Houston Attack

by Randy Wayne White

  It took Hawker a dizzy moment to realize who his attacker was. By the time he did, Williams was diving for the assault rifle, his own revolver obviously out of ammunition.

  He half-landed on Hawker, his hands outstretched toward the Commando. His body stank of sweat and cigar smoke, and the weight of him all but knocked the wind out of the vigilante. Hawker rolled painfully to his side and caught Williams’s right arm, pulling it away. Williams clubbed at him with his left fist, but Hawker managed to swing his head away from the blows. If one landed, Hawker knew, he would be knocked out. The man must have weighed close to three hundred and fifty pounds.

  Using all his strength, Hawker forced the huge Texan’s right arm under him, then slid from beneath the man, pulling his right arm up between his shoulder blades.

  When Williams tried to struggle out of the hammerlock, Hawker put more pressure on the arm.

  “I want you to remember something before I kill you,” Hawker hissed, his breath coming in labored gasps. “I want you to remember Cristoba de Abella. I want you to remember the way she looked when you left her, because you’re going to look twice as bad when you die, Williams. You’re going to be such a mess, the crows won’t even bother with you.”

  Beneath him, Skate Williams winced with pain. The left side of his face dug a furrow in the sand as he edged himself along, trying to relieve the pressure on his arm. “Look, you don’t got to kill me. I got money. I got a lot of money.” There was a piggish whimper in his voice that nauseated Hawker. “You say you’re going to kill me because of that girl? Well, shit, boy, a couple hundred thousand in cash can do a lot to wipe out a momory.”

  “Forget it, Williams,” Hawker said. He felt the urge to kill him then and there, but he didn’t want it to end that quickly. Instead he increased the pressure on the big man’s arm until Williams began to make a strange noise. It was the mosquito-whine a balloon makes when you stretch the valve between your fingers. It took Hawker a moment to realize that the man was crying. Hawker said, “I know all about how you made that money, and I know all about your fast-food franchise, and why they’re getting so popular so quick.” Williams struggled beneath him, and Hawker settled him with even more pressure. “I’ve visited this experimental farm, friend. I know what you grow here, and I know what you do with it. Money from oil and cattle wasn’t enough. You wanted to control it all, Williams. Instead of just slave workers, you wanted to control a nation of slaves.”

  Goaded by the pain, Williams gave an unexpected thrust of his pelvis that threw Hawker off-balance. Then he kicked backward and caught Hawker flush on his injured thigh with the heel of his boot. In sudden agony Hawker released his grip for just a moment.

  That’s all it took.

  Williams cracked Hawker hard with his elbow, then came up standing, the Colt Commando leveled at Hawker’s stomach. “Now it’s your turn to beg, you son of a bitch,” Williams bellowed. “And you’d better beg long and hard, because I’m going to blow your fucking guts right out.” A strange chuckle escaped his lips. It was the frenzied laughter of a psychopath who realizes, much to his delight, that once again he has outwitted his enemies.

  “You say I wanted control? Well, you’re wrong there, buddy boy, ’cause I already got control. I got the money, I got the army, and in another two years’ time people are going to be fightin’ in line just to get to them little food stands of mine.” He laughed again. “You know where I got the idea? It’s damn near funny! Hell, I got it from Coca Cola! Back at the turn of the century they used cocaine in Coca Cola. Had to ship the coca leaves up from South America, but they used it just the same. Damn profitable business until people started catching on that they didn’t just like Coca Cola, they had to have it. Hell, they were addicted. ’Course, the damn government came along and made them change the ingredients.

  “No one else took up the idea until I came along. Five years ago, some old boy approached me about financing a fast-food franchise. Said putting barbecue sauce on hamburgers would be the biggest thing since McDonald’s.” The huge, piggish face contorted into a grin. “Well, I made damn sure it was bigger than McDonald’s. Started my own coca tree farm. Needed people who’d refine the shit and not talk—so I started bringing in wetback slaves. We toyed around with the idea of putting it in the sauce. But there was too much waste in that, so we just put it right in with the ground meat. Knew I could buy off the inspectors. And you know what? The dumb fucking public went for it! Hell, I got more stands in Houston than McDonald’s does! Getting inquiries from all over the country about the franchise. ’Course, the problem there is finding inspectors in every state who can be bought off. But we will, by God! And when that day comes, sluts like Cristoba what’s-her-name will climb up my steps on their bellies just to get another little fix.”

  Hawker had gotten slowly to his feet. If he was going to die, he was going to die standing. He said, “You’re pathetic, Williams. Go ahead and kill me—but don’t do it thinking you’re going to be in the clear. I’ve told too many people about your operation. And how you killed Jonathan Flischmann to keep him from talking. He knew, too, didn’t he, Williams?”

  The fat man made a pained expression. “That little Jew twerp? He didn’t have enough sense to know when to call it quits. Hell, I offered him money. Plenty of money. When he refused, I sent Roy Dalton up to find him.” Williams smiled. “Roy found him, all right. Gave him the Smith & Wesson cure for insomnia.” He raised the assault rifle, and his expression changed. “Just like I’m going to give you—”

  “No, you’re not,” said a voice from the shadows. From behind one of the greenhouses stepped Quirt Evans. He held his left arm and shoulder at an odd angle, and Hawker knew how badly wounded he must be. But his voice was strong, and his stainless Colt .44 was aimed at Williams’s back. Evans said calmly, “You shoot, Skate, and it’ll be the last thing you ever do.”

  Williams raised one eyebrow. He kept the assault rifle on Hawker and did not turn around. “Quirt? That you? Shit, boy, you can’t shoot me. I’m your damn—”

  “I know who you are,” Evans cut in. “And you can bet I’ll shoot you.”

  “And what if I told you to drop it or I’ll blow this character into the next county?”

  “That’s your decision to make, Skate. He doesn’t mean nothing to me. Says he’s from Chicago, and I’ve never met anyone worth a shit from the Midwest. You go right on and shoot if you want to, Skate. But from the distance I’m standing, I reckon this .44 of mine, hitting you the way I got her aimed, would probably take your head right off. Now, I’ve heard a couple of theories about what happens when a head comes off real quick like. I’ve heard the person dies instantly, with no thoughts about nothing. But I’ve also heard that the head just lays there for three or four minutes, thinking like hell until the oxygen runs out. ’Course, no one really knows for sure. But you’re a clever guy, Skate. Maybe you could find a way to let me know while your head’s on the ground. Maybe wink at me or something.”

  Very slowly Williams turned to face Quirt Evans. “You’re not going to shoot me, Quirt. You ain’t got the balls to do it.”

  Hawker waited expectantly for Evans to prove him wrong. But then he saw Quirt’s face change; saw the color grow pale; saw the jaw drop slack; saw his blue eyes grow round with fear and surprise—surprise that he could not pull the trigger.

  Williams laughed. “You’re like most of these modern-day Texas cowboys, Quirt—all hat and boots. Now, you put that handgun down like a good boy—”

  It took Hawker three agonizing strides to get to him. The heavy Randall attack/survival knife was cool in his hand. He threw himself on Williams’s back and spun him around. Williams got the Colt up to fire, but Hawker knocked it aside and smashed his nose flat with a hard left. As Williams’s head snapped back, Hawker drove the seven-and-a-half-inch blade deep through the fat and gristle of his throat.

  Williams made a loud, gagging sound as he staggered around and around in small circles, clawing at the knife.
Then he stopped, his pale eyes growing bleary. The pale eyes found Hawker, staring at him with bleak reappraisal, before he collapsed on the ground.

  Mechanically Hawker extracted his knife and cleaned the blade in the soft Texas earth. He turned to the tall Texas Ranger. “He was going to kill you. Why didn’t you shoot?”

  Quirt Evans sagged wearily against the bracing of the greenhouse. “I had a father once,” he said, his voice suddenly weak and distant. “A young millionaire from Dallas who ran out on my mother.” He looked at the huge corpse on the ground. “He’s dead now, Hawk. And I’m glad.”

  nineteen

  Three weeks after Hawker got out of Houston General Hospital, and one week after Quirt Evans was released from the same hospital, the two men sat on wooden stools in the sun by the stone well outside Sancho Rigera’s house.

  It was one of those summer days in Texas that seemed more like a winter day in southern Mexico: The air so dry that it turned the sky to blue powder and the hills and buttes to stratified layers of rust and copper and bronze.

  The house was made of white adobe, and it reflected the heat of the sun onto their backs. To Quirt Evans, who had been shot twice in the back, it felt especially good.

  Hawker took the last swallow of beer from the dark bottle of Dos Equis and held it up to the sun. Watching him, Quirt Evans smiled. “Is that a toast or a signal?”

  Behind them the screen door slammed closed, and the lovely Juanita Rigera patted Hawker tenderly on the head before exchanging the empty bottle for a fresh one, cold from the new refrigerator inside.

  “A signal,” said Hawker, sipping the beer with real pleasure.

  Evans looked offended. He tugged at the girl’s white skirt. “Señorita,” he said. “Yo quiero una cerveza fria, por favor.”

  Juanita flipped her ponytail at him impishly, planted her hands on her hips, and wagged off.

  “Does that means she’s going to bring me a beer?” Evans asked with comic concern. “I mean, I deserve one. After all I’ve been through, and saving your life not just once …”

  “Uh, oh,” moaned Hawker.

  “… but twice, and putting my neck on the line just so some has-been from Chicago …”

  “Do I have to hear this again?”

  “… can come back to the hacienda and sit around on his butt and play the hero.”

  Hawker held out the bottle of Dos Equis. “Here. Take mine. I’ll get another.”

  Evans became suddenly aloof. “Hah! I’m not going to drink after you.” His face described distaste. “You’ve got snuff in your mouth.”

  “Well, so do you, for God’s sake.”

  The two men looked at each other, then broke out laughing; laughing until the tears came. Evans leaned over painfully, still not quite recovered from his wounds. “Hey, that little girl really likes you, Hawk. I know it’s none of my business, but you’ve been here two weeks, and I was just wondering if you and she are … an item?”

  “You’re right,” said Hawker. “It is none of your business. And, no we aren’t. Not really.”

  “Yeah? And what’s that supposed to mean.”

  Hawker laughed. “Last night I went out for a walk. She was waiting for me. Waiting in the moonlight. We talked—me with my bad Spanish. We laughed. And, Quirt, I hadn’t really laughed since long before I ran into the late Skate Williams. We held hands. She gave me a peck on the cheek. And that was it.”

  Evas raised his eyebrows. “To these people that means you’re practically engaged.”

  Hawker checked his watch and said nothing. It was eleven-twenty. Sancho Rigera was more than an hour late. Considering the circumstances, though, it was understandable. And forgivable.

  Evans had arrived that morning, a very pleasant surprise.

  Hawker changed the subject. “So the court hearings went okay, Quirt? Gas Blakely didn’t make any waves?”

  Evans had forgotten he had Hawker’s beer, and he took a swig. “Smooth as silk, Hawk. You hardly figured into the testimony. Here’s the way it went. The Texas Rangers went to a private residence with a search warrant. We came under heavy fire and returned the fire. A number of people were killed during the conflict—fortunately none of our men. One hundred and eighty-three people held as slaves were freed, and they were taken away by the brave citizens of this village. The governor closed down the Rio Bravo franchises almost immediately. The state lab boys tested the beef and projected that only a very small number of consumers might have trouble kicking the cocaine monkey. State Services has opened its doors, offering free treatment to anyone who thinks they need it. Actually it was a blessing in disguise. A fair number of closet junkies have jumped on the opportunity to get help because they can go for treatment and tell their neighbors that getting hooked really wasn’t their fault at all.”

  Hawker smiled. So his mission was a success. Again. Once more the luck had held, the bullets had missed their marks, and he had lived to hold a chilled beer in the fresh heat of a new day.

  But the luck could not last.

  In the back of his mind James Hawker knew that. One day the mission would come that was too tough. Or find him when the luck was not with him. And he, too, would travel the blinding white passage into death that so many of his enemies had.

  Hawker checked his watch again, then got slowly to his feet. “I’ve got a phone call to make,” he said.

  “Hawk,” Evans said quickly. Hawker stopped and looked at his friend. Evans looked oddly uneasy. “Hawk, there’s another reason I came down here. Two other reasons, actually.”

  “Yeah? You name it, Quirt.”

  “Well … the first thing is about Skate. Skate Williams, you know.”

  “I know who you mean,” Hawker put in wryly.

  “Look, no one else knows that he was my … that we were related, and I—”

  “I haven’t told a soul, Quirt. And I don’t intend to.”

  Evans looked immediately relieved. “I appreciate that, Hawk. I really do. Whenever I think of that fat bastard, I get chills.”

  “The second thing, Quirt? What is it?”

  Evans was no longer uneasy. “Well, I was talking to the other boys, Hawk. The Rangers, I mean. We’re a pretty small group. And we like it that way. We’re damn selective about who we let in and, well, we were just wondering if you might be interested in joining up.” Before Hawker could react, Evans held up one finger. “But first you have to understand that we do everything by the book, Hawk. I know’ I don’t have to explain that to you. But if you’re interested we’d be damn proud to have you.”

  Hawker leaned against the chair, genuinely touched. “Quirt, I appreciate it. You know I mean that.” He hesitated, searching for the right words. “But we all have our jobs to do in this world, and I’m afraid my job is pretty well charted out for me. But if I were going to join any force, you can be damn sure it would be the Rangers.” He squeezed his friend’s arm. “Thanks, Quirt.” He studied the nearly empty bottle in Evans’s hand. “I’ll bring you another beer—when you get done with mine.”

  Evans was laughing as Hawker went into the house and picked up the phone.

  Andrea Marie Flischmann, his ex-wife, answered on the third ring. Hawker had talked to her twice since the assault on Williams’s ranch. In their last conversation he had asked Andrea to come to Texas and take a vacation with him. Maybe rent a car and drive down to Mexico. Spend some long days on the beaches—and some longer nights in bed. As an added incentive Hawker had mentioned that she might find some interesting artwork for her shop. She had insisted they both give it some thought before deciding. After all, they had already been married once, and it hadn’t worked.

  Hawker could tell immediately from the tone of her voice that the answer was no.

  “James? Is that you?” She sounded formal, uncomfortable. “You sound like you’re a million miles away.”

  From the phone Hawker could see Juanita Rigera standing over the counter in the kitchen. He studied the pretty way the sun caught
her face as she rolled out the cornmeal for the evening’s tortillas. There was something in her cheek structure that reminded him of someone else; another Indio beauty who had been swept away from her home by the horror of a single madman. “A million miles away?” he said, smiling to himself. “I guess I am. Almost.”

  “James,” she began, “I feel so badly about what I’m going to say. Especially after all you did for me … my family … taking care of Jonathan’s killer. It was such a relief to hear.”

  “I know, Andrea. And you’re not coming down, are you?”

  Her voice was small. “No, James. I’m not. There’s a big show in Paris this week, and I’m flying over with … a friend.”

  “A friend?”

  “A friend. Bill Herald. A very fine young artist. It will do us both good, and he’ll learn a lot.”

  Hawker repressed the urge to say, “I’ll bet.” Instead he said, “That’s fine, Andrea. I’m glad for you, and it restores my faith in the art world. At least some artists appreciate a beautiful woman.”

  Now her laughter was genuine. “He does, Hawk. The boy truly does.”

  For the next few minutes they made small talk. Hawker filled her in on some surprising new details, and just before he hung up he heard cars coming down the road.

  He looked out the window. A line of six new Cadillacs in six different and startling colors threw a whirlwind of dust in their wake as they floated down the rutted lane and skidded into the sand yard.

  Juanita came up from behind him, a wide-eyed look of awe on her face. Hawker noticed how naturally she fitted herself under his thick arm and blushed when he kissed her on the cheek.

  “The cars!” she gasped in thick English. “Are they not beautiful?”

  Behind the line of Cadillacs, Chicago Fossil Fuels’s new oil derrick towered. Only partially built, it still dwarfed the jury-rigged structure that Sancho and Juan and the others had used to pierce the shallow anticline; the hand-driven drill, which, after long weeks of hard work and many beers, began to spew up a black, liquid substance that had absolutely nothing to do with the cooking habits of the women in the village.