo.

He pulled up perpendicular to me and reined his horse to a stop. He beamed down at me and pulled a blue ribbon from his pocket. “I won first prize. Scored ninety points.”

I reached up to pet Jack's snout. “Congratulations. That was quite a ride.”

“My best ever!” He pumped a fist in triumph. “If I do well in the final round, I'm gonna think about going out on the circuit.”

“Meaning…?”

“The professional rodeo circuit. I'm placing consistently enough now that I could make a go of it.”

“Wouldn't that require a lot of travel?” I asked. “What about your job here?”

“Being a professional rodeo cowboy is the chance of a lifetime. I can always come back to law enforcement later.” He offered a sound that was part snort, part chuckle. “After all, it's not like people are going to stop committing crimes.”

If only.

Behind me, a drunken voice hollered, “Fuckin' hippie … fuckers!”

Such eloquence, no?

I turned to see a squat, potbellied redneck pull a plastic tin of Skoal from his back pocket and hurl it at Michael. He ducked in time to avoid the projectile, but the tin continued on its course, flying over the fence and past me to hit Jack in the ass.
Thump!

With a frightened whinny, the horse reared up onto its hind legs, its front hooves pawing the air mere inches from me and my partner.

“Whoa, boy!” Clint called.

I yanked Brigit back as far as I could, but we were trapped between the horse and the fence. If not for Clint's expert handling, both Brigit and I could have been trampled or crushed.

Once the horse's feet had returned to the ground, Clint pointed a finger at the gaping-mouthed redneck and yelled, “Stay right there!”

Realizing he'd effed up in a major way, a way that could land his sorry, chubby, and drunken ass in jail, the offender took off running.

Knowing a dog could maneuver through the crowd more easily and with less risk than a horse, I raised a palm to Clint. “We got this.”

I unclipped Brigit's leash and gave her the command to pursue the idiot. Her nails scrabbled on the asphalt as she took off running. Five seconds later, the guy lay facedown on the asphalt amid flattened drink cups, paper cotton candy cones, and hot dog wrappings, his arms curved protectively over his head and face. Brigit lay spread-eagled across his back, the collar of his shirt gripped firmly in her teeth. She yanked on his collar, jerking his head left and right as he howled in terror.

I headed over, pulling my baton from my belt and extending it with a flick of my wrist.
Snap!
Clint and Jack trailed along behind me.

“Call off your dog!” the guy shrieked as I stepped up.

“I will,” I told him calmly, “as soon as you apologize to those people.” I used my nightstick to gesture to the protestors at the fence before motioning at Clint and Jack. “And to them.”

“I'm sorry!” he cried. “Now get the dog off me!”

I called Brigit off, giving her the order to return to my side. After reattaching her leash, I looked down at the man, who rolled over onto his back and sat up.

Clint slid down off his horse, gathering the reins in his hand. When the guy made a move to stand, Clint said, “Nobody told you to get up.”

The guy sat back down on the asphalt, glaring up at Clint.

“
Now
get up,” Clint ordered, chuckling.

When the man stood, Clint stepped close to him and took a sniff. “You smell like alcohol.”

“I only drank two beers!” The guy looked to the side, a sign that he was lying, intimidated by the tall deputy towering over him, or both.

“Two beers,” Clint repeated. “Just two beers? Nothing else?”

The eyes darted around.

Clint motioned with his index finger. “Take off your boots.”

“Why?”

Clint bent down and got in the man's face. “'Cause I told you to.”

After casting another glare at the deputy, the guy complied, removing first his left, then his right boot, having to grab the fence to keep from falling over. A crowd had gathered around to watch. He glanced around at the spectators and scooped up the boots, holding them tight to his chest.

“Set your boots down,” Clint said.

When the guy failed to move right away, Clint, too, pulled his nightstick from his belt. “I said to
set. Your. Boots. Down.
” Though Clint didn't say it in so many words, his tone said it for him.
This guy could either comply voluntarily or get his ass kicked.

With a huff of anger and frustration, the guy set his boots on the ground. Clint looked down into them. “Just as I suspected.” He kicked one of them over and a metal flask slid out onto the pavement.

Another huff from the redneck.

“Let's see here.” Clint rubbed his chin. “Looks like we've got a nice list of charges.” He counted them off on his fingers. “Littering. Public intoxication. Drunk and disorderly. Assault on a law enforcement officer—”

“I didn't assault you!” the guy cried.

“You assaulted my horse.” Clint's eyes narrowed. “If you'd have hit me, I might have found it in my heart to forgive you. But nobody messes with my horse.”

Desperate, the guy said, “I don't think I'm drunk.”

Clint snorted and looked my way. “That sounds just like something a drunk would say, don't it?”

“Sure does.” I stepped forward now. “We could give him a sobriety test.”

Clint raised his palms. “Be my guest, Officer Luz.”

I pulled my penlight from my pocket and shined it into the guy's eyes, checking the reaction time of his pupils. Yup. Definitely on the slow side. But might as well be thorough. Might as well give the guy a little payback, too, a little tit for his tat, shit for his shat. “Recite the alphabet.”

“A, B, C,” he began. “D, E, F.”

When he'd successfully recited his ABCs, he said, “See? I'm not drunk.”

“Inconclusive,” I said. “Fill in the blank.
Once upon a midnight dreary, as I
…” I made a circular motion with my finger, inviting him to finish the sentence.

He looked up as if racking his brain for the answer. “Uh…”

“Whacked off!” called a male voice from the crowd.

I ran my penlight over the crowd. “Wrong answer.”

Another guy in the crowd took a shot. “Tried on my girlfriend's underwear!”

“You're getting closer,” I said.

A female voice chimed in now. “Turned into a pumpkin?”

Did nobody in this crowd read the classics?
I shook my head. “Sorry. Still wrong.”

“Good guesses, though,” Clint added, giving the crowd a thumbs-up.

“See?” yelled the redneck. “They don't know the answer either and they're sober!”

I stepped toward him and looked him in the eye. “Did you just admit that you're drunk?”

He looked up as if trying to remember what he'd just said. “Uh … no … I don't think so.”

Clint and I exchanged glances before turning back to the redneck.