Bullethead

The fog in his head was starting to clear again, as it always does eventually, and Brogan realized he was in the back of a patrol car. He could still feel the blood from his lip dribbling down his shirt. Through the haze he figured he must have a minor concussion. He rolled in and out of consciousness. Several times Sheriff Craig Slayne's face popped into view and he struggled to get at it, only to fall back into oblivion each time.

When Brogan regained consciousness for good he found himself lying on a concrete slab. There was an odor of dried sweat and disinfectant. He touched his hands to his face. The blood had been cleaned off but his lip was still sore. His whole body was sore He sat up and that started a spinning headache, but he was strong enough and wasn't going to pass out. That wasn't his chief concern right now, because he discovered that he was in a holding cell.

Brogan was tough enough to withstand the headache as the strength in his still muscular body began to return. So did his anger. He tried to get up to pound on the door. That's what you're supposed to do when you're in a cell, he figured cynically. The cell door came open before he got to his feet. The gray-haired cop, definitely balding, strode swiftly into the cell.

'Hey now, slow down. You've been passing out all over the place.' The man's face had deep worry lines that made him look older than his probable forty-some years. There was something about him that kept Brogan from getting any angrier.

'Can I have some coffee?' Brogan growled.

'Rexel, bring that coffee pot over here,' Grey Hair called over his shoulder.

The big muscular one from the mix-up in the street sauntered over to them with a pot of strong smelling coffee hanging from his big hand. At maybe six three he towered over Phil's six feet even. He looked like he was a solid two twenty also. He was a real heavyweight.

The older man handed Brogan a stained, well-used mug of steaming coffee. Brogan took a deep drag from the cup and whistled with pain when the hot coffee hit his raw lip.

'You the one that sucker punched me?' Brogan squinted at Gray Hair.

'Naw. That was Rexel,' he replied, tilting his head towards the heavyweight. The big man didn't act like he was sorry. He grinned and winked.

'I'm Al Finch,' Grey Hair said. 'They call me Baldy. I'm Chief of city police here in Iron City. This my only officer, Ted Rexel.' The heavyweight grinned even wider. 'He laid one on you a little worse than I would like,' he scowled back towards the younger man. Looking back at Brogan, 'You've been in and out for about an hour.'

'What ever happened to ambulances and hospitals?' Brogan asked.

'You weren't that badly hurt. And besides, we don't need the paper work. None of us do. Sure, we made a mistake, buddy, and we're sorry for it. Your sedan's in the impound out back.' His face got stern. 'The gun you held on me is locked in my desk.'

'I'm licensed.'

'I know. I found your license. You'll get your stuff back. We thought you were O'Neal.'

'Who?'

'The suspect in the raincoat.'

'You know who he is? And he was on foot? And you didn't get him?'

'Sure, we know him. He's hit the same bank four times this year. And no, we didn't get him. But you don't rob a bank owned by Sheriff Slayne himself and get away with it. Not for too long anyway. He got away from me, but the whole county is Slayne's territory. He'll get him and O'Neal won't survive the arrest.'

'I guess,' said Brogan rubbing his jaw, 'the law can get away with anything in this town. I guess I should meet this Slayne.'