Midnight. The Witching Hour. Call it what you will, it was that time when all bets were off the table, when anything could, and often did, happen. It was also Doyle's dinner time, as the small rumble deep in his pit reminded him.
"Fine, fine" he said patting his abdomen. "You win."
He fired up the deuce and headed into town. Rolling slowly down the street, he gave a smile and nod to the evening starlets, hawking their wares while well paid off members of the local Five-0 looked the other way.
"Hey baby, you party?" asked one particularly well endowed dream weaver.
Doyle laughed and shook his head. "Maybe some other time, darlin. Right now, I got a more urgent need.....food!"
The lady smiled, gave him a wink and flashed her chest. "I got somethin you can eat, handsome!"
As the deuce rolled past, Doyle returned the wink. "I'm sure you do" he called back, figuring he'd pass on the possibility of oral cancer tonight. The odd pulse of the diners 'OPEN' sign drew another grin from the mechanic and he pulled the deuce into a front space, seeing the row of empty booths inside.
"Greasy spoon fare" he thought. "That'll hit the spot."
Maybe with a belly full of home fries, sausage eggs and bacon he'd get a decent nights sleep. That was something he hadn't had since the accident. His grin vanished as the scene replayed itself in his head once more.
"Dammit" he swore, forcing the vision back to the dark cave he'd buried it in. As he shut down the wedge, he closed his eyes and drew in a deep breath. Slowly, it escaped as did his tall frame from the tight confines of his ride. His blue eyes opened as the mind sight passed into oblivion once more.
The small tinkle of the diners bell announced to anyone working that they had a guest and Doyle headed to a windowed booth, right in front of the deuce. He rarely let her out of his sight, more from a feeling of devotion, than fear that some suicide jockey might rip her off.
As the gum chewing waitress headed toward him, he smiled and waved off the menu she was about to present him.
"Thanks darlin, but I won't be needin that." he said, and proceeded to order.
"Three eggs over medium, bacon burnt, sausage links, two piles of home fries loaded, rye toast and the biggest OJ you got, that aint wavin a knife."
The woman blinked at him, obviously not getting the 'joke'.
"Never mind, darlin." Doyle said. "Maybe before your time."
She shrugged and headed back to the kitchen, hollering out his order as she went.
Doyle was just getting comfortable when the bell rang again, and he sighed, hearing the familiar heel click of jackboots headed in his direction.
The sound stopped right in front of his table, but Doyle didn't have to look up.
"Why Sheriff DuPree" he said, staring at his silverware. "We have GOT to stop meetin like this." He paused, smiled, then looked up. "People love to talk round here, y'know"
DuPree was not amused, though from Doyle's point of view, the good Sheriff was not in line when they passed out humor in heaven.
He slid his large body into the seat across from Doyle, folded his hands on the table before him and pursed his lips.
"Yer a real funny man, Mister Quinn." DuPree said, his expression not changing one bit. "Most times, I don't allow funny men to stay in town long."
Doyle noticed a manilla folder the sheriff had brought in with him, and inclined his head toward it.
"Those my official eviction papers?" he asked. "I do believe I have the right to thirty days notice."
DuPree almost smiled...almost. He leaned over, the brim of his cover just touching Doyle's hair.
"Mister Quinn if I wanted you gone from our town....." DuPree stopped the cliched sentence and sat back, his fingers tapping the manilla folder. If he was right about Quinn, it would take more than a sheriffs badge to get rid of him....a lot more.
"Hey Sheriff!" came a lilting greeting from the waitress. "Coffee?"
Her interruption broke the tension, at least for now. "No thanks, Carlee. I'm here on business." Doyle thought he heard a kindness in DuPrees voice, much as he had in Justin Fontenot's office when he said hello to Cantor. Doyle looked over at her and smiled, then turned his head back to DuPree.
"She's a looker, yessiree!" he said. It wasn't because he thought she was, more to the point he was interested in Dupree's reaction.
The sheriff didn't disappoint. "That 'looker', as you so eloquently put it, is my cousin, Mister Quinn. And if you'd like to keep those baby blues, I'd suggest you put 'em back in your head....PRONTO!"
Doyle smiled and nodded. "Amazin things you can learn about a man, without even so much as a question." he said, as his meal came just in time.
"Ahhh....now this looks real good, Miss Carlee." Doyle said. "My compliments to the cookie."
She smiled at Doyle, then leaned down and kissed DuPree on the cheek. "Y'all gonna be at Garlands barbeque Saturday night?" she asked
The sheriff nodded. "He gonna have a better band than what he had last year, I hope. I got no stomach for that hippy hoppin, whatever the hell you call it."
She slapped DuPree on the back and laughed. "I swear" she said as she walked away. "You gotta get your mind outta the seventies"
Doyle was well into his first pile of home fries, toasty golden with onions peppers and hot sauce, when he looked at DuPree and smiled.
"Far as I'm concerned" he said between bites,"Music died when that plane went down in Gillsburg."
"Well now" DuPree said with a nod of his head. "There's somethin we agree on, Mister Quinn."
Doyle looked up from his plate and smiled "That mean we can be fishin buddies, Sheriff?" he asked, knowing full well that would never be.
DuPree seemed to consider this for a moment, and that hesitation caused Doyle to put down his fork. "This aint a social call, I'm sure." he said, dabbing a bit of hot sauce from the corner of his mouth. "What's on your mind, Sheriff?"
The Sheriff did smile now. A slow, twisted smile, one you might see on a hunter just before he squeezes the trigger.
"Mister Quinn, there's two kinda people I don't like. One of em is a carefree, reckless sort. The kind that drifts from town to town, never really carin bout any one, or anything. The kind that stirs up trouble, then disappears when the shit hits the fan."
Doyle nodded. "Can't say as I blame ya there, Sheriff. And the other kind?" he asked.
"The second kind" DuPree went on "Is the kind that wants you to BELIEVE that he's the first kind, when in reality, he's so much more. The trick is, figuring which is which." He patted the manilla folder again. "Which one are you, Mister Quinn?"
Doyle sat back, eyeing the sheriff cautiously before answering. "What makes you think I'm either one, Sheriff?" he said. "I'm just a mechanic."
DuPree shook his head. "Mister Quinn, let me tell ya a bit about myself. I spend five years in the military as an information specialist. I can find out anything, about anybody, on Gods green Earth. Those skills have served me well behind this badge. Now I done some homework on you, as I'm sure you must know. Everything I found out, is right here in this folder."
He slid the folder toward Doyle, then laid his hands flat on the table. "Go ahead. Have a look."
Doyle eyed the folder suspiciously, then flipped it open and chuckled. "Why Sheriff DuPree" he said "I believe April Fools day is long passed. This here folder is empty."
He closed it and slid the thin folder back across the table.
DuPree narrowed his brow and snatched the folder off the table. "I know it's empty you asshole!" he spit out through clenched teeth. After gathering himself a moment he went on.
"I pride myself on my talents, Mister Quinn. I learned how to go over, under and around any brick wall that pops up, when I try to find out things. I also learned how to go THROUGH those brick walls, if need be."
Doyle sat emotionless, but he took in the sheriff's every word, even the ones he didn't speak. Sometimes those were the most important ones.
"Funny thing is" DuPree continued "The walls I kept hittin, lookin for you...well there was nothin behind em. You, Mister Doyle Quinn, don't exist....anywhere, in any database. Wanna hear a theory?"
Doyle smiled and nodded. "Please" he said. "I love a good story, much as the next guy."
DuPree sat up, folded his hands before him and spoke quietly. "Yer a spook. CIA, maybe even as far as SOG. Now I doubt they'd send a ghost here to look into anything, because...well there just aint nothin here that needs such a long nose, if ya get my meanin. Well I figger yer in black hole mode. Know what that means, Mister Quinn?"
"Not a clue" Doyle said looking every bit as confused as he should have.
"I figgered as much." DuPree said. "Well let me tell ya....black hole mode is when a spook defies an order. For whatever the reason, don't much matter, the powers that be erase his or her ass from existence. Now usually they do it by really erasing them. Dead men tell no tales, an all that. So....why are you still walkin around, Mister Quinn? I had to ask myself that question, and I came up with a wanger of an answer."
Doyle smiled. "Why Sheriff, you ought ta write yerself a book, yessire. Give ol' Mister Clancy a run for his money."
DuPree tilted his head a bit. "What I came up with is, you erased yerself, before they could do it for ya. Only reason they aint killed you yet....you must have somethin they need, REAL bad. Somethin they can't afford ta let the rest of us know, so they left ya black holed...but they're lookin for ya, aint they Mister Quinn?"
"Now Sheriff" Doyle said, crossing his arms over his chest."Lets suppose that tall tale ya tell is true. What's it got to do with us?"
"Well" DuPree said "If I'm right, they ain't got clue one, where you are...yer that good. AND if I'm right, you want it ta stay that way. Now I got ways ta make sure that if any of their bloodhounds come a sniffin, the only scent they get is gumbo."
"An the payment for that 'favor'" Doyle asked, still giving away nothing.
"I got me a little rock in my boot, Mister Quinn. One I can't seem ta get rid of, by the name of Justin Fontenot. If you are, what I think you are, won't be hardly any trouble at all for you to make my boot smooth again."
"I see" Doyle said. "And if I'm not what you think I am?"
"Then you aint nothin but another rock in my boot." DuPree replied. "One I CAN get rid of, all by myself. And since you don't exist nowhere....won't nobody miss ya." He sat back, a self satisfied smirk on his face.
Doyle nodded. "Well sheriff, like I said, I'm a mechanic. I fix cars. Wish I could help ya, but fact is...."
"A week" DuPree interrupted, then stood up and slid the empty folder back to Doyle. "Ill give ya a week ta think it over. Y'all know where ta find me, I'm sure." He walked to the door, then paused before stepping out. "One more thing, Mister Quinn...That folder ya got in front of ya.....it weren't completely empty." He tipped his cover and headed out, leaving Doyle to ponder the conversation.
He finished his food. Cold as it was, it was still tasty, then paid the bill, left Carlee a nice tip and went outside. He looked at the clear night sky in time to see a shooting star fire across the arc, from east to west.
"Hmmph" he thought, pursed his lips, reached into his jeans pocket and fished out a cell phone. He hesitated a moment before hitting the pound sign, then pressed the eight pad twice and brought it to his ear.
"Yes?" came the emotionless voice on the other end.
"I need a cleaner." Doyle replied.
"Confirmed."
He disconnected the call, looked around and walked behind the deuce, opened the deck lid and took out a small container. He opened it, removed a small vial from inside and placed the cell phone in it. Carefully he opened the vial and slowly poured its contents into the container. The acid bath did its job, reducing the phone to nothing. After a moment, he closed the container and set it back into its compartment within the deuces right wheel well and shut the deck.
"Well Sheriff" Doyle said to himself. "I'm afraid that rock is about to turn into a boulder"
