by Ben Rehder
“Then what?”
“I started to go inside and get Grandma, but she was asleep. And you got to understand that I was really smashed…between the pot and the beer. So I just went to bed, hoping everything would be cool when I woke up. But in the morning, Michael was still behind the barn, in the same position.”
Garza resisted a strong urge to grab the kid and shake him like a rag doll. Why on earth hadn't he even called 911?
Willie saw the look on Garza's face. “Man, I was really freakin’. I didn't do anything wrong, but I just knew I'd get in trouble for somethin’. It had to be something wrong with the weed. So I knew I had to do something with Michael.”
“And that's where the bridge at Mucho Loco comes in?”
Willie nodded.
“You buried him and just forgot about it all?” Garza asked incredulously.
“What was I supposed to do?”
“Call for an ambulance, that's what!” Garza stared at Combes, but the kid wouldn't meet his eyes. “All right, Willie, last question: Where did you get the pot?”
“Aw, man…”
“I'm not kidding about this. Tell me where you got it or I'll take you in right now.”
Willie sighed and finally said, “His name is Charles Walznick.”
THE COLOMBIAN MAN had been in Texas several times, but he had never been to Johnson City.
And from what he had seen so far, he had already made a vow not to come back. Nothing but pickup trucks and rednecks, as far as he could determine. Couple of mom-and-pop restaurants, nothing that looked too promising. The obligatory Dairy Queen. Even a couple of small hotels on the main strip. Every building in town could use a coat of paint, except for the courthouse. It was made of stone. Just like other small towns in Texas, hardly more than a wide spot in the road.
The man pulled into Big Joe's Restaurant, hoping the crowded parking lot was a sign of good food. He hated the thought of having to sit down and eat in the midst of a bunch of yokels, but he was getting hungry and couldn't wait any longer.
He squeezed his rented Cadillac between a rusty Ford truck and a Chevy Suburban. Tight spot. He was already picturing how he'd have to fuck up some hick if he came out and found a scratch on this nice car.
He walked through the door and a cute brunet girl was waiting for him, asking if it would be just him for dinner. She sat him down at a small table and gave him a big smile. He smiled back. Maybe this wouldn't be all that bad. He felt pretty sure she was impressed by his linen jacket, which was imported from France. Nice Italian shoes, too. Slicked-back hair with two-hundred-dollar shades perched on his head. Impeccably groomed mustache. Sure, there was plenty for a girl to smile about.
Scanning the menu, the man started to groan inside. Christ, don't they have anything here that isn't fried in fat? Chicken-fried steak. Chicken-fried chicken. Deep-fried okra. He imagined they'd fry the pecan pie if they could find a way. When the brunet girl came back, he ordered the chicken-salad sandwich.
“Thass not fried, ees it?” he asked, flirting a little, thinking the girl might like his accent. He was a regular Ricardo Montalban.
She didn't catch the sarcasm. “No, sir. But you might want to try the chicken-fried steak. Best in town.”
He told her he'd stick with the sandwich and a glass of iced tea.
The man glanced around the dining room and observed the crowd. Lots of guys in jeans and boots, colorful pullover shirts and cowboy hats. Plenty of women and young girls, too, dressed for a night on the town, it looked like.
The brunet brought his iced tea and he asked if something was going on in town.
“Big volleyball game tonight against Marble Falls. If we win, we take district.”
“Don’ you play volleyball?”
“I did, but I graduated last year.”
“Bet you were the star player, with long legs like that.” The man looked her up and down and the girl gave him an embarrassed smile.
She was about to reply when a young man, barely drinking age, caught her eye from a few tables over. He was shaking an empty beer bottle at her, asking for another round. She excused herself and went into a back room.
The man glanced over at the impatient customer's table. Four local men—boys, really—were hunched over plates hidden by enormous slabs of chicken-fried steak. They all wore workshirts and boots. About a dozen beer bottles were assembled into a pyramid in the center of the table.
The girl came back with another round for the young men. The one who had shaken his bottle at her—Mr. Impatient—said something to her. The Colombian man couldn't hear it, but he could sense tension between the waitress and the young punk. The customer said something else and then glared over at the Colombian.
As the man ate his sandwich, the crowd thinned. Nearly eight o'clock, time for the game. By the time he was done, he was alone in the room with the beer drinkers and a few older couples.
The waitress brought his check and the man gestured toward Mr. Impatient. “You know that guy?”
The waitress looked embarrassed. “Ex-boyfriend. Thank goodness.”
The Colombian tried to flirt one last time. “Wass there to do in this town on a Monday night?”
“There's the River Ballroom, if you like two-steppin’, but that won't really get going until after the game.”
“Perhaps you and I could get together.…Maybe you teach me lessons to do this two-step.…” The man gave her his best pickup smile.
She was clearly uneasy, glancing over at the locals. She said she couldn't make it tonight, thanks anyway, but she was in charge of cleanup.
Well, it was worth a shot. Time to find out which hotel was the least objectionable and get a room for the evening.
He laid a twenty on the table to cover his twelve-dollar tab and drained the last of his iced tea. Then he heard a voice.
“Mister, is that your Cadillac out there?”
The man looked up to see Mr. Impatient standing to his left. He had apparently just come in from outside, and he was folding up a Buck knife, inserting it into a sheath on his belt. The man didn't reply.
“Comprende inglés, amigo?” Mr. Impatient said. He smiled over at his friends, still at the table. They were all grinning back at him.
“I hate to tell you, but it looks like you picked up a nail out on the highway. Got yourself a flat tire. El flatto tiro.”
Mr. Impatient stood there a moment while the man dabbed at his mouth with his napkin.
He stood without saying a word, nodded to the three locals at the table, and went outside. He could hear laughter as he went out the door.
The left rear tire was slashed. There was a gaping slit on the sidewall, clearly not the result of a nail. One word had been traced in the dust on the back window: SPICK.
Five minutes later, the young men came outside to find the Hispanic man leaning against the only truck left in the parking lot. Mr. Impatient spoke first: “I think you're a little confused, amigo. Those are my wheels. That's your Caddy right over there. The one low on air.”
The man was standing with his arms crossed, so none of the locals noticed the brass knuckles on his right hand. And his hands moved so quickly, they probably never saw them at all. One quick shot to Mr. Impatient's forehead and it split open like an aging dashboard. He fell to the ground with a yelp as the blood enveloped his face.
The largest boy in the group took a swing, but the man ducked it and cracked his ribs, feeling the bone give. He, too, dropped like a sack of feed. The two remaining locals took off behind the restaurant.
The Colombian man slowly took off the brass knuckles and slipped them into his pocket. He reached over and grabbed Mr. Impatient by the hair and pulled hard.
He said, “My name ees not ‘amigo,’ it ees Oscar. Now which one of you sheetkickers is gonna change my tire?”
Early Tuesday morning, John Marlin received a call from Thomas Stovall, one of the best rock masons in Central Texas, a hell of a poker player, and a frequent poacher. Marlin
knew him quite well, and had written him up for minor infractions several times over the years. But Marlin had to admit, he liked Stovall—he was quick with a joke and entirely honest when he wasn't hunting.
“This is a switch, Thomas. You calling me,” Marlin joked. “Usually it's me trying to track you down.”
Stovall gave it right back to him. “You know how I like to avoid the law, especially when they've got a hard-on for poor country folks like myself.”
Marlin smiled while Stovall continued. “John, I need to talk to you about something. Actually, I need to show you something.”
“What you got?”
“I'd rather show you if I can. Can you swing by my place this morning?” Stovall's voice sounded urgent.
“I imagine I could,” Marlin replied. He wasn't used to Stovall being so serious. “I'll see you in about thirty minutes.”
Marlin got dressed, grabbed a traveler's mug of coffee, and headed out the door. It wasn't until he was halfway to Stovall's small ranch that he remembered who Stovall's neighbor was: Roy Swank. Maybe this would be the right time to pay Swank a visit and have a talk about Buck. But first things first.
Minutes later, Marlin swung through Stovall's front gate, which had a sign that said, PEDDLERS AND MEDDLERS NOT WELCOME. Beneath that, someone had painted a crude rifle and written, WE DON'T CALL 911.
He parked by the beautiful rock home and saw Stovall come out the front door. The men greeted each other and Stovall got right to the point. “John, you and me have had a few run-ins, ain't we?”
Marlin agreed that they had.
“But I've always thought you were a straight-shootin’ type…a good man,” Stovall said.
Marlin thanked him for those kind words. He was patient—he knew the redneck rock mason had something to tell him. It was best to let him do it at his own pace.
“Now, I'm wondering if I can tell you something…and keep it just between us. Sorta man-to-man.”
Marlin smiled. “Well, that all depends on what we're talking about, Thomas. But I imagine you could probably tell me what you want to tell me without it getting out.”
“I'm not so worried about it getting out as I am about…getting in trouble.”
“For another game violation?”
“Possibly. But that's not what you're gonna be interested in.” Stovall took a deep breath. “Let's say that I was out doing a little hunting—maybe a few days before the season was open—but I came across something darn peculiar…something you should know about.…”
Marlin was finally beginning to get a little impatient. “Thomas, I'm guessing you shot a deer out of season. So what else is new? Let's hear what all this is leading up to.”
Stovall looked Marlin in the eye for a few seconds, making a decision. Finally he said, “Climb in my truck. Let me show you something.”
“It's the damnedest thing I ever saw,” Stovall said. The two men were walking through thick woods near Stovall's western-most property line. The cedar trees were so dense, the atrophied lower branches raked the men's skin as they passed by. Finally they broke through into an opening along an eight-foot gameproof fence. “I was watching the fenceline.…Right there's where the deer come through. You can see where there's a hole in Roy Swank's fence.” Thomas winked at Marlin.
Cutting holes was a poacher tradition, a way of keeping animals moving through high fences. Since cutting fences is illegal, some poachers applied battery acid to the fence—and when it would deteriorate a year later, it looked like natural rusting. It was a unique trick introduced to the innovative poaching community by none other than Thomas Stovall.
“It was a big ol’ buck, a real wall-hanger,” Stovall said. “I think Swank keeps some of his best bucks in this pasture”—pointing to the gently rolling hills across the fenceline. “I was just setting under one of them cedars over there, using my thirty-thirty. It was only a sixty-yard shot.”
Stovall walked about ten yards and stood next to a heavily traveled deer path. “They wander onto my place at night, and then go back early morning.”
“I would, too, if I was fed the high-dollar stuff Swank buys,” Marlin joked.
Stovall smiled. “I mean to tell ya. His bill at the feed store beats my annual income. Anyway, he was heading back to Swank's ranch right at sunup. I took a lung shot, but I think I popped him in the gut. He fell down for a second, then jumped up and ran back onto Swank's place. I walked over here to check for blood,” Stovall said as he approached the deer path.
Marlin could see several deep deer tracks where the buck had accelerated out of the soft dirt. He also saw a few specks of blood, some semidigested grass, and a curious white patch.
Marlin knelt down and took a closer look. About two tablespoons of snow-white powder lay sprinkled on the ground.
Stovall said, “I got to tell you, John, in forty years of hunting, I've never seen anything like that. What do you think it is?”
Buck's behavior all makes sense now, Marlin thought. If my hunches are right. “I'm not sure exactly what it is,” Marlin said. “But I have a pretty good idea.”
BACK IN THE cruiser, Marlin's adrenaline kicked in as he thought about nailing Roy Swank for good. And now he thought he had what he needed to get the job done. But first, he needed to find someone to test the white powder for him and see if his suspicions were correct. He couldn't go to Sheriff Mackey—if he was involved, he'd make the evidence disappear faster than a cheeseburger at lunchtime.
Then Marlin thought of Bobby Garza, a good deputy and a man he knew he could trust. He'd have to set up a meeting with Garza and get his input. In any case, now was not the time to confront Swank, not till Marlin figured a few things out. So he went directly from Stovall's ranch to Phil Colby's house.
He pulled into the driveway, expecting to see Buck's head pop up somewhere in the high grass. After all, nobody had been here in a few days, and the deer loved company.
But he didn't see Buck.
Maybe he's in the barn, Marlin thought. Colby always left the back door open a little so the deer could come and go. He also left high-protein feed in a bucket, away from other deer and varmints.
Marlin swung the barn's front door open. Still no Buck.
He checked the bucket of feed. It hadn't been touched.
Roy Swank was nervous. Just talking to Oscar on the phone made his palms sweat. Having the crazy Colombian right here in his den just about made him pee his pants. Nobody—from senators to presidents—had ever made Swank feel this uptight. Even in his discomfort, Swank couldn't help but admire the man. He would have made a hell of a lobbyist.
Right now, Swank was squirming in an uneasy silence. Oscar's last words had been: “What do you think we ought to do?” He said it as if he already knew the answer.
Seconds passed as Oscar's eyes bore a hole through the back of Swank's skull. Finally, Swank gave a weak shrug.
“I tell you, then,” Oscar said. “When you have a problem, you fine a way to eliminate that problem.”
Swank nodded. “But I don't see as how we have a problem anymore.” He tried to sound confident. “We got the deer back, and Colby is in the hospital out cold. He probably won't even remember the whole episode.”
Oscar had been sitting placidly in Swank's chair, fingers steepled in front of him. Now he exploded to his feet and swept several items off the desktop. “You fool! Probably ees not good enough. What if he does remember? What then? Having the deer back means nothing if we have the DEA, the ATF, and the FBI on our asses!”
Oscar walked slowly around behind Swank. He paused in front of a large mirror and ran one hand over his slicked hair. Moments passed in silence.
Then Swank jumped involuntarily as he felt Oscar's hands on his shoulders. Oscar leaned close to Swank's right ear and whispered: “You and I are not so different. We both have beeg dreams. But there ees one thing that sets us apart, like day and night.” He squeezed Swank's shoulders. “You will go to almost any length to attain your dream. But when you
strip away your Americano boldness, the truth ees, the thought of blood scares you, deep in your heart.” Oscar stood straight again. Swank was still staring straight ahead. Oscar leaned down again. “But it excites me.”
Oscar came around the desk and sat back down in the chair.
Swank knew he had to speak—try to contain things before they got out of hand. “I've got an idea—one so simple I can't believe I didn't think of it earlier.” Swank chuckled and waited for Oscar to urge him on. Oscar simply stared at him.
Swank said, “Here's what we should do. I'll get Tim Gray—you haven't met him, but he's my vet—I'll get him to open up the buck and remove the heroin he musta missed last time.” Swank couldn't remember the last time he had said that word. Normally he referred to it as “goods” or “merchandise,” somehow giving himself a sense of comfort by not directly mentioning the wares he was now peddling.
Oscar nodded. “Go on.”
“Then we give the deer back to Colby. It's that simple. He wants the damn animal anyway. And once he has it—bingo—nobody's breathing down our necks anymore.”
“What do we say about the scar on hees belly?”
“Hell, we just say it had a tumor or kidney stones or some such shit. Who's to know better?”
Swank smiled broadly, revealing smoke-stained teeth, while Oscar sat in silence.
“It'll be worth losing a trophy buck just so we can get back to business as usual,” Swank added.
Oscar placed his fingertips on either temple and closed his eyes, as if searching the recesses of his mind for divine inspiration. Swank listened to the ticking of the antique clock on the mantle. Funny, he had never noticed how loud it was before. Sounded like a miner deep in a tunnel, rhythmically picking away at hard rock walls.
Finally Oscar looked up. “Do eet tonight.”
“I've been wanting to talk to you for a long time, Barney,” John Marlin said. The two men were seated at Cisco's Bar-B-Q in beautiful downtown Blanco, south of Johnson City. “Downtown” meant being within spitting distance of the only traffic light in town.