“You should have called me about this the minute you got your hands on it,” he said.
I sighed and nodded. “I know, Charlie. That’s what I intended to do. I was going to come back home, wait for the diary to arrive, then hunt you up after I had it safe in my hands. But that kidnapping scared the hell out of me, and I decided it was safer to try to cut a deal with Walsh for the book in exchange for his agreeing to leave me and Tía Carmen alone. After all, the problems of Jefferson County really aren’t my concern. But I never got a chance to make that deal because he vanished.”
He gazed unblinking at my face for the longest time, then he actually smiled and said, “Virgil Tucker, you are full of shit. Even if Walsh had agreed to leave you alone, you wouldn’t have believed him. You ain’t stupid, boy.”
I smiled right back at him. “I can be, believe me. And there was a point there where I would gladly have traded the journal for his assurance that our business was finished.”
“You’re not telling me the whole story, though. And we both know it.”
I laughed a little and shook my head and gazed out into the yard for a while, unwilling to meet his wise old eyes. Finally I turned to face him. “Think what you want, Charlie. But I’ll tell you one thing we can agree on. Any sorry bastard that invades a man’s home with the intention of harming him and his family deserves whatever he gets.”
That hit him where he lived. He leaned back once again in his chair and rubbed his face thoughtfully for a few moments, saying nothing. Finally he nodded and asked, “Who murdered the girl?”
“My guess is that it was Nolan Dunning,” I said. “But that’s another of those things we’ll never know for certain.”
“Virgil, do you feel sure, and I mean dead sure, deep down in your gut, that they’ve both gone far enough away that none of this is ever going to come back to haunt us?”
“Charlie, I think they’ve gone about as far as they could possibly go.”
He’d heard all he wanted to hear. We dropped the subject and let the conversation drift back to things that didn’t matter while we sat and rocked and drank more coffee. Finally he rose to his feet. “You don’t mind if I take this with me, do you?” he asked, holding up DeMour’s diary.
“I’d be grateful for you to get it out of my sight. I wish I’d never seen the damn thing.”
We shook hands and he started toward his car. When he was halfway across the yard, I called out, “What’s your official report going to say, Charlie?”
He turned and pulled off his Stetson and wiped his brow with his shirt sleeve. After he’d squared his hat back on his head, he said, “I plan to dump your story and this book right in the governor’s lap and let him make that decision himself. And if I know Coke Stevenson as well as I think I do, we’ve both heard the last of Milam Walsh.”
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
I resigned my Special Ranger commission by mail the week after Grist’s visit and began devoting all my attention to the ranch. I never recovered my car, but it was a fair trade for my life, so I didn’t complain. Pablo’s nephew found me a metallic gray ’39 Mercury coupe with low mileage. I trusted the kid’s judgment enough that I bought it sight-unseen. I wasn’t disappointed.
One fine, sunny Monday in April I’d been to the doctor in San Antonio. When I pulled up in front of the house in the middle of the afternoon, I found my aunt having coffee on the front gallery with a young Mexican woman who appeared to be in her middle twenties. As I hobbled up on the porch I could see that she was tall and slim, with long, coal black hair pulled in a bun at the back of her head. She had almond eyes and creamy skin and wore a well-tailored dress of dark blue, polka-dotted linen with a white lace collar.
“Come say hello to Miss Perez, Virgil,” I heard my aunt say.
I limped over to where the two of them sat beside the little iron table that resided permanently on the porch, then pulled off my hat and reached out to shake hands. The girl’s fingers were cool, and she seemed utterly poised, with a distance about her that was just as cool and remote as her hand.
“I’m pleased to meet you,” I said.
My aunt sprang to her feet. “I’ll go get you a cup of coffee, Virgil,” she said and disappeared through the front door before I could refuse.
I eased myself into the third rocker and asked, “What brings you to La Rosa, señorita?” I asked.
“I have applied for a job at the elementary school in town, and the principal sent me out here to meet your aunt.”
“Ahhh … I bet you’ll get it.”
“I hope so,” she replied. “Your aunt said she would recommend me.”
“That’s all it takes.”
“Really? How so?”
“Let’s just say that the superintendent of schools values her opinion quite highly. Don’t worry. You’re as good as hired.”
In a few moments Tía Carmen was back with my coffee. “You two go ahead and visit without me for a while,” she said as she set the cup on the table. “There’s something I must tend to in the kitchen.”
“Sure, there is,” I said softly as I followed her retreating back with my eyes.
The girl raised her eyebrows inquiringly.
“There’s never anything in that kitchen that has to be tended to in the middle of the afternoon.”
“No?”
“Definitely not.”
“Then why?—”
“To leave us out here alone together. She’s matchmaking. Or trying to, I should say.”
“Oh, I see,” she said, and then smiled a sly little smile.
I watched her face while I sipped at my coffee. The smile remained and her eyes boldly met mine. “Why do you look like the cat that ate the canary all of a sudden?” I asked.
“Because I know something you don’t.”
“Oh yeah? What?”
“We are cousins.”
“Who?” I asked in amazement. “You and me?”
“Sí,” she said with a little laugh. “I am descended from Rosa Veramendi’s older brother, Arturo.”
“That’s wonderful,” I exclaimed, quickly taken with the idea. “That makes us what? Fifth cousins?”
“I think that’s right. Fifth or sixth.”
“Why haven’t we met before?”
“Don Arturo died in the typhoid epidemic in the early 1870s, and his wife took the family back to Mexico City, where we lived for two generations. During that time our families lost contact with each other. Then my father brought us to Laredo shortly before I was born. It is only in the last year that we learned that Rosa had descendants still living here in Texas.”
“Fascinating,” I said, thoroughly entranced.
We chatted on for the better part of an hour, both enjoying it immensely. I learned about her family and that she’d gotten her master’s degree at Peabody College up in Memphis the year before. She also told me that she loved to read and dance, and we talked about our favorite books. Tía Carmen reappeared twice and then vanished each time just as quickly as she’d come. I found the girl alluring, and she knew it. She found me interesting, too, and I knew it as well. When at last she rose to leave I walked her to her car. “Where are you staying?” I asked.
“I’ve rented a room from old Mrs. Niebling in town. Why do you ask?”
“Oh, I thought we might take Aunt Carmen up on her matchmaking.”
“Ahh. I see. Exactly what are you proposing?” The sly smile was back on her face and her eyes were mocking.
“Maybe dinner and a movie in San Antonio this coming Saturday. I would be happy to take you dancing, but my foot…”
She didn’t even pause to think about it. “Yes, I believe I would like that. But you must promise to be a gentleman.”
“Of course,” I said, opening the door of the car. “I’m always a gentleman.”
“I think we both know better than that, Virgil,” she said, using my name for the first time. I closed the door and stood and watched as her little Plymouth dwindled down th
e lane.
By the time I regained the porch my aunt had returned. “A fine girl, isn’t she?” she asked.
“Indeed she is.”
She smiled knowingly. “Now, that one would make a good rancher’s wife.”
“Tía Carmen?” I said, looking her squarely in the eyes.
“Sí?”
“Mind your own damn business.”
This bought nothing more than a self-satisfied smile.
* * *
Two nights later the moon was full. After the blood had been drunk and the fire built, the old men and I sat around passing the bottle among us. Once the tequila had warmed my innards a little, I tried thanking them for standing by Aunt Carmen and me the day Walsh and his thugs came to kill us. But they would have none of it. “Such is our destiny,” Alonzo said mockingly.
“Sí,” Pablo agreed. “Our fate.”
“What are you fools talking about?” I asked.
“Are we not secretly known as Los Caballeros de La Rosa?” Alonzo asked.
“Sí,” Pablo agreed. “We only tend the cattle by day so no one will suspect.”
“Suspect what?” I asked irritably.
“That we ride out by night like the great Zorro to rescue young patróns who have gotten themselves into difficulties with evil men from the outside world.”
“Sí,” Alonzo agreed sagely. “As I said, it is our destiny.”
“After all, are we not young and dashing?” asked Juan, he of the bent back and scarred face and missing fingers.
“To say nothing of handsome,” said Pablo, his one eye gleaming in the firelight, his snaggle-toothed smile like a jack-o-lantern cut by a child’s unskilled hand.
“Make light of it all you want,” I said, “but I will never forget what you did.”
We fell silent while the moon climbed higher in the sky. Alonzo threw more wood on the fire, and the bottle went round once again. At last Pablo began speaking of me as though I were not there. “It is good that Señor Virgil has come home to stay.”
“Sí,” another agreed. “But now it is time for him to take a wife.”
“And he must have children.”
“Sí,” Pablo agreed. “Mischievous little niños like he once was who will liven things up around here.”
“And who will pay him back all the pranks he pulled when he was young.”
“You are right, my friend,” Pablo said. “That would be justice indeed.”
“But who will he marry?” Juan asked.
“Perhaps the pretty young señorita,” Pablo said. “The one who came to see Tía Carmen earlier this week.”
“Was she truly lovely?” Juan asked.
“Aeeee!” Pablo exclaimed. “Such beauty as to take a man’s breath away. Tall and slim, the very image of Tía Rosa as she appears in the painting that hangs in the great room at the main house.”
“Tía Rosa?” Juan asked.
“Sí,” Alonzo answered. “The young señorita and Señor Virgil are cousins.”
“Damn!” I said. “Do you old buzzards know everything?”
“Sí!” Pablo said and cackled wickedly.
“But very distant cousins,” Alonzo added. “Far enough removed that even the priests would not object to such a union.”
“How could the priests object?” asked Juan. “If the law does not care, then why should the priests?”
“Because the Holy Mother Church cannot be conformed to the world,” Pablo explained patiently. “It must have higher standards.”
“No,” countered Juan. “The Church must be subject to the law like everyone else.”
“This is not the case,” Pablo said. “The Church has a very special mission—”
“No, you are wrong, my friend. The law…”
I let my mind drift away and left them to their theological wrangling, these old men who never darkened the doorway of a church except at Christmas and Easter, when their wives’ nagging made it impossible for them not to do so. The evenings were still cool in April, and that night not even a hint of a breeze was blowing. I leaned back against a mesquite stump and watched as the fire flickered and its smoke spiraled upward through the motionless air into the darkness of the night. Down toward the river coyotes began to call out, and somewhere nearby I heard the eerie cry of a screech owl. Yes indeed, I thought—perhaps I would marry the pretty señorita. Perhaps we would have many little niños and the old house would once again echo with the cries of children at play. And perhaps—just perhaps—there was such a thing as destiny. But for the moment, mildly and happily drunk, I neither knew nor cared. For the moment I was content to simply be, safe and secure out under the moonlit sky where the harsh, limitless land stretched far away.
Also by Milton T. Burton
Nights of the Red Moon
The Sweet and the Dead
The Rogues’ Game
AUTHOR’S NOTE
Anyone wishing to know more about that unique ecological and cultural area of Southeast Texas that is the Big Thicket can do no better than Dr. Francis Abernethy’s Tales from the Big Thicket. Ab, who was for three decades secretary of the Texas Folklore Society, has studied the Thicket for years and has known many of its natives.
Those who would like a more thorough treatment of the golden age of Galveston and the Maceo gambling syndicate are directed to Gary Cartwright’s excellent Galveston. To my mind it is far and away the best history ever written of this romantic island.
Readers interested in learning more about the South Texas political machine in the 1940s are advised to get a copy of Boss Rule in South Texas by Evan Anders.
Readers should also note that both Sam Maceo and George Parr were real people who were very much as I have described them.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Milton T. Burton was variously a cattleman, a political consultant, and a college history teacher. He is the author of The Rogues’ Game, The Sweet and the Dead, and Nights of the Red Moon, which were published by Minotaur Books. He lived in Tyler, Texas. Burton passed away in November 2011. He will be missed.
This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, organizations, and events portrayed in this novel are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.
A THOMAS DUNNE BOOK FOR MINOTAUR BOOKS.
An imprint of St. Martin’s Publishing Group.
THE DEVIL’S ODDS. Copyright © 2012 by Milton T. Burton. All rights reserved. For information, address St. Martin’s Press, 175 Fifth Avenue, New York, N.Y. 10010.
www.thomasdunnebooks.com
www.minotaurbooks.com
The Library of Congress has catalogued the print edition as follows:
Burton, Milton T.
The devil’s odds : a mystery / Milton T. Burton.—1st ed.
p. cm.
ISBN 978-0-312-64335-5 (hardcover)
ISBN 978-1-4299-5099-2 (e-book)
1. Texas Rangers—Fiction. 2. Witnesses—Protection—Fiction. 3. Murder—Fiction. 4. Gambling—Texas—Galveston—Fiction. 5. Mafia—Louisiana—New Orleans—Fiction. 6. Texas—Fiction. 7. Louisiana—Fiction. I. Title.
PS3602.U77D48 2012
813'.6—dc22
2011032831
e-ISBN 9781429950992
First Edition: February 2012
The Devil's Odds Page 22