Hard Ground by Joseph Heywood

Vincent said.
    â€œNo duh. Which flavor?” she said.
    â€œNot sure, ma’am, but thank ya varra, varra much,” he said in a crude rendition of Elvis speak.
    â€œYou know Kokko’s got a court date on last year’s drug case?” she asked.
    â€œWe’re aware.”
    â€œWhy the hell didn’t you tell me about this shit?”
    â€œNeed to know,” he said. “You know how feds think.”
    Actually, she didn’t. Nor did she want to. What she said was, “Uh-huh, where’s my damn costume, C.V.?”
    â€œI’m on it,” he said, “ma’am.”
    â€œI’ll wait right here,” she said.
    â€œThank ya varra, varra much.”
    As soon as Vincent was gone, she followed him, which wasn’t difficult. C.V.’s white leather jumpsuit illuminated like a chemical light stick. Back in the lot, she veered off to find Kokko’s truck, and as providence would have it, she bumped into a person in a checked leather jumpsuit who mumbled, “You wan’ score weed, blow, speed, pixie dirt?”
    What the fuck is pixie dirt? “One-stop shopping, that your spiel?”
    â€œYou want to eat it, snort it, or fuck it, I got it for ya, ma’am.”
    â€œHow much for your best weed?”
    â€œGarden Green’s primo with supermax THC, little lady.”
    â€œPrice?” Dillweed.
    â€œTwenty for two lids.”
    Too weird to be real. She knew this voice. “The good shit, right?”
    â€œThe best,” he said.
    â€œGood, hit me,” Turco said, and when Kokko handed her two small bags, she gave him $20 and slapped a cuff on his wrist, grabbed the other, and got that one, too, all before he could even react.
    When he did, what he said was, “What this is, motherfucker?!? ”
    â€œClean up your vocabulary, son. Our Elvis didn’t use that kind of language.”
    â€œYa, what would you fags know about the real Elvis?” he challenged.
    â€œWell, he was heterosexual, unlike you and yours, and he was a person of color.”
    Kokko tried to pull away. “You bitch, you callin’ Elvis a colored boy!”
    â€œNo, a person of color. Where’s your truck, asshole?”
    â€œFuck you,” Kokko said.
    â€œEasy way or hard way, Bo?” Lurleen Turco asked her prisoner, who stood a foot taller than she.
    The man answered with an elbow, which she calmly stepped under as she drove a fist sharply upward into his armpit, which dropped him to his knees, where she struck the heel of her hand against the side of his head and toppled him into the dirt. She hauled him back to his knees. “Glad you chose the easy way, asshole,” she told him as he moaned. “Behave or you’ll ride the lightning, dude.”
    â€œYou carry a Tasmanian?” Kokko mumbled.
    Moron. “You bet.”
    â€œI’m allergic,” he said.
    â€œTo what?” she asked.
    â€œLife, I guess.”
    She stifled a laugh. “Take me to your truck.”
    â€œFuck, I’m ’pose to find it in the dark?”
    â€œI have a flashlight, dimwit.” She started to walk with him but changed her mind, took him to a tree, undid the cuffs, and redid them with his arms around the trunk. He was too dazed or high or both to resist. “You can stand right there, and we’ll let the Elvii tribe sing in the sunrise for you,” she said.
    â€œHow such a bloated up hillbilly get all that money and poontang?” Kokko asked her. “I ain’t never understood that shit.”
    â€œAsk the people here; I expect they could tell you.”
    â€œThey ain’t normal.”
    â€œWe are each unique in our maker’s eyes,” she said.
    â€œWhat the hell’s that ’pose to mean?”
    She noticed he was tall and sort of ruggedly handsome in the low light. Until this moment she’d never noticed. “I don’t have the slightest idea. You got a wife,