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high roof carried by dark brown rough beams. Half a dozen rifles and shotguns were chained to a rack on the wall. A modern radio transmitter and receiver stood on a shelf next to two old black telephones. Uniform jackets and stiff high felt hats hung from hooks near the door leading to the jail. The sheriff unbuckled his gunbelt and lowered it carefully into a drawer under the table.
    "You want a gun, sergeant? I can let you have one, but you'll have to wear it so that it shows. There's a law against hidden guns here and I can't make you a deputy. Only Americans can serve in a sheriff's department. I can call the general—maybe there's an exception to the rule I don't know about."
    "No, I don't want a gun."
    "Good, you shouldn't need one. I hardly ever touch mine. It antagonizes the locals. They've all got guns too. If I pull mine it may give them ideas. What were those chops you used on Leroux? Karate?"
    "Yes."
    "You good at karate?"
    "No, I am trained in judo. It's a gentler method, but the suspect was big and I thought I might lose my footing if I moved around him."
    "Yes," the sheriff said, cutting the bread, then pushing a steaming bowl of soup across the table. "I really thought you had killed the motherfucker."
    "Motherfucker," de Gier said and held up his plate so that Albert could serve the salad. "Does the suspect have a perversion?"
    "Not that I know of. It's just a term. We deal with two types: subjects and motherfuckers. Everybody is a subject until we have a charge against them that will stick. Charges make them motherfuckers. And the judge may change their status again. If he confirms the charge they become prisoners."
    "I'm a prisoner," Albert said. 'Take this pepper, sergeant. It looks a little black on the edge, but it's okay."
    "What did you do?"
    The sheriff stopped eating. "I'll tell you what he did because he won't tell you. He did very well. Old Bernie likes a good chase and he likes to make the cruiser jump, and Albert, here, he knows that. So Albert does a number of things. First he comes to see us, all meek and pleasant-like, and he says his motorcycle is stolen. Just disappeared. One minute it's in front of Robert's Market, sitting quietly in the sun, and the next minute it's gone. Very strange, for Albert's motorcycle is some outlandish contraption and nobody knows how to start it but Albert. But anyway, it's gone and Albert comes to see us. It's a red bike, easy to spot. Then Albert goes and gets himself a big beard made out of twine or something, and he hangs it over his face and gets some funny clothes and puts them on, and he finds his bike where he has hidden it, and he races up Main Street. Just as Bernie is coming out of Bern's restaurant. Bernie jumps for his cruiser and tries to yank its door open. The door is stuck. Bernie puts his foot against the cruiser and gives a mighty heave and the whole door comes out, on top of Bernie, who's sitting on the sidewalk. Okay. Bernie gets up and into the cruiser. He starts the engine. Fine. But the shift is locked in park. Bernie gets mad and tries to force the shift, and meanwhile he has his foot on the gas. The shift works after a while and the cruiser jumps away, into a parked vehicle. Okay. Bernie backs up and takes off. But then the cruiser has four slow leaks and Bernie doesn't get very far. I didn't see it but I listened to people who did. They were still laughing and it was hours later. Like a Laurel and Hardy movie, only better. Full color and three dimensions. And Albert was gone. Eh, Albert?"
    "That's what you say," Albert said.
    "That's what I say and what everybody "That's what I say and what everybody says. The cruiser needs a lot of county money and a couple of weeks to get fixed up again. The sheriff's department pays for the car Bernie hit. You laugh and all your buddies laugh."
    "No proof?" de Gier asked.
    "No proof."
    "But the next day Albert telephones to say that his motorcycle has shown up again. We say that that is very nice.