Defcon one

 “Defcon 1,” said Villeneuf.  His partner, Bobby-Joe, shifted heavily in the passenger seat of the patrol car and looked over at him.

“You what?”

“It’s a level of alert,” said Villeneuf.  “You know, like Hurricane Warning, or Yellow Alert, or Tesla.”

Bobby-Joe thought about that.  He was handsome, to a fault, and had been pretty good at baseball until he’d broken his leg in the last year of high school, and those two things had gotten him graduated and a job in the police force where his brain, poor, congealed thing that it was, couldn’t.  The thinking took a while.

“Tesla?”

“You know the only Teslas in Short County are driven by assholes,” said Villeneuf.  “If we see one it’s our duty to stop it and see what other asshole-age is going on in it.  So if you see one you call out ‘Tesla’ so we’re all alert for them.”

“Right, yeah,” said Bobby-Joe.  He wondered if he knew what a Tesla looked like and eventually decided that Villeneuf would let him know when it was important.  “Hurricane?”

“There’s no hurricane, that was just an example.”

“Oh right.”   There was another long pause while Bobby-Joe worked backwards through the conversation so far, and then, “Defcon 1?”

“Sheesh Bobby-Joe, don’t you listen to a word I tell you?  It’s an alert level!  Specifically, keep your eyes and ears open as we’re getting close the County Fair and I want to know that there’s no-one interfering with the Jam Slam.”

Villeneuf parked the car before Bobby-Joe worked his way fully through that information and they were getting out; Bobby-Joe heaving himself manfully up and wishing that he wasn’t putting on weight so fast, and Villeneuf slithering out of the driver’s side window like he’d been watching the Dukes of Hazzard again.  In fact the driver’s side door was rusted shut and Villeneuf had little choice — it was the window or wait for Bobby-Joe and then slide across and get out of the passenger side door too.  Villeneuf had no patience for waiting though.

“Why would anyone interfere with the jam?” asked Bobby-Joe.  He reached down and rubbed his bad leg, which he blamed entirely for his weight gain.

“Not the jam specifically,” said Villeneuf.  “The Jam Slam, the competition.”

“Marionette’s competition?”  Villeneuf shot Bobby-Joe a curious look; sometimes the boy homed in on an idea like he wasn’t as thick as pig-droppings.

“Right, I don’t want anyone interfering in her competition, so she can win it fair and square,” said Villeneuf.  He looked around the car-park and saw the attendant, Wilfred, hobbling towards them.  Rather than wait for him he set off to intercept him.  Bobby-Joe watched him go, then realised belatedly that he should be going too and tried to hurry to catch up. After a couple of stiff-legged strides he slowed, a grimace on his face, and forced himself to keep going faster than he liked until he reached Villeneuf.

“—sure we won’t be long; just checking on a report of trouble,” he heard Villeneuf say, and Wilfred nodded.

“It’s jus’ that everybody what parks here has to pay for a ticket,” said Wilfred.  He looked around.  “Every’un else has.”

“But we’re not parked,” said Villeneuf easily.  “We’re stopping, temporarily, not parking.  We’re only here because there’s been a complaint.  Wouldn’t be here otherwise.”

“Yes but no,” said Wilfred.  He ran a hand through wiry grey hair and squinted at Bobby-Joe.  “Oh hi Bobby-Joe.  How’s your sister?”

“You talk to Bobby-Joe about it,” said Villeneuf.  “I’ll be back before you get finished, mark my words.  Defcon 2.”

“You what?” said Wilfred looking confused, and Bobby-Joe tried to explain.

“It’s like Teslas,” he said, “only there’s a hurricane involved too.”

“You what now?” said Wilfred, and as the two men headed down a linguistic dead-end Villeneuf slipped away across the field and towards the marquees.

The marquees were blue and white striped and pegged down firmly but not so firmly that Villeneuf couldn’t pull enough fabric up from behind them to slip underneath and inside.  It took only three tries to find the tent where the Jam Slam would be judged, and it was then a matter of moments to adulterate the jams belonging to Marionette’s competitors with a little of the pig-droppings that he’d been comparing Bobby-Joe’s thinking skills to.  Then he slithered back under the canvas of the tent and headed back to the car-park where Wilfred was pawing at whatever truth Bobby-Joe had failed to understand on the way there.

“Come on Bobby-Joe,” said Villeneuf clapping him on the shoulder.  “We can’t stay here debating with Wilf all day — he’ll think we’re parked and try and charge us for it.”

“What?” said Bobby-Joe, losing his train of thought completely.

“You can’t park without a ticket,” said Wilfred, happy to return to a conversation he felt he understood.

“Agreed,” said Villeneuf.  “We’ll be going right now, Wilf my man.”

“You do that,” said Wilfred.  “I’ll be watchin’!”

“What?” said Bobby-Joe.  “What happened to Defcon one?”

“All stood down,” said Villeneuf.  “Can you smell pigshit?”

“Yes,” said Bobby-Joe.  He stopped walking and looked around.  “And that’s odd, ‘cos the pig judging is over the other side of the Fair.”

Villeneuf kept walking and shook his head just a little.  How the hell could Bobby-Joe be so dim and yet spot something like that like Sherlock bloody Holmes?