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Bobby Dean, head of Local 491, tries to pick up the pieces when the misadventures of a mill employee threaten to bring everything down.

Hey, what do you know, I can write functional long-term relationships! __This is in the same story sequence that began with "One More for the Road," and a direct sequel to "Small-Town Lies" and although it doesn't wrap up the story it might help to know the characters. Probably not needed, though. Thanks to Spudz for putting in the unpaid overtime editing this one.

Released under the Creative Commons BY-NC-SA license. Share, modify, and redistribute -- as long as it's attributed and noncommercial, anything goes.

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"Stickin' with the Union" cycle:

1. One More for the Road
2. Small-Town Lies
3. Friend of the Devil
4. Consequences
5. Favors

---

"Friend of the Devil," by Rob Baird

---

Click. With the phone disconnected, Bobby Dean took the opportunity to curse under his breath, and to wonder how the fuck he'd allowed himself to get into his situation in the first place.

"You worry too much."

Bobby looked over at his wife; her eyes were still closed, and her voice was drowsy. He took a deep breath; sighed. "Maybe," he admitted.

"Go back to sleep," she mumbled.

"Can't."

The way she kept her eyes closed, Bobby knew his wife had already conceded the argument. She didn't always: Deborah was a Border Collie, with a Border Collie's disposition -- with those eyes of hers, she'd stared Bobby down more times than the dingo could even count.

But if he was up at 6:30 on a Saturday morning, she must've intuited that he had some reason. Some reason he'd actually answered the phone rather than just slamming it back down on the hook. Some reason he'd placed another, growling call of his own.

Some reason he was sitting on the edge of the bed rather than getting back under the covers. Some trouble at work, he'd explained to her, cryptically. And she'd said: you worry too much. Then he'd called the lawyer, and now she was telling him the same thing. Not wrong, just...

Bobby Dean got reluctantly to his feet. "I need to head in for a bit, okay? Should be back before you wake up."

Debbie opened one eye, letting her husband take the full brunt of her skepticism. "If it's work stuff? No you won't. We both know that."

He kissed her nose gently, pacifying her into silence; the kiss was itself an admission of guilt. Five minutes later, with his ragged field jacket protecting the dingo against the chill of a morning on the Oregon Coast, he allowed himself to say what he was really thinking.

It was a series of oaths, each one snarled more coarsely than the last. By the time his truck had hit Washington Street, he figured he'd gotten most of it out of his system. At the light he discovered otherwise.

"God damn it. God damn that fuckin' useless son of a bitch. Christ on the -- oughta skin that asshole's pelt for a goddamn -- motherfuckinpieceofshitsonofa --"

The light turned, and he stalled the truck out. Nobody was around to see the way it bucked, or the dingo slamming his fist into the steering wheel.

Motherfuckinpieceofshit's pickup was in the lot of the Cannon Shoals Police Department, which was the first bit of good news Bobby'd had that morning. He took the adjacent spot, slammed the door shut, and straightened his field jacket with an irritated jerk before stomping into the station.

"Hey, Bobby."

"Sergeant," Dean nodded to Gus Lopez. The mountain lion didn't look much happier to have things to do on a Saturday morning. "What's the deal? Is he under arrest?"

"No... Not yet. We just wanted to ask him some questions. We have a statement from Lisa already. And the girl. We figured it would be easier if everyone cooperated, though, you know?"

Bobby gritted his teeth. "Right. Did he give you a statement?"

"No. Said something about a lawyer."

"Well, at least he's not a complete idiot."

Not that Bobby Dean actually meant that. The man in question was a temperamental fox named Harlan, with notoriously poor impulse control and just enough connections in town to keep anyone from doing anything about it.

"Is he going to be arrested?"

"That depends. Kinda complicated. We can't really hold folks here; don't have the space. Have to send him to County, probably. Could if you wanted, though. Real piece of work."

"'Work' isn't the word I'd use," Bobby said. "Can I talk to him?"

They'd stuffed Harlan into a disused, empty office. The fox slouched in a ratty plastic chair. His glowering expression and lean body gave the impression of something dark and half-finished -- as though the unsavory side of a normal person had been drawn out and given form.

"What the fuck, Harlan?"

"Could ask you the same question."

"I told you to stay away from the shop."

"So?"

The shop sold spare parts and electrical equipment; back when Cannon Shoals was more active, it had supplied most of the machine shops and industry in the town. Now it was a skeleton of its former self, run by a skeleton staff.

"Wasn't on the clock," Harlan added.

Jenna Rourke was one such employee. Bob didn't know the complete history of relations between the Rourke and Crow clans -- they were old families in the town, older than his own. They feuded.

Harlan had something of a fixation on Lisa Rourke, Jenna's older sister. It was a fixation that got him into trouble: a few years before, Lisa called the mill to complain when, after a car accident, the fox had made an obscene suggestion to settle up the bill.

'Older' sister was, of course, the operative word, and the source of the latest debacle. The Rourke family was quite large: Lisa was in her mid-thirties, and Jenna was maybe sixteen by Bobby's reckoning, and Harlan was apparently too dumb to tell the difference. "I didn't tell you to stay away because of the fucking clock, dipshit."

Harlan shrugged. "Ain't the boss of me then, whiteface. Get off it."

Plenty of folks in town called Dean white-muzzle, with varying degrees of fondness. Harlan's version was rather unfriendly. "No. I ain't the boss of you. But I know you also don't have enough fucking common sense not to get a high school student drunk -- which is the least of your problems."

"Ain't no high school student. She was talkin' about college and shit, Bobby. Fuck you."

"That's where the advanced courses are, asshole." Matthew J Rex High School was too small to have many honors courses: most of those who cared found a way to take their equivalent at the community college down the coast.

"What 'advanced courses'?"

Bobby rolled his eyes. "You wouldn't know. Hard to take 'em with your goddamned dick. Just -- fuck. Be honest with me, Harlan. You get her drunk?"

"Nah."

"Really?"

"Had, like, a can of beer. Maybe half a can. Shit, she ain't that much of a lightweight. And I know that ain't her first, so don't give me this 'drinkin' age' bullshit, she's gotta be old enough."

"She tell you that?"

"I just know. What are you, her dad?"

He wasn't -- he didn't know anything about her parents, in truth. But he did have daughters, and it took some effort not to deck the fox. Bobby bit back his growl. "Did. You. Do. Anything. Else?"

"Course I did. Shit, anybody'd hit an ass like that. You ain't so old your dick don't work."

Suppressing the growl required even more work, this time. "What were you thinking?"

"Thinkin' we both wanted it, mostly. Friday afternoon, ain't much fuckin' else to do in this town. Can't all be down at your wonderful mill, can we? Somebody told me not to come in."

"Whose idea was it? Hers?"

The fox shrugged nonchalantly. "I guess so. Hard to tell with some bitches, 'specially the younger ones. 'Sides, her cunt of a sister got her on this tight leash, you know? Lisa sure wouldn't want it."

That, at least, was accurate if somewhat misleading. Lisa had been the one to call him, and then the police department. There was bad blood between her and Harlan.

None of which changed the fact that Jenna was not yet eighteen, and even if she had been Harlan was a married man in his thirties. Moral failings alone weren't criminal. But this rose far above that level.

"What's the big deal, anyway?" Harlan was going on, in his oblivious, bellicose way.

"The big deal is that you're not under arrest. Yet. You being here is still 'cause you want to be, and if you act cooperative maybe somebody will take pity on your idiot self."

"The fuck I want to be, you --"

"You're here because you want to be. Because if you don't, then, newsflash: they do have probable cause to arrest you. When the lawyer gets here, you can have a chat, and decide what you want to write on your fucking statement. And you two better think good. Do you understand me?"

"No."

"Here then, dipshit; I'll use small words. I'm done with your shit, Crow. You are gone from the mill. If you are very, very lucky they'll give you a light sentence. And 'cause I don't want trouble, we'll see what the lawyer can work out. But that means you need to cooperate. You get that?"

"You can't fire me."

"Cooperate."

"I don't have to do --"

Dean hauled him upright, grabbing big pawfuls of wrinkled t-shirt and ratty fur. He slammed Harlan against the wall as hard as he could, and when the fox's head reeled forward the dingo flashed a snarl that revealed teeth far sharper than his age would've suggested. "Yes you do."

"I don't --"

Another blow knocked the words from him. Harlan was blinking, trying to get his wits back. Panting heavily, Dean calmed himself enough to step back and let go. "Stop acting like an idiot for five goddamn seconds," he spat at the heap of fox on the floor.

Harlan mumbled something inaudible.

"I'm more than happy to help you fuck yourself, Crow. But for now, I'm trying to play nice. So you play nice, too. You think you can manage?"

The mumble wasn't any clearer.

Bobby took a few deep breaths until he felt he'd calmed down sufficiently, and left the room. Gus Lopez was sitting at his desk, but he looked at the dingo with his eyebrows raised.

"Room's not soundproofed, I guess?" Bobby couldn't work up much disappointment when he asked the question.

"Nah. But, no video either, in case you want to go again."

He growled. "The lawyer should help him see reason. If he doesn't, book his ass."

"Really? They ain't gonna treat him very nice."

"I don't give a..." He clipped his words off in a short, heavy sigh. "Nah, that isn't quite true. I don't want to make things difficult. Stuff is still fragile, sergeant, you know? If Martin-Barlow hears about this..."

"They're probably gonna hear about it, Bob."

There was no way of escaping that; the dingo sighed a second time. "Yes. Probably. But if the first they hear about it is that it's already been taken care of? Like... if it don't gotta see a trial, that'd be easier."

So little was easy. Now that the lumber mill was running again, set to reopen at nearly full capacity, people talked to him like all their problems had been solved. And as far as they were concerned...

Bobby didn't tell them the rest of it; what was the point? It helped nobody to know that he'd sold some of the union's property to some mysterious real-estate firm in order to pay for the environmental impact statements and the lobbyists it took to get the mill opened.

It certainly didn't help them to know that the firm paid him under the table, in cash, to keep everything quiet. He spread the money out across the membership dues the union reported, and since he was the only one who cared about the books...

His son Russell was the only other one to know. And as long as it stayed that way, the town could go on thinking that everything was fine again and the Dean men could carry the burden on their own. Short-sighted, churlish idiots like Harlan called too much attention down.

It wasn't even that Harlan Crow was a good man who occasionally made bad decisions; he was mostly given to bad decisions. Only his electrical engineering certificates made him useful, and Bobby would find a way to work around that. He thought.

But it was another complication, and another loose end.

Deborah was awake by the time he got back to their house. If she minded, the Border Collie didn't show it, when he found her in the kitchen making coffee. "Everything fixed, hon?"

"Sure," he said.

She laughed knowingly. "So 'no,' then. You know what would make it better?" Bob wrapped her up in a hug, and though she feigned irritation at being distracted from the coffee she stole a kiss, anyway. "Yes, that. But also, breakfast."

It was a nice break, a nice way of reassuring himself that sometimes the world could be simple. He let himself focus on the sound of the eggs in the pan, hissing, and he let himself enjoy the satisfaction of flipping them smoothly over. Straightforward. Honest. Shoulda been a cook, Bobby...

"Morning, dad."

The dingo glanced over his shoulder. "Made it in time for once, eh?"

Melissa, his youngest daughter, smiled. "Been up since you were. You and your cursing -- gosh, like mom and Father Noyes didn't teach you anything!" She tried to look severe, the way Deborah could, but while she had her mother's ears and grey fur Mel had inherited Bobby's eyes. They were too soft to be much good at chiding.

"Gave up on hearin' Noyes run his damn mouth," Bobby admitted, in a pretend grumble. "You gonna help?"

Of course, she would. Mel had moved back in with her parents a few years before, after losing the only job she'd been able to find after high school. Bobby knew she felt guilty about that.

He did, too. They hadn't been trying for another kid, but the processing plant in Cannon Shoals was still running then, along with the Oak Valley mill, and the cannery, and the freight rail terminus... and it had seemed like it would work out, like it would be the kind of place you could raise a family and be proud of it.

Mel was two years old when Southern Pacific closed the rail line. Four when Martin-Barlow shuttered the processing plant. Six when the EPA decided the Neatasknea River needed to be protected. By the time she was old enough to understand the world, she was old enough to see that it was a story written in distant, air-conditioned offices, by powerful men who didn't have to care about the consequences.

And what the fuck were either of them supposed to do? Mel was smart enough -- Border Collie blood and all that -- but it didn't matter how smart you were, you couldn't just wish yourself into one of those offices. When the sports store closed and she lost her part-time job as a cashier, she couldn't just wish herself a new one, either.

Bobby felt guilty because it wasn't right to bring a kid up in the kind of world you had to apologize for. Even if you didn't say it in words, even if you couldn't, they both still knew it and so he'd never said anything about Mel moving back in with them. She wasn't the only one her age doing that.

Over pancakes -- Mel wasn't quite up to Bobby's mastery of a frying pan, but she'd get there -- the image of Harlan Crow came to the dingo's eyes and he growled, unbidden. Melissa and Deborah looked over to him, surprised.

"Dad?"

"Just..."

Maybe the world was going to hell in a handbasket. But that was no excuse. You could hold the line. You could stand up for what was left. The fighting wasn't pretty, and Bobby didn't like everything he'd done -- but damn it, it was worth fighting. Not because it would save him: he was beyond saving. But because it had to be done.

Not everyone thought that way. All it took was looking at the vultures and halfwit bastards crowding every capitol building to figure that one out. The mill limping along, the fishing fleet rocking at anchor like old drunks -- half of Detroit torn down and the other half rusted over -- and some rich prick in a ten-grand suit and a ten-cent haircut promising he could make everything great again.

Harlan was one of those types. They saw the world falling apart and their only instinct was to grab as much of what they could. And they'd talk about it like it was just the law of nature, just pragmatism. Self-interest.

Scavengers. They were scavengers, no different than the thieves who broke into the mill's warehouses or stole the copper transmission lines. Or the ones who gave his union brothers loans at thousand-percent interest rates and simply smirked when you asked them how they slept at night.

The ones that hissed, teeth-bared, when you turned the flashlight on them and caught a glimpse of them with their paws scrabbling to take something else. And maybe the thieves were scavenging metal, and Harlan was scavenging common decency, and the politician was scavenging whatever hope he could still prey on -- but they were all fucking vermin.

How did it come to this?

He toyed with his fork, and caught himself. "Sorry. I just, uh. I think I left the damn truck lights on, that's all."

"You didn't," Debbie said. "I checked."

"Oh."

"You're not going senile, dear." She reached over the table to pat his wrist, and to guide the dingo's fork back to the bite of pancake it had abandoned. "I wasn't just checking. But I had to walk by it to refill the bird feeder, and they were off."

"You don't think the battery's dead, do you, dad?" Melissa asked. "You've been wanting to change it, remember? You said you'd show me how?"

Focus, he thought. Straightforward things. Honest things. Breakfast. "Yeah, yeah. Good point. We can do that." There were plenty of perfectly decent ways to spend a Saturday. The battery was probably fine, but he had a spare and he liked letting Melissa work with her hands.

The lawyer called in the early afternoon, when Bobby was cleaning one of his rifles. Another worker at the mill had a new piece he wanted to sight in; they planned to go shooting the next day. That was one of the nice things about Martin-Barlow owning so much land -- nobody to come by and bother you.

Lawyers, though, they could find you anywhere. "What is it?" he asked.

"I talked to Mr. Crow, and while he admits to having engaged in certain relations with the girl he says it was her idea, and he had no idea she was under the age of majority."

"So?"

"Well, there's a complication, Mr. Dean. It'll work in our favor. The girl's sister is the one who affirmed that any sexual acts had taken place. The victim did not actually confirm that and has no interest in pressing charges or testifying."

"Lisa does, though."

"Yes. But given the consequences, the victim is inclined to deny everything. Mr. Crow will as well, and of course, except for his word we have nothing to go on to believe that anything did happen, Mr. Dean. There is the matter of the alcohol. That would be a Class A misdemeanor, and a fine."

"Grounds for dismissal?"

"Of course."

"So you can work out a deal or somethin'? Keep it quiet?"

"It will stay quiet, yes."

"Good. Fine. Is this something you can... put in a contract? Like, that if he cooperates he'll lose his job, but we can smooth over the rest?"

Silence from the other end of the line. "I don't think that's a good idea. But I can make certain that Mr. Crow understands. I hope that satisfies your needs?"

Good enough. If it got rid of Harlan, it was good enough. "Asshole," he muttered, when the phone was back on its hook.

Mel poked her head in the door. "You okay, dad?"

"Lawyers," Bobby grunted.

His daughter looked from him to the phone, and then to the rifle. She frowned, feigning concern. "You, ah... you know Chekhov's Gun, dad?"

"No. Don't even know any Chekhovs, 'cept the guy from Star Wars."

"Different one. Uh. I was joking. Are you going out?"

"Sunday. Mark and me -- he's got one of them Bushmaster .308s, I guess." Mark was something of a collector; the details of what, exactly he was using typically didn't matter. It was an excuse to get outdoors, and to take his irritation out on old bottles. "You want to come?"

She perked her ears. "Yeah? Of course."

"Leave early, maybe."

"I'll set my alarm," she said, smiling. "Anyway, mom wanted to know if you wanted corn or green beans with supper."

"Ain't fresh, I'm guessing."

Mel laughed. "No, we got 'em out of the freezer in the garage." She had her father's smile along with his eyes -- rare, and subtle, and all the warmer for both of those things. "They've got about a half-inch of ice on the bags, so we figured we'd start defrosting early..."

Long years of slumber, he found that evening, had removed any real texture difference between the two options and most of the taste. It was color alone that told him he was eating corn. And he would've complained -- reminded the ever-frugal Deborah that he'd been saying for months they should throw out everything in the old freezer...

But it had been months. Years, even. Things tended to slip away from him. There was always something more important. That brought the world into a nice focus. No matter what, he was privileged to be having dinner with family he was blessed to call his own.

After dinner, he acquiesced to Deborah's desire for a glass of wine and a movie. Melissa was gone -- babysitting, because that was the kind of work that could still be found, now and then.

He only paid half attention to the film, which was some new science-fiction flick or another. Science fiction never got it right. It was either clean, white starships or a wretched wasteland. That wasn't the way the world was going to end -- no asteroid, no nuclear war, no Mayan prophecy.

The world was going to end because it was always falling apart anyway, like any other machine, and one day they'd run out of people who knew how to fix it. Like the old tractors, dragged to the edge of some field to await repairs that would never come as rust consumed them. The wood pilings that were all that remained of the old jetties and bridges. The half-destroyed dam on Thomas Creek, out where Bobby's brother lived.

It was easier to think about cataclysm than to admit anything subtler. Bobby wasn't a terribly religious man; he had time neither for apocalypse nor salvation. He kept his thoughts to himself until the movie was over, and they were lying together in the dim glow of the almost-faded evening.

"You think we did okay?"

Deborah twisted onto her side. "What kind of question is that, Bobby?"

"Just... wonder if we coulda done somethin' different. If it was worth it."

"Robert Dean," she said with a sigh and an accusing Border Collie stare, "I swear you're going to be the death of me. Do you know that? I tell you you worry too much so often I'm starting to think you are losing your memory."

He allowed himself a laugh, and he allowed himself to hug the other dog. "Fine, fine..."

"You want to do something different, now, you think on that your daughter's not going to be back for a few hours."

"Isn't she? I must've forgotten that, too." Deborah rolled her eyes and opened her mouth to feign exhaustion with his sense of humor. He stopped her with a soft kiss.

"That's better."

"Sorry I been like this. Lot on my mind, I guess."

Deborah snuggled herself up to him, and planted a second kiss on the dingo's lips. "We've been married thirty-seven years, Bob. When hasn't there been a lot on your mind?"

"When I have things to distract me, I guess. Maybe." Debbie could do that the same way she had when they first met. He'd just started at the mill, then; she had a summer job at the movie theater, taking tickets.

She claimed she could still recall the conversation that led to her sneaking him in for a private showing of Smokey and the Bandit. And every detail of their first real date, down to what had been on the radio after dinner, on the long, wandering drive that went from Newport to Cannon Shoals by way of Lincoln City, miles and miles to the north.

Most of that was a blur to him. Except that he remembered the light of a June sunset in her eyes, when he realized that he'd somehow found the most beautiful woman in the world. And that when he kissed her for the first time, that he'd felt he would never tire of it.

He never had. And her eyes still had that spark, when their muzzles drew together. In that long, tender kiss, as she melted slowly into his arms, he felt every bit of stress and doubt ebb away. It wasn't exactly like distraction, he thought, as he slid her shirt up and savored the feeling of her fur.

It was more like it reminded him that it didn't matter. His wife mattered; the way she whined quietly when he caressed her sides mattered, and the increasing tempo of her tail thumping on the bed mattered. When she gave up the kiss, panting helplessly for him, that mattered.

The dingo let her catch her breath, though as he left a trail of nibbling, lapping nips down her neck the panting shifted into breathy, broken moans that told him he hadn't given her much respite. It always got her -- the light pressure of his teeth always brought her to immediate, shuddering surrender. In thirty-seven years, he'd never stopped enjoying it.

Of course, it was possible to go too far. She gasped heavily, an involuntary twitch running through her. Her leg jerked, and he felt her claws rake his shin. "Hey! Ow."

"Mrf -- sorry." He nipped her again; she shuddered again, although this time she managed not to kick him. "Got carried away."

"Bet you're sorry." He furrowed his brow, trying to look the part of a skeptic. "That hurt, though."

The Border Collie nudged him roughly, nosing his muzzle back up for an apologetic kiss. "I'll make it up, dear, okay?"

"Yeah?"

With a nod, she slowly pushed her husband onto his back. She rolled along with him, keeping their noses close. "Of course," she promised. "First things first, we'll get rid of this..."

That was her shirt, an old oversized tee from a restaurant that had closed twenty years before. Between the two, Bobby would immediately admit, Debbie had aged much more gracefully than the shirt. He pressed his fingers into her fur, and met her tender smile with one just as warm.

"Right. Next things next, mind you. What's good for the goose, Bobby, love..." He didn't have a shirt, only his boxers, but she managed to get those off just as quickly. And, satisfied, she dropped onto his hips and leaned forward to kiss the tip of his nose. "Better, right?"

"Better," he agreed.

She shifted her legs to straddle him more closely, sliding against his crotch with a nice, deliberate pressure. "I can tell," she whispered at the inevitable, stiffening resistance she found. Her hips rocked gently, teasing him until his arousal had no subtlety left.

The dingo abandoned that, himself, groaning heavily to his collie. He pushed up to meet her, tense, more than ready; she shoved him back down and shook her head severely.

"You hurt your leg, dear." Deborah's eyes gleamed, turning her most commanding stare on her husband until he gave up and settled back on the bed. Her paw found its way between them, grasping his sheath carefully to hold him. "That's right. Relax. Just..."

Her breath caught. He felt warmth at the tip of his stiff erection -- smooth, wet, warmth that engulfed him slowly as the Border Collie lowered herself onto him. He panted shallowly, and though he wanted to finish it, to sink all the way inside with one quick thrust, he held perfectly still.

Debbie managed on her own. Their hips finally met; it couldn't have taken more than a few seconds before she finished the sentence. "Relax," she sighed against his lips, and forced herself to take deep breaths as she started to move.

She had more self-control than he did, at least. The rise and fall of her body was smooth and fluid. The collie rode him skillfully, sinking onto his jutting, hard length up to the hilt and lifting away until no more than an inch remained inside.

They knew each other's bodies perfectly, and they moved with that sureness of that knowledge. He knew to shift his angle so that the tip of his member pushed against her inner walls in just the right way to make her gasp, and shut her eyes with a spasm of pleasure that twitched her wagging tail. She knew to press her hips down firmly -- to hold there, letting her mate feel how deep inside he was; how completely she'd taken him.

They both knew when to abandon the unhurried slowness of their early rhythm. Debbie kneaded the dingo's shoulders, grabbing for his fur in taut handholds. She bucked swiftly in her husband's lap, driving herself urgently onto his length and letting her begging moans overwhelm the abused bed's squeaks.

First the patience went, and then the steadiness. Bobby sensed her faltering -- her legs tensing, her hips starting to tremble and spasm. She stopped letting him pull out nearly so far. His canine shaft thickened with the stimulation, and her moans grew hoarse and telling as his knot slid reluctantly through her soft lips.

Her hips shoved against him, forcing him deep. She squirmed on him, squeezing his knot, trying to get him to tie with her. When it didn't quite work she tried again -- he saw her eyes roll back as she worked herself on his crotch, the pressure coaxing him to swell thicker until the heavy bulge had them locked tight.

The Border Collie tried one last time to tug free, and when they both knew that was impossible she fell forward and onto his chest with a gratified moan. Her hips pumped against him quickly; he heard her pant in rising whimpers and let her building need take him to his own edge.

When her whimpers turned into husky, guttural moans he gave up the last of his restraint, determined to join her. As the collie suddenly froze, and her muzzle parted for a cry that her rigid body could no longer manage, he felt himself moving on instinct -- thrusting against her desperately while she started to shiver and spasm on him, and the demanding pressure began to take hold.

One final lunge and it hit -- Debbie's breath tore free in a breathless howl that would've deafened him had he any senses left. But there was only a throbbing pleasure, racing up his knotted shaft to burst free in long, hot spurts as rope after rope of sticky dingo seed soaked her walls.

She gasped for breath only to howl again and they both rode out the feral energy of their shared peak -- Debbie yelping in shocked delight, clinging to her lover tightly as he humped erratically, emptying himself inside her, the urgency of his deep grunts slowly easing...

At last their passion allowed some measure of reason to assert itself. By then his arms were wrapped around the Border Collie and he was holding her in a tender embrace. She snuggled into her husband's chest, waiting until she could breathe again.

According to Father Carmen, the priest five or six priests ago when he'd been young enough to attend church earnestly, it was supposed to be a gift, of sorts. There was a bit of discomfort involved in being tied, but it reminded the couple of the intimacy of their relationship and strengthened the role of that intimacy as a means to make more little churchgoers.

Bobby hadn't bothered to ask what that meant for God's favor, where non-canines were concerned. And in time, he'd figured out the truth for himself. It was a gift, after a fashion: it gave him an excuse to hug Deborah tightly, and to nuzzle between her ears and whisper to the Border Collie just how much he loved her.

These days they had to take things a bit slower; a bit more carefully. But he had never lost the sense of random craving that struck him -- the need to be close to her, to have her in his arms...

She hadn't lost it, either. Neither of them had grown out of it. And that was a gift, too. He kissed her on the nose, and the dog smiled down at him. It was the only time her eyes ever softened, drowsy with happiness. Deborah returned the kiss, and when she cuddled into her husband it let her nose the dingo's ear:

"You think we did okay?"

Point taken.

When he woke to the sound of the phone ringing, the red numbers on the alarm clock told him it wasn't even ten at night. He squinted at the phone cradle, trying to make out the display.

Deborah grumbled her irritation, but at least made the effort to get out of bed, padding over and tilting her head at the machine.

"That Mel? What's the caller ID?"

"Says it's private." She sighed, and picked it up. "Deborah Dean, what's -- oh, hey hon."

"Your boyfriend?" Bobby asked, swinging himself into a seated position on the edge of the bed. Deborah turned, narrowing her eyes at the dingo. He had always been impressed by how quickly she could come to full, alert speed from slumber. "Just curious."

"It's Russ."

That was his son, Russell Dean, who worked at a machine shop rather than following his father into a career at the mill. Bobby waved his paw to ask Deborah to hand the phone over, and took the handset. It was difficult to hear, at first -- Debbie had it adapted to those folded collie ears of hers -- but he could pick up some kind of crowd in the background.

"Russ? What's up? Where're you at?"

"The Linc'." Lincoln Street Roadhouse -- at least it explained the noise. "Figured you'd want to hear from me first."

The dingo's expression dropped at once. "Hear what?"

"One of your boys got in a fight. Leo called the cops -- heard somebody pulled a knife, but I didn't see it."

Fuck. "What boy and what cop?"

"Cop's the new one, that young coyote from... Cali or wherever. Boy's your man Crow, pop. He was already good and shouty when I rolled up -- Leo said he ain't had a good day."

"That's one way to put it, yeah."

"Down at the station, anyway. Calming down here, now -- other guy wasn't one of yours. Didn't recognize him. But if you're thinking you gotta take care of your wayward union sheep..."

When Russ hung up, Bobby groaned and fell backwards onto the bed. "God damn it."

"Guess you're going out, dear?"

"Don't want to."

She patted his chest affectionately, then leaned over him to grab the phone from his paw. Deborah didn't like things being out of place for very long. "You might as well not make excuses, Bobby. The sooner you go out, the sooner you can come back."

As usual, she was right. He tugged on pants, grabbed a clean-enough shirt from the hamper rather than wasting a fresh one, and threw his field jacket over it. Ten minutes later he was pulling in to the parking lot of the police station -- where, despite the lateness of the hour, the lights were on.

"Here about Harlan Crow," he told the coyote who met him at the door. No point in beating around the bush.

"Got it. You his... well, no. You're not his dad, I'm guessing."

"If he was my kid, I'd have shot him a long time ago," Dean grunted, and held out his paw. "Bobby Dean. You're new, right?"

The coyote shrugged before shaking the dingo's paw. "Couple years -- which is still new for you guys, right? I live here now, though. Just gonna go ahead and forget anything that might suggest premeditated murder. Anyway, I'm Carlos. What's your story, if he's not your blood?"

"He works at the Martin-Barlow mill up in Oak Valley. I kinda manage the employees and I take care of Local 491, so I... try to look out for my own. Even when they don't deserve it. He under arrest?"

"Disorderly, at least. Other guy's disorderly -- probably just let him go with a fine, thinking about the witness statements. Your kid here... maybe assault, too. Felony C."

"Keep him overnight?"

"What, in the closet? Nah, I'll take him down to county in Newport. They can figure it out."

Dean shut his eyes and took a few deep breaths until he could hold his composure and speak with a straight face. "Worth the hassle, officer?"

"Has to be, unless you're feeling generous."

"That's what I meant."

Carlos watched with equal parts curiosity and dawning awareness as the dingo pulled the checkbook out from his field jacket. "Done this before, huh, Mr. Dean?"

"They ain't all exactly real mature. Most of 'em good kids, but... well. They are that, you know? Kids."

Eventually they either wised up or picked a hobby that was serious enough for hard time, but until then Dean had covered more than his share of bail. Carlos went to figure out how much it would be, and Bobby tried to plan what he'd say to Harlan when they were alone.

It turned out that Carlos and Bobby had to work together to get him into the truck, scrawny as he was. The effort removed whatever desire for niceties the dingo still managed to retain; his only nod to politeness was waiting until Carlos was gone and they were already on the road to start talking.

"What's your problem, Crow?"

The fox had slumped against the passenger window; his nose left a wet track on the glass. "You think I owe you?"

"Literally speaking?"

"Aw, like you're so fuckin' great," Harlan slurred. "Fuckin' mill. Fuckin' union. You ain't great, whiteface. You ain't any better than me."

Bobby shot the fox a look. "Remind me of that when it's you coming to bail my dumb ass out."

"You think I owe you?" Harlan asked again, the growl drawled into something muffled and pathetic. "Don't owe you."

At least, as his inebriation gave way to hangover, it was easier to convert his anger at the fox into something more like pity. Like when you hit a deer on the highway, and you wanted to be upset at the damage to your truck, but then...

Harlan's head lolled. "Don't even understand. You don't."

"Don't understand what?"

"What it's like." His paw batted morosely at the window lever. "Get pushed around. You and Kev even, ain't respected me -- know how hard I worked for that degree? Fuck. Throw me out when it ain't convenient for you to keep me..."

"I had a reason, Crow."

He lifted his head away from the glass. "You? No you didn't. Lisa did. That bitch. Dumb... dumb fuckin' cunt, gotta do me like this? And her sister... and like..." Harlan trailed off, slumping again.

"I don't know her deal, Crow. I don't care. I'm trying to help you, okay? Not 'cause I like you. 'Cause you don't mean to be a fuck-up, you just are. Stay out of trouble, and the lawyer can fix things up."

"Trying to help." His companion grunted, and fell silent. Half a minute later, as they started the turn onto the street where he lived, Harlan straightened with some renewed energy. "Just like you. Come in here like you can just fix everything? Big fuckin' hero, ain't you just. God damn it, Dean, we don't need you. I don't need you."

"You want me to turn around?"

Harlan scowled at the darkness beyond the truck's headlights. "You like it when folks gotta do everything on your fucking command, don't you? Feel real powerful, huh?"

The dingo gritted his teeth, rather than punching a man who wouldn't remember it in the morning. "It isn't about me, Crow. It's bigger than --"

"Aw, can it. 'Bout ol' Bobby Dean, fuckin' great old white-muzzle, can't do nothin' wrong. Fuck me over and then pay my bail. Shit. You asshole, Dean. And you know -- like it ain't about you. Hell it ain't. Mill does right by you. World does."

"Yeah?"

"How the fuck you pay for a lawyer like that, anyway? How'd you get the money for my bail? Stole it? Been flashin' a lot of cash."

Dean glared. "Shut up, Crow."

"An' get me arrested? Bet they'd be interested to see what you're gettin' up to, huh? Lot more than that bitch Lisa runnin' her bitch mouth."

"The hell do you think you're even doing?"

Harlan was on a drunken, slurring roll. "Big Bob Dean. Wonder what you get a cut of. You her pimp, whiteface? You --"

It cut off in a grunt when Dean slammed on the brakes and the unbelted fox was thrown forward against the dash. He leaned across him and pushed the door open. "Out."

"Jesus, man..."

"Out. You're walking."

In the end it took pulling him from the cab and dragging him to the sidewalk so that nobody would hit him -- again Dean thought of a crippled deer, and wondered briefly about the merits of whether mercy killing applied to wild animals that walked on two legs.

No other incidents marred his Sunday. His accuracy with a rifle hadn't appreciably worsened, Melissa produced a marionberry pie to thank him for taking her shooting, and by the end of it he felt that things might have been mostly settled.

Not that there wouldn't be complications at work. Getting rid of Harlan took plenty of paperwork; finding a replacement seemed likely to be even more difficult. There wasn't a lot to entice qualified folk to Cannon Shoals. But it was a problem that he was eager to solve.

Now that the mill was running again, being at work generally kept him in a good mood. He ignored a little voice that told him not to become complacent, until half an hour after the whistle announced the start of the day's second shift, when the dingo's ears perked at the sound of a knock at the door. It opened, and Mike Pacheco let himself in.

The two men were not on bad terms; they liked each other -- it was the nature of their employment that kept them at odds. Mike ran the police department, and while the Martin-Barlow mill had once been Cannon Shoals' largest employer it was also the biggest thorn in the town's side.

"Hey, chief."

"Hey, Bobby." The wolf had thick, ruffled fur; he never seemed to lose his winter coat. The disorderly tufts made him look like something that had been designed for form over function -- the living version of a patched-up farm truck or an old diesel generator.

Or like Dean's field jacket. The two canines had long ago come to understand their shared personalities. "What's up? You don't come up to Oak Valley unless there's trouble, so..."

"Got an interesting visit this morning. Mind if I take a seat?"

Dean shook his head. "Go ahead. Lisa Rourke?"

"No. Her, uh... her best friend. Seems from the log I missed out on one hell of a weekend. Harlan Crow said he wanted to talk to me."

"Tell you how innocent he was?"

Mike grunted, exactly the same way Dean would've. "Even he doesn't think I'm that stupid. He wanted to talk about a big conspiracy, if you can believe that. Between you and the Rourkes, but then he started going on about the union. Says you came into some money."

Bobby raised an eyebrow. "What gave that away? The spinning rims on the forklifts or the jacuzzi they put in the old kiln?"

The wolf chuckled. "I know, I know. Did point out you were awful quick to bail him out. And I heard from somebody else you guys put up some money for your company's lobbyist or... something."

"Well. I have to put the dues to good use. Local 491 is my responsibility -- can't do right by 'em if they ain't working, you know?"

Mike nodded slowly, and paused. His eyes drifted; he was clearly trying to figure out how to phrase his next question diplomatically.

"Out with it."

"I know not everything's clean here, Bobby. Lantern Ridge?"

"Inspecting company property isn't my job, chief. If the guys are raising sweet corn out there while we ain't harvesting anything..."

"I know it's not sweet corn. You do, too. Is that where this is coming from?"

Bobby pursed his lips, and turned the paper he was working on over to let Mike know the wolf had his full attention. "This a sworn deposition?"

"Nah. I'm still your friend right now."

He shook his head. "Ain't drugs. I... okay. I look the other way when I hear they're growin' stuff out there. These guys -- Christ, Mike, they got so much debt I been thinkin' I should call myself a bank and try to get a bailout. But I don't touch it."

"I figured."

Dean turned up his paws. "Some of the money comes from dues. Some of it... sold a couple buildings we owned in town. Don't like to talk about that, 'cause... well, we ain't got much left and it sends the wrong impression, you know?"

Mike nodded. "That's what Harlan said. Said it was some overseas company -- he didn't know what, but they're using some warehouse down on Kydonia?"

"Yeah."

"You know what for?"

"No."

"Harlan Crow says it's drugs. Or guns -- said he'd heard both from someone in a position to know."

The way Dean rolled his eyes was entirely genuine. "He's lying. Crow doesn't know shit."

Mike took another pause to consider his words. "Way things are, Bobby, I can't risk that. Here's the thing, okay, man? I believe you. I guess you still got keys to that building, right? We take a look 'cause you want to prove you got nothing to hide, and there doesn't have to be any paper trail."

"Alright."

"We're busy today -- like I said, hell of a weekend. Tomorrow afternoon, maybe, I might send somebody by to spontaneously see if you have some free time."

"Alright."

The wolf didn't say anything else; couldn't seem to think of what to follow it up with. He got up to leave, and then stopped to turn back. "Anybody you think would be a more reliable investigator?"

Dean didn't want to push it. "Nah. Anybody. That other wolf -- Brit's kid brother. He seems straight."

"Clint? Yeah, if he's in a good mood. Alright, Bobby. Take care, okay?"

The hard thing was not that he had to lie to Mike, who probably figured that some lies had been told in any case but was willing to overlook them if it meant keeping the peace. The hard thing wasn't even worrying about the investigation.

The hard thing was calling his son to come over when he got off shift at the machine shop. Russell knew everything about the real estate deal, and the union's relationship with Martin-Barlow's lobbyists.

He was a good kid, and when Bobby asked him for a favor he knew at once what was going on. His ears lowered. "Yeah?"

"You know how to get in touch with the guys we sold the warehouse to, right?" It was a rhetorical question: Russ was around for all the meetings. Bobby had their number, but his son was their go-between.

"Sure."

"Somebody who ain't me ought to tell them the cops want to check the one on Kydonia Street out. Tomorrow."

Russell's ears went even further back. "Shit. Why?"

"Harlan's stirring up trouble. I don't think there's anything going on, but..."

"But you figure if somebody tips them off, it shouldn't get back to you. Nah, pops, you're right. Shit," he said again, and then sighed. "I'll run into our guy at the bar, maybe."

The following morning, after another night of dodging questions from Deborah, Russ got back to him to say that their benefactors understood. That was all they were willing to say.

Bobby didn't know what they did. They'd been described to him as a real-estate company, and the official deal was over land -- specifically, buying the warehouses. But honest real-estate brokers didn't need to launder money; something else was going on.

He had to hope that it wasn't anything serious. Or that if it was, they hadn't left any sign of it in the warehouse. Nerves consumed him that entire morning, and in the end the dingo left the office early to drive back to Cannon Shoals.

He was leaning against the wall, eyes closed and wishing he hadn't given up smoking, when he heard the car pull up. Bobby straightened his jacket and went to greet the policeman. Clint Kendrick had a reputation for surliness.

Instead of a black wolf, though, he found himself greeted by a young, sharp-toothed weasel he occasionally saw shooting the shit outside Annie's, the harbor dive bar. His uniform's tag indicated his name was HAYES.

"Thought Clint was coming down," Bobby said.

"Decided he had better things to do. You get me. Robert Dean, right?"

"Bobby," the dingo corrected, and shook the paw that was offered. "Hayes?"

"Danny. This is your warehouse?"

"Was, yes. We used to own it."

"Used to, eh? Whole damn town's written in the past tense," Danny said. He flipped his sunglasses off and tucked them neatly away. "So whatcha got stuffed in here? Coke? Counterfeit money?"

"I hope not." They started walking around to the back entrance. "Just a lumber mill, you know?"

Danny snickered. "Oh, I fucking know. They had me out in Oak Valley when you jokers were throwing molotovs. Thanks for putting us on the map."

"Sorry."

"Nah, it was fun. They let me carry an M4. Shit, you oughta do it again -- don't get to play with all the toys we got from the feds often enough. For real -- hold up." They had reached the door. "Drugs? Guns?"

"I don't know."

"I don't mind," Danny said, while Bobby found the right key and turned the lock. "Just want to know what I gotta ask for a bribe. Budgeting, you know?"

The dingo looked over at him, paw on the handle. "Taking your job seriously?"

Dan's stare was withering. "I'm getting OT to play customs inspector for a fucking lumber mill, man. You wanted me to show up with a goddamn EOD robot? Christ. Don't be an idiot." He pushed the door open for the two of them.

Bobby hadn't really known what to expect: either that the warehouse was empty, or that it was full of something unspeakable. Instead, the lights came up on a few neat rows of sturdy shelves; most had nondescript brown boxes, but scattered here and there were machine parts too heavy or unwieldy for packing.

The policeman frowned. "Well, ain't this thrilling?"

"Reckon you weren't actually hoping it was something else."

"Kinda. Don't got a super interesting life out here," Danny said. He leaned closer to one of the shelves, craning his head around one of the parts. "Huh. That's weird."

"Weird how? What is it?" It didn't look much like a bomb, though Bobby supposed the policeman's training might have given him some further insight. "Weird, like, you mean suspicious?"

"Fucking right it is." He narrowed his eyes, staring at a tag that had been taped to the metal, and kept staring while he pulled out his phone and dialed a number in. "Hey. Is this, uh... Richards? What? Eh, you'll do."

Bobby took a cautious step back while the weasel talked.

"I got a tag here with an ID number written on it in Sharpie. One six baker six two zero. Is that one of your numbers? Huh? I'm with the police, that's what. Look -- well, Christ, kid, then get your goddamn manager." He covered the cell phone's mic, and mouthed: people.

"Trouble?"

"Customer service. Ain't what it used to -- eh? Hey, yeah. I'm with the Cannon Shoals police department. Got a tag with your name on it. You have some kinda database?" He rolled his eyes. "Yes, I have a number. One six. Baker. Six two zero. Six two zero. Zero." He blinked, and clenched his other paw irritatedly before stabbing the phone's screen with his finger. "Jesus. 'Hold on a sec.'"

"For?"

"Some ancient asshole to fat-finger their own six-digit goddamn code. Fuck, ain't even like any number rhymes with 'zero.'" His ear flicked, and he tapped the phone again to unmute it. "Well, it's not. It's in a warehouse in Cannon Shoals. What? I know because I'm looking at it. Sixteen. B-as-in-baker. Six. Twenty. Two-zero. Why did -- how is it my fault you typed in twenty-nine? No I didn't, I said -- Jesus, look, forget it. Just run it again. Yes. Yes. Yeah? Alright. No, that's correct. No, there's -- no. No. That's -- no. I..."

Bobby watched the same frustration he often felt himself flicker across the stoat's face. Danny gave the kind of scowl that clarified exactly why, in an age of telephone customer support, video calling had never taken off.

"Look. I'm calling from the Department of Homeland Security. We have a program to randomly audit domestic businesses to check up on their record-keeping abilities. Yes. Yes, you have passed. No, thank you. God bless America." He hung up, and shoved the phone back in his pocket. "People wonder why they keep shippin' jobs overseas..."

"What was that?"

The policeman scowled again. "Idiot mistyped the code. Christ, six goddamned numbers and it's like trying to help my mom get her Netflix working. Whatever; it checks out. Owner's records say they got it stored here."

"'It' being?"

"Transfer case. Recognize it 'cause Cutter's sister fixed my mom's a few years back and made me help out. Explorer, or a Ranger, maybe. Or, nah -- some fuckin' Mountaineer-drivin' motherfucker, I bet."

Now it was Bobby's turn to feel a little annoyed at the lack of communication. "I thought you said it was suspicious."

Danny shrugged, and ran his finger derisively over the metal surface of the part. "It is. Anybody breaks one of these electric-ass pieces of shit and thinks they like it so much they want another? That's the kinda dumb behavior that gets ya on a watchlist."

They didn't open any of the boxes, but the rest of the warehouse -- now that Bobby was in the right mind to see it -- looked like car parts, too. Nothing out of the ordinary. Twenty minutes of increasingly desultory investigation later, Danny said that he was satisfied and they went out back into the sunshine.

"Well that was a nice bit of random fuckin' around." The stoat slid his glasses back on; he seemed, from his toothy grin, to be completely aware of how clichéd the effect was. "Was it good for you?"

"Kind of a waste of time."

"Of course it was. We don't do interesting crimes in Cannon Shoals."

He'd said something similar when they first entered the warehouse. Bobby still didn't know what counted as an interesting crime. "Hope that ain't disappointing."

"Not really. Don't think we're cut out for interesting police work, either. Friend of mine, she jumps outta helicopters for the Coast Guard. If I needed an adrenaline rush..."

"You'd enlist?"

"Nah, I'd tell her she owes me a blowjob and start runnin'. Girl's got legs, let me tell ya." He grinned again, and Bobby had to wonder about the stoat's sense of humor. "You union guys are the most exciting thing we've ever done. An' hell, even that was just a lotta standin' around, geared up like a tacticool retard waitin' for his paintball buddies."

"M4, though."

"Mm, that wasn't so bad. Now that we got 'em, I got an excuse to stay up to date. I mean, we don't have them nice east-coast cop-hating morons out here yet, but you know. If I get the chance to stomp on some poor misbehavin' fuck's civil rights, I want to be ready."

"Seriously?"

Danny said nothing, although from the way he'd turned to Bobby the dingo figured he had to be rolling his eyes behind the sunglasses. "No, pops. I'm not serious. Still some fuckin' bullshit." He snorted, and glanced to his car like he was thinking about leaving. "Why'd the chief think you guys had something stashed here?"

"You just said it. Fuckin' bullshit."

"Not hippie bullshit, though. Chief ain't gonna have me waste my prime afternoon jackoff time 'cause he thinks warehouse lives matter. Musta been something bigger."

"Mm. You know Harlan Crow?"

"Guy who married Steve Kelly's sister, right?"

"I guess."

"Sketch-ass fuck you kinda figure has a mortgage out on a conversion van with shag carpet and flames airbrushed over the rust?"

Bobby coughed to cover his snort of laughter. "Pretty much."

"I know him. Lives up on Wilson, I think. Why?"

"He was the one who told Chief Pacheco to investigate the warehouse. Some stuff went down between him and one of the Rourke girls. I had to let him go."

Danny didn't seem surprised. "Stuff's always goin' down between the Crows and the Rourkes."

"You know why?"

The stoat looked over and pushed his glasses up to stare at the dog. "You askin' me for gossip, man? This look like a bar? I'm a professional. Plus, I'm on the clock."

"Yeah, you said. Overtime."

He laughed. "Good point. Small-town bullshit, as far as I know. Divorce went bad back in the '60s and some house got sold at auction to the wrong clan or somethin'. Fuck, dude, I heard it from both sides 'cause my mom never shut up about that kinda stuff, and it was always retarded. Harlan tell you?"

"No. Just... heard about it, that's all."

"My advice? If he does, shut his mouth for him." He shook his head in disgust. "Worst thing about those old families. Been feuding about a stolen pig or some shit like that for eighty fucking years and act like they got some Shakespearian-level drama going on?"

"Not much Shakespeare here," Bobby agreed. "Harlan's not a... I dunno. Problem?"

"I mean, he's an idiot, from what I know. Can't indict on that, though. Ain't gonna hurt anybody, I don't think. And if he does, well... that's why God gave us a militarized police force."

With this flippant answer, Danny got into his car and drove off. That solved the immediate problem; it didn't do much about Crow himself. Bobby hoped the fox would calm down and come to his senses.

If not...

If not, he might wind up a fixture at the police station on account of the fighting. Or he might go after Lisa Rourke again. Or Bobby. Or the mill. It was hard to see how he'd amount to much more than a nuisance, in any case; he wasn't particularly violent, just dumb.

But the more attention he called to himself, the more attention he called to the mill. Even if it was just the skeptical eye of a Martin-Barlow executive, wondering why Oak Valley was generating so many complaints.

He talked it over with Russ when his son got off work. How much damage could he do if he wanted? Russ was ready with the obvious follow-up question: how much could he do if he wanted, and if he was smart enough to realize it?

Harlan didn't know about any shady contracts. He did know about the tiny, secluded pot farms that cropped up from time to time on Martin-Barlow land out in the woods. He probably knew about the harvesters' tendency to toe property lines and stray into protected tracts, because everyone heard rumors about that.

That was as far as it went, though. The more Bobby thought about it, the more he decided the fox had only assumed nefarious dealings with the union because he was jealous of what he viewed as Bobby's success. Harlan liked to talk about what he was owed.

The bottom line was that they could be rid of him, and that he didn't know enough to be any problem that Bobby couldn't deal with. He went home with his nerves temporarily settled, and set about helping Debbie make supper.

Their doorbell rang just after they'd put the pork chops in; while the Border Collie looked merely annoyed, her husband felt a sharp pang of renewed concern. One more thing? Would it be Chief Pacheco again? Danny? Harlan Crow himself?

It was the man who'd first proposed a deal with Local 491, on behalf of his mysterious 'employers.' The tall, lean tiger wore a sharp suit, heedless of the way anyone else in town dressed. "Good evening," he said.

"Hey. What's up?"

"Let's go for a walk, Mr. Dean."

The dingo tapped his foot. "Tomorrow, maybe. Got dinner on."

"I think now would be better," the man said. There wasn't any particular darkness in his words, but nor did it seem like actual options were being presented.

Bobby promised to be back soon and followed the man down the block to where he'd parked an SUV with temporary plates and dark tinted windows. The tiger waited for him to fasten his seatbelt, and then turned back towards the coast.

"Things have been... eventful."

"Wouldn't say that, exactly. Mill's running fine. We keep making those rent payments to you..."

"My employers heard that the police paid a visit to our warehouse downtown."

"Yeah. Got an anonymous tip -- maybe they thought there was a break-in."

The tiger nodded. He drove very smoothly, braking softly at each stop sign; patiently signaling each turn. "You let them in?"

"It was that or they'd get a warrant."

"A practical choice. Were you surprised, Mr. Dean? Did you expect to find something illegal? Perhaps you were worried that there would be contraband. Stolen goods. Chemical precursors."

"I didn't know. Didn't figure on asking."

"Also a practical choice."

After proposing the deal that led to reopening the mill, he remained as their only contact -- the one Bobby had told Russ to find. He stopped by every month to collect the rent Local 491 'paid' for the warehouses, and to tell Dean where he could find the cash for the following month's rent. In all that time, Bobby hadn't learned his name, and couldn't place his distinctive accent.

"We have a mutually beneficial arrangement, Mr. Dean," the man went on, when mentioning practicality drew no reply. "My employers would not do anything to jeopardize that. I hope you know."

"Like I said. Didn't ask."

The SUV glided across US-101 to the business strip of Cannon Shoals, which ran along State Street. On a summer weekend the little businesses would be filled with tourists. For now, they were deserted and mostly lightless.

"Did you want me to ask?"

"No. I want you to understand that you don't have to. We don't wish to cause you trouble. We also wish that you do not cause us trouble."

"Told you they were coming, didn't I?"

The man nodded once again, as gently as he drove. "We appreciate that. Now, Mr. Dean," he continued, with only a slight pause. "We suspect that the source of this 'anonymous tip' will not be satisfied with the outcome. What do you suspect?"

"You might be right."

"That would cause both of us trouble. You and I both know that we're only looking out for common interests, Mr. Dean, but I trust that we also both know that not everyone would agree with our relationship."

Everything he said was calm, and measured -- and truthful. "No, I reckon they wouldn't."

"So, in an entirely practical sense, it would be for the better if they didn't find out. And you are a practical man. Very much unlike Harlan Crow."

The dingo tried to stay impassive. Only a flick of his ear gave him away, and he wasn't certain the tiger had noticed. "I fired Harlan."

"Leaving him to continue with his reckless behavior. We've heard, from other sources, that your company already knows about the arrest. Rumor will get back to them about the police."

"I handled that. Everything's on the level. Nothing official about the mill or the union, anyhow."

"It doesn't need to be official. It just needs to be enough to raise someone's sense of doubt. Some middle manager who doesn't want to have to explain themselves to their boss. Some middle manager who doesn't care about what happens to a small mill in a small town like this..."

He curled his lip. "Spare me. I don't need your pretend concern, either."

"It's not feigned. We may not care about your small-town charms, Mr. Dean, but we do care about our interests. And, personally? As an outsider, I can be unemotional about this: Martin-Barlow supports you because you paid the bills, and you're a good election story. If you're not a good story..."

"You're saying we ain't?"

"Harlan Crow is not. Who knows what might happen the next time he gets drunk, Mr. Dean? You think he'll stay so... polite and reasonable?"

"When that happens, we'll figure out a solution. Have so far."

"You could also effect a solution now. By which I mean that my employers could provide for Mr. Crow. We could ensure that he would be taken care of -- quite far away from here. You might never see him again."

Again the tone of his voice was measured, but the very coolness sent a shudder through the old dog. "I don't think I like what you're saying."

They'd turned, again, back onto the highway -- the route was proving to be a big circle. "You don't have to like it, Mr. Dean. We would never ask or expect such a thing of you. All I would ask -- all my employers would ask -- is that you continue to be practical."

"Ain't practical, what you're hinting at. Goes a bit further, don't you think? What would you do to him?"

"Pay him off. Enough to drop everything that ties him to this town -- his job, his house; his wife. He doesn't like them much anyway. Enough to take him to Canada, or Mexico, or Spain... the kind of life he wouldn't feel like telling anyone about. No letters. No phone calls."

"You'd really do that? Pay him to leave? Or would you just... you know..."

"Do you actually want the burden of that information?"

Bobby splayed his ears. "I can talk to him, okay? I'll -- I won't threaten him, not like that. But I'll talk to him. Let me try to convince him to calm down and act reasonably."

"Will he?"

"Let me try."

The other man stayed quiet until they were back on Dean's street, headed towards his house. "If you trust that you can manage him, I'll convey that trust to those watching. I don't doubt that your intentions are good."

"Thank you."

"But if there comes a point where loose ends need to be tied up, Mr. Dean, they will be tied up. It's better for that to happen before they get tangled into anything else..."

"Hell of a way to put it."

"I know." Slowly, and not unkindly, the tiger reached over. His finger brushed at a small tear on the sleeve of his field jacket. The edges were ragged -- Bobby didn't know how long it had been there. "But these? They only get bigger."

It didn't take any effort to read between the lines. Harlan didn't pick up the phone when Bobby called, so he left a message with the man's hapless, long-suffering wife. Tell him we need to talk, he said.

In the meantime he didn't feel much like talking. A few bites of pork were all that he could manage. In bed that night, Debbie rubbed his shoulder gently. "Work is eating you up, huh?"

"Yeah. Kinda. This whole stuff with -- one of the guys got in trouble, and... he's an idiot, you know? But... if he doesn't watch out. He's gonna make it worse for himself. For the mill, too."

"He can do that?"

"Bad press would really hurt. After all the lobbying we had to do..."

Debbie nodded. The nod was more empathetic than anything else; he didn't talk about that kind of thing with her. With anyone, really. "You'll take care of it, hon." She kissed the side of his muzzle. "You're good at that."

His dreams begged to differ. Three times that night he woke up, alert and unsettled, staring at the ceiling. Eventually, half past three AM, he gave up and drove to Oak Valley to let the activity of the mill soothe him. The white noise of industry kept his emotions mostly level.

Harlan Crow arrived in the late morning, dressed up for once -- if a pullover and intact jeans could be considered dressing up. "Kayla said you wanted to talk. Don't see what there is to talk about... but I'm here."

"Thanks. You doing okay?"

Harlan shrugged. "Good enough."

"Not hungover?"

"Whatever," the fox said. "What do you want?"

"Need to talk about how we're going to fix this." Harlan was already sneering, but Bobby kept himself calm. "Fix it as well as we can, sure. A lot of the consequences can be managed. Not like they'll disappear completely, but they can be managed."

"Right."

"If you play your cards right. The cards we're going to give you."

"C'mon. I know you're gonna fuck me. Just tell me how, Bobby."

He closed his eyes for a second, taking a careful, slow breath. "I'm trying to cut you a deal, Harlan. You hear me?"

"'Nother deal, huh?"

"I talked to the lawyer. He said he talked to you, too. Your girlfriend denies everything and nobody gives a shit about Lisa Rourke's vendettas any more than you do. They'll drop that. The alcohol charge is a fine. Plead to the disorderly, we can swing probation and another fine. No assault charge."

"Yeah?"

"Don't 'yeah' me, asshole. Play nice and you won't do time."

"And then what? Did you figure I'd just try to get on disability like everyone else here? You think I'm stupid, whiteface? You think I'm some idiot you can just play with? I'm smarter than you. And I'm smarter than that cunt Lisa, too."

Bobby counted to ten in his head. "What do you mean?"

"You want this to go away. You want me to go away, which is real fuckin' ironic. Cause there ain't shit in it for me, and I ain't goin' away for you, you immigrant prick. Come in here like you own the town. You and your deals?"

"My family's been here since the '50s. That's sixty years, in case you can't count that high, Crow."

"Fuck off. You're gonna take me seriously."

He knew that he was starting to lose his cool, and couldn't help it. "Act like an adult and we might get somewhere."

Harlan bared his teeth in a bitter, ugly leer. "I wasn't asking. Said you are. Fuck your deals, you whipped motherfucker. Don't got a place here, anyway. Who gives a fuck about jail time? I'll take you down with me; how do you like that?"

"Don't be an idiot, Crow."

He got up, and kicked the chair to the side. "Go to hell. I'm done having you push me around, Bobby. I ain't your pet. See what that bitch has you do about me now. Prick."

When he'd slammed the door shut, and the room had fallen quiet, Bobby dropped his head into his paws and groaned. The sound was halfway between anger and confusion; he didn't know what Harlan wanted and he didn't know what the fox would do.

He agreed with Sergeant Hayes' assessment that Crow wasn't likely to hurt anyone -- not directly, anyhow. He was too much of a bum for the darker sides of his mercurial moods to amount to anything. It didn't seem like he'd try to pull a gun.

Would he be willing to go to jail out of spite? That was harder to say. Ain't wrong, really. Not gonna be easy to find work here. Can't say much about his future. Bobby assumed that the threat of hard time would knock some sense into him, but sense never stuck around Harlan Crow for very long.

One final knock at the door startled him from his wandering meditation; it was nearly six in the afternoon. An otter in a trim, form-fitted suit leaned in and waved. "Hey, Bob. Team's headed back to Salem. Figured we'd let you know in case you want to cancel the badges."

"Thanks."

"Yeah. Seems good. We were working off of your old charts, but I have to say, Bob, they're really accurate. I like this site." The otter was a visitor from Martin-Barlow's corporate office -- an assessor of some stripe or another. Too soft, and too clean, but friendly enough.

"You and me both." Bobby tried to look happy.

"Overheard Cotton talking, too, if you can keep a secret." He was young; good-natured. Smiling shyly. Tim Cotton worked for the corporate side of the company, too, though Bobby didn't know what he did and had no reason to guess.

"Hell, some days it seems like that's my only job. Sure I can."

"He said Southern Pacific thinks the rail won't take much work. I guess you know that, because you see the reports? But, um..." The otter stretched further inside the office. "They have an old easement up US-520 that they've been trying to sell for about three years now. Cotton says they're going to keep it."

The dingo leaned back in his chair. "Huh."

"Pretty good news, right?"

"Pretty good," Bobby agreed. He wasn't yet willing to commit to anything as dramatic as even a brief daydream. "Haven't seen a train running here in twenty years."

"You're a 'lifer' in Cannon Shoals, right?"

Even the way the otter said it implied he meant it in jest -- he might as well have used his fingers to quote the word. But the dingo nodded. "Folks moved here just a couple years before I was born."

"It seems like a nice place." Then he looked over his shoulder, at the still-light summer sky. "Well. Guess I should be going, though."

Alone with his troubled mood, Bobby let his paw rest on the handset of his phone. Russ would know what to do. They'd raised the kid well. He had come up smarter than his old man, too. Russell Dean would turn into a lifer, himself. Difference was... difference was, he might almost make something of the town. Maybe.

Seems like a nice place.

Bobby drew his paw back, slid open one of the drawers on his desk, and pulled down the piece of paper he'd taped to the bottom of the drawer above it. The only thing written on it was a number. He picked up the phone and dialed.

Three rings. Four. Before his apprehension could give way to hope, the next ring cut off partway through. Someone had picked up; at least, from their greeting, he recognized the voice.

Bobby shut his eyes. "Hey. You know a tailor?"

"A tailor?"

"You dress nice. And you seen my jacket. That tear, I... I gotta get it fixed."

Silence.

Silence that lasted so long he wasn't certain the line was still open. Long enough that, for a second time, he could almost hope that none of it was happening. Long enough to know he needed the strength to abandon the hope.

"We'll take care of it."

Click.