“So what do you know about Hoffman?” I asked Sam.
“Well,” Sam said out the side of his mouth. “You seen for yourself how he was all over the Chief there outside the diner. He does the same with anyone uphill from him; anyone he thinks has any kind of clout.”
He snickered. “It’s like he’s on a mission to keep that kissy-face of his grafted to their ass, you know?”
“How’s about if someone’s downhill from him?” I asked.
Sam looked at me, then back at the road. “Then it’s a different story all right. I figure what’s going on at the Gardens ain’t exactly an unbiased sampling, but I heard me a story a while back.
“See, there’s about a half dozen of these FFA kids, Future Farmers of America. Guess there’s more grant money in FFA than in 4H anymore. Anyways, these kids is old family locals, pure bred Stagger Bay Citizens all the way.
“Like I say, they’re high school kids, and they get some cases of beer and go schwabbin’ down on the river bank in their 4WDs one night. A lot of kids like partying at the river, there’s no one around, you got all the privacy in the world to get a little schwilly, maybe get your freak on, know what I’m saying?
“Anyways, this particular time, with these particular kids, Hoffman comes creeping out the bushes and busts ‘em. Its dark, town’s a long way off, and the six of them is all alone with him. I guess they’re expecting him to make ‘em pour out the beer and maybe cluck his tongue at ‘em, but instead he goes off all nutso. He grabs one kid by the throat; he even slaps a couple of the girls around and tugs at some clothes.
“They’re scared; they ain’t used to being treated like this by no one. Their folks is up in arms when their kids come home all messed up and crying. But someone convinces them it wouldn’t be useful to press the complaint, so they drop it.”
“And who was that someone?”
“That’s a good question, innit?” He shut his mouth, dropping the subject.
But I wasn’t quite ready to let it lie. “Must be nice being a Stagger Bay cop – sounds like you pretty much have a free hand. How’d Hoffman ever pass the psych eval?”
“Who says he did?” Sam asked. “Heard me another story, from Big Moe. Don’t be telling Moe I’m discussing his business, but he plays watchdog for this dominatrix chick sometimes, name of Breena. You know what I’m talking about, right? Moe makes sure her johns behave themselves. Anyways, I guess Hoffman is one of her clients.”
“Pray continue, kid,” I said when he paused.
“Well,” Sam said, a surprisingly prim and prudish look crossing his face. “I guess Hoffman likes Breena to step on his chubby with spike heels on, have her grind around ‘til his boner bleeds. You ask me, I’m saying Hoffman is the Driver.”