“Yes, I did,” Oder said.
“Good. Then you’ll know that I’m going back to the Senate. In a landslide. I wouldn’t be doing that if it weren’t for Marshal Davenport. Of all the law enforcement officials I’ve met in my life, of all of them, and there have been many, he is far and away my favorite. Am I making myself clear?”
“Yes, you are,” Oder said.
“Good.” Smalls turned to Henderson and said, “Anything you want to say, Elmer?”
“Nothing, except that there’s an excellent chance I’ll be running for Taryn Grant’s Senate seat, in the primary, the next time it comes up. I believe I can beat her. Lucas is also my favorite law enforcement officer, though he can be a pain in the ass at times. In any case, both Senator Smalls and I expect that he will spend many happy years working here as a deputy marshal. Without interference, from anyone, including politically appointed personnel.”
Oder didn’t say anything, but looked from the governor to the senator, his face going red.
The two politicians stood and smiled, and Smalls said, “I bought this shovel for you. You can leave it in a corner to remind yourself.”
Oder managed, “Of what?”
“Of the fact that if you mess with Lucas, you’ll probably never again have a white-collar job. Certainly not with the federal or state governments. So you might need a shovel and you’ll have one right handy.”
Henderson, a tall man, leaned forward, put his fists on the edge of Oder’s desk: “I’m a very polite upper-class Anglo-Saxon male and I only rarely stoop to use unpleasant language. There are some exceptions. This is one of them. I’m telling you, Hal—Don’t fuck with him. Don’t . . . fuck . . . with . . . him.”
Oder nodded.
Smalls looked around the office and asked, “Where do you want me to stick the shovel?”
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John Sandford, Golden Prey
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