The guy standing about ten feet from me didn't look nervous and that bothered me. When a guy is nervous, he'll do stupid things, and one of those things is he'll tip you off when he's about to draw the revolver he wore low on the hip and tied to his thigh with a leather thong. Usually, his hands will shake just enough he'll fumble a little getting it out of the holster and that little fumble had always given me enough time to draw my own revolver and put him down.
I always waited for the other guy to draw first because I didn't want anybody watching to say I hadn't given the guy a fair chance. It was a personal code I'd adopted after my first gunfight. One of the guys watching claimed I'd beat the other guy to the draw because I drew first.
It wasn't yet noon, but the sun was high enough I was having trouble seeing what the guy was doing because the sun was in my eyes. If I'd have had a choice, I'd have had the sun at my back, but this had happened too quickly for me to have that choice. The guy had just stepped out from between two buildings and yelled that I could either draw or run like a coward.
I'm no coward, never have been and never will be, so I stopped, pulled my cowboy hat a little lower as a sunshade, spread my legs a little for balance and started watching the guy for any move he made toward the revolver in the holster on his belt.
Watch his eyes, I told myself. All gunfighters who managed to live very long knew the eyes will tell you when your opponent is going to draw. It'll just be a little flick down toward his side to make sure his hand is close to his revolver grip and then back at you, but right after that, he'll draw. If you're fast enough, you can draw your own revolver a split second after that flick, and to anybody watching, it'll look like you'd both drawn your guns at the same time.
The guy just stood there grinning for about ten seconds before I saw that flick. By the time his hand touched the grip on his revolver, mine was half out of my holster. The guy was slow, too slow to even get his revolver leveled at me before I had mine pointed at his chest. I grinned as I pulled the trigger because I knew I had him.
The guy frowned at the crack of the shot that proved I was still the fastest gun in town. Smoke streamed from my Hubley Model 285 Texan six-gun. I pulled the trigger three more times. The Hubley barked twice more, but the roll caps jammed on the third and there was just a click as the hammer fell on an already-fired cap. As the guy fell to the ground, I reminded myself to clean out the mechanism and put a drop of oil on the moving parts so that wouldn't happen again. I'd intended to do that after the gunfight the day before, but Mom wouldn't let me stay up late enough to do it.
Bart got up off the ground then and walked over with a frown on his face.
"Ronny, how'd you know I was going to draw? I didn't do anything before I did."
"Yes, you did. You glanced down and looked at your gun. You always do that and I know you're gonna draw right after that."
Bart grinned.
"Wanna try it again? Bet I can beat you this time."
I shook my head.
"Nah...I gotta go home. Mom's going shopping for school clothes after lunch and I gotta go with her."
For some stupid reason, that little scene played out in my head while I was standing behind my car fender with my Glock.40 aimed at the guy standing in the doorway of his house. I suppose it was because the situation was sort of similar to that standoff in the alley behind Bart's house, except Clarence wasn't a good friend, and we weren't holding cap guns.
"Show me your hands", I yelled, but the guy didn't. He gave me the finger with his left hand and yelled, "Go the fuck away. I done my time and you got nothing on me."
Well, as it was, I did have something on Clarence Hayes. I had a warrant for his arrest for drug dealing, the same charge that had sent him to prison three years before. One of our confidential informants had told us Clarence hadn't changed his ways and was dealing out of his house. We'd staked out his house to see if that was the case.
Clarence had a lot of people coming to his house late at night, and they didn't stay long enough for a social visit. We gave the vehicle descriptions to the two patrol cars parked a couple blocks away, and when the buyers went by, the uniforms pulled two of them over. Sure enough, one had a baggy with about twenty grams of cocaine and another, larger bag of weed. The other had a bag with about a dozen prescription pills and a baggy with what tested as methamphetamine. Both had a set of scales and some baggies in the trunk, so it looked like they were small time dealers instead of users.
We arrested them for possession with intent to sell based upon the scales. The quantities of the drugs were iffy for a charge of dealing, but we needed information, and the more severe felony of dealing might make them talk. That proved to be the case.
When I offered to reduce the charges to simple possession in exchange for telling me who their supplier was, they both confessed Clarence had sold them the drugs. That was enough for us to get an arrest warrant for Clarence and a search warrant for his house.
I was the detective assigned to the case, but I wasn't going to serve the warrants by myself because our CI also told us Clarence had a gun. I took two officers with me, one to watch the back door and another to crash the front door if Clarence didn't behave himself and give up.
When we knocked on his door and announced we were police officers and had a warrant, Clarence didn't behave himself. Instead, he yelled, "Fuck your warrant", and put a round through the front door. Since neither I or the officer were stupid enough to be standing in front of the door, nobody got hurt, but that's why I'd taken cover behind my unmarked car and had my Glock leveled at Clarence's door. Rick, the other officer, was crouched around the corner of the house and had his Glock aimed at the door as well.
After about half an hour of telling him to open the door and give up because he couldn't escape, Clarence finally did open the door, but he had his right hand behind the doorframe. I figured he had his gun in that hand and was just waiting for one of us to give him a big enough target.
I didn't want either of us to shoot Clarence. Selling drugs wasn't enough to get yourself killed over. It also wasn't enough for Rick and I to set out a week or two while the board judged if the shooting was justified or not. That's what was likely to happen if Clarence even raised his gun in our direction, because Rick and I would both fire. It wasn't likely we'd both miss, and unlike my weekend shootouts with Bart, Clarence wasn't likely to get back up and ask me how we beat him. Even one bullet hitting him would see to that.
A.40 S&W bullet hits with about four hundred foot pounds of energy at that range, so he'd be on the ground and only thinking about why he was having trouble breathing. That would be if only one of the three rounds I'd touch off hit him in the chest where I'd be aiming but had missed his heart. He'd be on his way to the hospital once the EMT's got there. If he wasn't lucky and more than one of my or Rick's rounds hit him in the chest...there wouldn't be any need for the EMT's except to haul his dead ass to the morgue.
I yelled back, "Clarence, you know you can't get away. I have the SWAT team on the way, and they won't do much talking. They'll just fire in a couple concussion grenades and then hit the house from both the front and the back. If you even look like you're thinking of shooting at them, you'll take a dozen rounds and I guarantee you won't get up. Take that pistol by the butt and toss it out in front of you and then get on the ground."
Clarence yelled back, "You assholes'll shoot me anyway, no matter what the fuck I do."
I keyed my radio and told Rick and Jeff, the officer who was watching the house to stay put and not to fire unless Clarence fired first. They already knew that, but I had a reason for telling them again. I also told Jeff to stay behind the house in case somebody besides Clarence was inside and decided to make a run for it. Then, I yelled back at Clarence.
"Clarence, I just gave the officers the order to hold fire unless you shoot first. My dash cam recorded that order just like it's recording what's happening. If one of us shoots you after you've given up, we'll all be in deep shit. Now, toss out that pistol and then get on the ground."
In truth, I hadn't called for the SWAT team and I didn't have a dash cam in my car, but if Clarence believed I did, he might decide today wasn't a good day to die. Thankfully, about a minute later, Clarence said, "OK, here comes my gun", and tossed it into the grass in his front yard. As soon as he was face down on the walk, I covered Rick while he walked up and cuffed Clarence.
I asked Jeff to bring his car around to transport Clarence to holding, and once he left, Rick and I searched the house.
Clarence was in for some serious jail time. In one closet, he had about ten pounds of weed, and in another, about a thousand pills of various prescription painkillers, a kilo of cocaine, and bag with a little over a pound of meth. We also found about twenty thousand in cash, four more handguns and a sawed-off shotgun.
Something was wrong though, or at least it seemed wrong to me. The amounts and type of drugs were way out of Clarence's league. He'd gone to prison over a few grams of cocaine and a little weed. This stash was more what a supplier to several dealers would have on hand. I calculated the street value at almost two hundred thousand, and I was sure Clarence didn't have the money to afford the price he'd have had to pay for all that. It was more likely somebody else was keeping their inventory at Clarence's house and Clarence was more of a store clerk than a drug dealer.
I wanted to find out for sure, so I didn't mince words when I interrogated Clarence.
"OK, Clarence, here's what you're facing. The quantities of each drug we found put the charge into the category of a first degree enhanced felony. If this was your first offense, you might get fifteen to twenty years, but you've been convicted of dealing once before. I'm also charging you with attempted murder because of that shot you fired through your front door. Between the two, you're looking at life. You might get a parole hearing when you're about eighty.
"I have to charge you with the first degree enhanced felony because of the evidence we found, but personally, I don't think the drugs are yours. What I think is they belong to somebody higher up the chain and you were just selling them. If you were to give me a name and where I can find that person, the DA might let you off with just first degree felony possession with intent to sell and assault on a police officer. You'd still be looking at probably fifty years, but you'd get a parole hearing in thirty or so. You're thirty-six, so if you behave yourself, you could be out before you turn seventy. It all depends upon you giving me a name and an address that pans out. Don't make something up that ends up going nowhere. The DA doesn't take kindly to people wasting his time."
Clarence looked at me and sneered.
"Go fuck yourself."
