Chapter Text
Bradley Bachmeier skimmed through the file, the state's charges, the evidence. "It would've helped if you'd been drinking the bourbon yourself rather than trying to sell it."
Both Raylan and Tim reacted with the same face of horror, and the room felt suddenly crowded with the four men and the marshals' puffed up indignation. They both gawped, both said, "You were selling it?"
Kurt shrugged. "I hate the taste of hard alcohol. What I really like is wine." Looking over at Tim, he was suddenly shy, said, "That's a Courtney Love quote. I drink wine, too, just like her."
"He was selling it on EBay," Bachmeier explained. "The bidding was up over three thousand before the listing was pulled."
"Now Marshals, I didn't know that whiskey was stolen. I was just trying to recoup some of my costs. Teddy and his cousin ain't paid rent in…shit, months. And they had two other men staying with them all the time and using electricity and stuff. I helped myself to some of their things and thought I'd see what I could get for it."
Raylan exchanged a look of disbelief with Tim, shook his head. "You must've been suspicious when the bidding went up that high. Didn't you wonder what Teddy was doing with a case of that class of bourbon?"
"I did think it was a little weird, so many people bidding on it."
"A little? That's like a hundred percent mark-up."
"I think it lists at a hundred and thirty," said Tim, "so that's actually closer to a twenty-two hundred percent mark-up. But, since you didn't pay for it, it's actually an infinite percent, something undefined if you're starting from zero."
Raylan's face screwed up, like he'd taken a mouthful of lemonade before adding the sugar. "Thank you, Mathman. But what's that got to do with anything?"
"I'm just saying – it's a huge fucking profit."
"Stop talking."
"Just 'cause you don't understand it, doesn't mean it isn't relevant or interesting."
"It ain't interesting…or relevant."
Tim crossed his arms and sat back. "You have no imagination."
"What I can't imagine is selling a bottle of Pappy to the highest bidder. That's…that's not so much a crime as some kinda moral sin," said Raylan.
Tim nodded in agreement. "Gotta be in the ten commandments – thou shalt not whore good whiskey."
Raylan flicked a hand in Tim's direction, a gesture meaning 'what he said.' "Anyone have a bible handy, so we can check that?"
"It's a crime if it's stolen," said Bachmeier, flipping to the arrest sheet. "The judge won't care how good the whiskey is."
"You underestimate the Kentucky circuit court judges' love of bourbon at your peril. Who's sitting?"
"McAfee."
Raylan grimaced. "Oh. He'll be upset."
"I don't think the State of Kentucky court can rule on the morality of it."
"The State of Kentucky, in this case, is a borderline alcoholic. I've seen the man drink. He'll be as horrified as we are."
Bachmeier paled a little, made a note. "I'll make sure to tread lightly, explain that my client has no understanding of bourbon, that he was just trying to make ends meet. Maybe that'll help."
"It might." Raylan stood up, picked his hat up off the table and motioned Tim to the door. Holding it open, he turned back to the lawyer. "And tell the judge he was coming out to Franklin's place to warn us that he suspected the bourbon was more important than he thought, like he was helping us. We'll back you."
"All right," said Bradley, making another note.
"Are we done here?" Raylan nodded at the defense attorney. "You got this?"
"He's not a predicate offender, and with all the other circumstances surrounding this, and Craig Franklin and Teddy Newton in jail for the actual theft with nothing to suggest that Kurt was involved in the planning or execution of the original crime, I can plead it down to a misdemeanor, no problem, maybe some community service. Kurt will be home by lunch tomorrow if it gets in front of the judge early enough."
Raylan listened patiently then said, "Bradley, where'd you get your degree?"
"Uh, Pace."
"New York?"
"Yeah."
"Uh-huh." Dismissing the attorney, Raylan addressed Kurt, "We were pulling your leg earlier, and your lawyer, he's earnest, bit of a newb, but you'll do all right with him. My take on this is that the judge will listen to all the extenuating circumstances then dismiss the charges, probably give you a standing ovation and a citizen's citation for your involvement in the apprehension of the real criminals." He turned back to Bachmeier. "This is Kentucky, not New York City. You'll get used to it."
Tim hid a smile behind his hand, in full agreement with Raylan's assessment, and Kurt looked a bit bolstered by the idea.
"All right then." Raylan looked around, as if he were checking to see if he'd left anything behind. "Kurt, you might wanna wear your dress to court. Might help depending on McAfee's mood."
"Really?"
Bachmeier strained his neck twisting around to stare at Raylan, brought his hand up to rub it in reaction and blurted out a "What?"
"He's kidding," said Tim. "You'll be going over from lock-up. It'll be orange for you unless you specifically ask for civilian clothing."
"Oh." Kurt looked disappointed. "Can I ask for my dress?"
"You haven't really got a lot of time before the arraignment, and hey, Courtney got to wear orange a lot in her career. If you're gonna do her, you might as well do her right." Tim's observation seemed to perk Kurt up even more. He was sitting a little straighter, a smile hinting, half anyway, the first sign of one since the marshals had sat down with Kurt and his public defender. "But I don't mean you should go getting a drug habit and get arrested a half dozen more times. Once is enough."
"Okay." And Kurt gave Tim a whole smile.
"What are you guys talking about?" said Bachmeier, even more nervous now.
"Thanks for taking this on," said Tim and gestured an invisible connection between him and the attorney. "So we can call ourselves even? We're good?"
It looked as though Bachmeier was about to suggest that Tim was now in his debt again in his bizarre subjective tallying of favors, so Tim decided a quick exit was in order before the assumed 'yes' became a 'no.' He beat a line out the door ahead of Raylan and walked quickly out into the district court house hallway.
Raylan followed, stopped Tim before he could reach security at the main doors. "Speaking of favors…"
"Don't bother asking. The answer is, as always, 'no' – hasn't changed in months."
Tim's refusal didn't seem to upset Raylan, in fact it drew a smirk.
"I mean it – no."
"You came in this morning when I asked."
"That's different. That was for Kurt."
"You sure Bachmeier can handle this?"
"Talk is he hasn't lost a trial since he started here, and he does the plea bargaining thing better than any of them. I've seen him in action. He's annoying, but he's smart. They say he's good."
"They?"
"All the ladies down in records, and those two blonde court stenographers that you always eye – can't remember their names – and Crawford."
"Judge Crawford, the she-bear?"
"Yep."
"You talk to all the women in the building?"
"No, they talk to me."
"Do they not know you're attached at the hip to that crazy psychologist?"
"Oh, they know. They keep stopping me and making small talk and warming me up only to ask if you're single now…still…now…whatever. It's annoying."
"Seriously?"
"Yeah. I can't figure it out. I put on the 'leave me the fuck alone' face, but it doesn't seem to stop the junkies or the alcoholics, or the women in the court house with a self-destructive bent. Same difference, now I think about it."
"Well, maybe I can help you out with that. I got a dog in the back of my car that needs a home till Kurt gets out. You take Hole, and I'll get at least one of the blondes off your back."
"Hole? Seriously?"
"Seriously. I remember you and her got along real well. Proper dog, you said. You're still on vacation, right?"
"I'll be back a week next Monday."
"I thought it was a week from this past Wednesday?"
"Art added a few days, said he wanted to get over being mad at me before I showed up again, and he wanted to make sure my buddy had an escort while he was in Lexington vacationing."
"Huh." Raylan tried to look sympathetic and failed. "Dog?"
Tim rolled his eyes, and his entire head went along with the movement and ended tilted a bit to the left, a raspberry blowing. "All right, fine."
"All right."
The day was finally winding down, the bullpen almost empty. Raylan was sitting comfortably in Art's office, sunk into a corner of the black couch, left arm draped across the back, Stetson perched on his knee, a glass of something held carefully in his right hand. He took a sip and a trace of an honest smile smoothed the stress off his face.
"Interesting couple of days," he said.
"That's an understatement," said Art. "I've never seen so many bodies."
"I'm still not sure what it was all about. I got the impression the Japanese gang weren't very interested in the bourbon."
"Nope. Apparently they were after those little porcelain cups."
"All those bullets for little porcelain cups?"
"Little porcelain cups used in traditional Japanese ceremonies. 'Sakazukis' they call them. They share saki in them to seal a partnership. And Franklin, the idiot, had in his possession a stolen set..." Art picked up a piece of paper from his desk and read: "...a sakazuki set of historical importance, the set that sealed the agreement between two Japanese crime families in the early part of the last century, the Yamaguchi and the Inagawa, and I'm probably pronouncing those all wrong. That particular pact marked the formation of the most powerful crime syndicate in the current Yakuza regime. So say the Feds." He set the paper back down and picked up the bottle of twenty-year-old Pappy van Winkle that had pride of place on his desk, turned it around in his hands and admired it.
"Thanks for the history lesson." Raylan licked the bourbon off his lips, raised his eyebrows and saluted Art in appreciation. "And thanks for sharing. Nice of them to give you a bottle. And nice photo, too." He moved the glass salute over to include the picture on Art's desktop – he and the sheriff near Owingsville beside a stack of whiskey cases. A reporter had forwarded it to the office.
"Yeah, I feel bad for taking so much of the credit on this, but…someone had to do it."
Raylan nodded along with Art, appreciating the problem. "I don't think Tim would mind. He's not a limelight kinda guy."
Art set the bottle down, turning it so anyone walking into the office could see the label. Satisfied that it was displayed properly, he lifted his own glass to his lips and took a sip and smiled. "I almost feel bad that Tim's not here to try a lick of this Old Pappy. It'll likely be gone before he gets back from his vacation. Oh well. Here's to Mathman."
"To Mathman," Raylan mimicked, happily toasting and drinking, licking his lips again. A suspicion formed and he eyed Art slyly. "Is that why you made him take the extra days – give you time to finish the bottle before he got back?"
"Maybe." Standing leisurely, Art walked to the door of his office, opened it and yelled out, "Nelson, come have a glass of whiskey with me and Raylan."
"How is it that I don't even feel marginally bad about drinking this?" Curled up on the couch between Tim and Hole, her black eyes in full bloom, Miljana snuggled a little lower into her Ranger hoodie, blood-free and smelling like laundry soap. "I don't think you're influencing me in a good way." She took another sip of her drink and pursed her lips, considering.
"Yay." Flopped across the chair on the other side of the room, clapping like a madman, Weaver cheered her on. "You're getting through to her, dude. Job well done. Another one corrupted."
Tim grinned at her. "You like it?"
"I do." She lifted the glass and looked at the liquor. "Wheat?"
"Yep, makes it smoother than the bourbons like Blanton's with the mash topped with rye. It's different."
"Not sure it's three-hundred dollars worth of difference, but it's nice."
"Bit of the law of diminishing returns at work, I think. It's fun to try some though."
"The law of diminishing returns doesn't apply when you got it for free."
"I wouldn't say it was free." Tim reached over to a side table and sifted through some bullets in a bowl. He selected a particularly large one and held it up to be admired. "That was coming at me at about three thousand feet per second, four hundred of them in under a minute."
Miljana stared at it, quiet, serious. "That's brobdingnagian."
"That's what?"
She giggled. "Look it up. It's a fun word."
"You could just tell me."
"I'll give you a hint – Gulliver's Travels."
"That's a lilliputian hint," said Weaver, and shared a grin with her, a bit of smug conspiracy.
"Fuck the two of you." Tim leaned forward, plucked a second bottle of Old Pappy from the case and opened it, poured a second round for the three of them. He paused before pouring his own, a momentary splash of guilt for not sharing his find with Art or Raylan. He got over it, topped up his glass and set the bottle down and licked his lips in anticipation.
"You're going through that pretty fast."
"Don't really want to leave it lying around too long, in case. Now I think about it, I'm not sure what I'm going to do with the empties – can't really put them out in the recycling."
Weaver and Miljana nodded seriously, appreciating the problem.
"Range?" suggested Weaver. "I like shooting bottles."
"You like shooting anything," said Tim. "But it's a good idea - range. What are you up to tomorrow?"
"Nothing. I'm on vacation."
"Range it is, then. I'll introduce you to Fischer."
"Oh, I wouldn't miss that," said Miljana. "I'm coming, too."
"Don't you have a seminar tomorrow?"
"I can't go like this. They'd probably take one look at the hoodie and assume you were beating me."
"So don't wear the hoodie."
"I have to. It's my therapy."
"You sure you don't want me to get you a couple of those steaks we bought for dinner?" Weaver pointed to his face, admiring Miljana's shiners. "Though the blue does bring out the color of your eyes nicely."
"Shut up, Stella," she snarled. "Go put on some music."
The laugh she provoked was maniacal, trailed behind Weaver as he trudged over to the stereo.
"AND NOT TOOL!"
the end