But not right now. Right now, since I was downtown, too many folks milled around. I’d worked hard on changing my reputation. Last thing I needed was stories circulating back to the station and beyond about me running shirtless through downtown.
“Anyone I should keep an eye out for?” Genie asked my back as I jogged past and scanned Walnut Street for Deveron Lawrence Stokes Jr., or as his momma and everyone else called him, DJ.
“No, ma’am. Have a nice day.”
Her chuckle followed me down the sidewalk, and I shook my head, momentarily lifting my eyes to the heavens. When I’d come upon the trio of eleven-year-olds behind Bob’s Bait and Tackle, they’d clearly panicked. I suspected the stolen pie had launched out of DJ’s hand on instinct. That kid had one hell of a pitching arm and a mighty good aim.
I didn’t mind the pie to the face, the discomfort temporary, hardly a blip on my radar. As far as embarrassing situations I’d experienced, this maybe ranked one point five out of ten.
My grimace had been inspired by the fact that they’d stolen the pies in the first place. Stolen pies necessitated a third call this month from Daisy Payton—local business owner and community heavyweight—complaining about a group of kids sneaking into her diner's kitchen during business hours to swipe fresh baked pies. This time they’d made off with six. Last time they’d only taken two.
Understandably, Daisy Payton wasn’t pleased. And when Daisy Payton wasn’t pleased, she called the sheriff, who also happened to be my father. And when my father wanted to make a show of taking action, he called either Deputy Monroe, Deputy Boone, or me. But if the complaint originated with a Payton—especially Daisy—I was always tapped for the job, regardless of date or time, regardless of whether or not I was on duty.
“I’ve got Jackson on it, Daisy,” he’d say, and that always made her feel better, settled ruffled feathers long enough for the situation to be handled.
But back to now and spending my rare Saturday off chasing down eleven-year-olds wielding stolen pies as though launched by trebuchet.
“Jackson! What happened to your face?” Bonnie Linton called from across the street.
I tipped my head in her direction while power walking, a blob of meringue falling to the steamy sidewalk in front of Big Ben’s Dulcimer Shop. “Just trying out a new beauty regimen, Ms. Linton.”
“Having a bad day, Jackson?” Karen Smith taunted from where she stood next to Bonnie Linton. I imagined she enjoyed this, probably considered it “just desserts” for her DUI arrest last year.
Keeping my eyes forward, I inspected a line of overgrown azalea bushes while slowing my steps. The second bush back from the sidewalk rustled, and it seemed to be having a heated, whispered argument with itself. I heard a harsh Shhh and a Stop pushing!
I stopped, placing my hands on my hips. “I know you’re behind there. I hid in those bushes too when I was a kid. I need you to come out.”
“With our hands up?” came a defiant little voice I recognized as belonging to Mac Hill.
“Sure, if you want. Unless one of those hands holds a pie. If you’ve still got those pies with you, just keep them safe.” I glanced to my right and took a step closer to the bush. A few folks—some I recognized, some I didn’t—had halted their Saturday window-shopping to watch.
“Are you going to arrest us?” Kimmy Mitchell squeaked. I was uncertain if she sounded worried or excited by the prospect.
There was no way I’d be arresting Kimmy Mitchell. Exhibit A, she was eleven. Exhibit B, arresting anybody for pie thievery without violence or breaking and entering didn’t make much sense. At least it didn’t make sense to me. Exhibit C, I was in the process of courting Kimmy’s momma, Charlotte Mitchell.
Although, had Charlotte and I not been courting, even I—a perpetual rule non-bender—would’ve given the law a wee little flex for Charlotte Mitchell and her kids. Around town and among the deputies, it was just understood as fact, different rules applied to Charlotte, a single mom of four kids.
Regardless, I couldn’t come right out and say No, Kimmy. I’m not arresting you ’cause your momma has enough to deal with because Kimmy wasn’t alone. If Kimmy had been alone, I definitely would’ve reasoned with her by bringing up her momma.
So instead, I said, “Now that depends,” while wiping at my left eyebrow with a knuckle. Tossing a fair bit of lemon curd to the pavement, I brought my hand back to my hip. “If y’all come out now, agree to apologize, stop stealing Ms. Daisy’s pies, and figure out a way to make things right, we can avoid a trip to the station.”
“What about my momma?” DJ asked, fear tinting his words. “Are you going to tell my momma?”
I sighed again, noting that the number of spectators had grown. “Can y’all come out so we can talk man-to-man?” The back of my neck prickled. I shoved the heightening discomfort aside, determined to focus on reasoning with the three kids rather than worrying about the good or bad opinions of a crowd.
“Hey! I ain’t no man,” came little Kimmy’s voice just before she stepped out of the tall azalea. Her eyes fierce, she balanced a pie in each hand. From the looks of it, she held a blueberry and an apple.
“Fine then, man-to-woman.” I crouched down on my haunches so that we were now eye level. “And I see Miss Mitchell is the bravest among you.”
The little girl lifted her chin proudly as the two boys still hidden in the bush grumbled.
“Having a bad day, Jackson?” JT MacIntyre’s blustery voice sounded from somewhere behind me. “You need any help?”
“No. Thank you, JT,” I said without turning, keeping my eyes on Kimmy. “It’s a fine day, and we’re just having a conversation.”
In my peripheral vision I saw that a person I didn’t recognize had pulled out their phone, probably a tourist, which was fine. It wouldn’t be the first time I’d been filmed while trying to de-escalate a situation, but it would be the first time I’d done so covered in pie.
I licked my lips to keep from laughing my frustration, the lemony sweetness and eggy meringue not at all tasty in the heat of a June afternoon. Funny thing, I’d eaten this very same kind of pie off the breasts of a naked woman a few years back, and it had been damn delicious. I reckon dessert tasted different when worn involuntarily.
Mac climbed out of the azalea next, followed by DJ. As soon as DJ appeared, I locked eyes with him. His cheeks were bright red—maybe from the earlier chase—and he wore a scowl that reminded me of his father. I’d arrested Deveron Stokes at least ten times over the last decade and seeing the familiar petulant expression on little DJ didn’t sit right with me.
“I don’t see what the big deal is,” DJ spat, holding a chocolate pie of some sort in his right hand and nothing in his left. “Daisy has plenty of pie. Why can’t she just give us some?”
This statement also reminded me of DJ’s father. Deveron was always playing entitled victim, thinking everyone else owed him what he hadn’t earned.
Narrowing my eyes, I gestured for the pie thieves to come closer so I wouldn’t have to raise my voice to be heard. They shared looks with each other and then shuffled forward as a group, looking sour. Between them, they still held five pies. Well, that’s something at least. Five out of six isn’t too bad.