by Ben Rehder
Twenty seconds later, as if on cue, Oscar walked through the den door. He said nothing, but instead walked to the bar and grabbed the same bottle of brandy. He poured himself a healthy glassful, as Swank watched. Gray sensed the tension and took the opportunity to slip out the door.
Oscar sauntered over by the fireplace and stood with his back to the hearth, as if warming himself in front of nonexistent flames. “We have a small problem,” he announced coolly. “I just shoot a photographer, perhaps from the FBI, perhaps from the DEA…”
Swank was incredulous. “Here? You just shot a government man here? Right on my ranch?”
“Yes, of course,” Oscar said casually, as if he was discussing what he had eaten for breakfast. “He is in my trunk. I will have my men dispose of the body when they arrive.”
Swank put his hands palms-outward in front of him. “Oscar, I don't want to know. I didn't hear a word you just said, and whatever you've done, I want no part of it.” Swank didn't think the dead man could actually be a federal agent because the ranch house would be surrounded by now. But whoever it was, Swank didn't want to be involved.
Oscar nodded, acting unusually rational. “I unnerstan’. You are only being wise. But you have to see how this affects all of us. Before, we had concern. Now we have more. If they send a photographer here, what do they know? How do they know it? It must be the game warden. But as you say before, they cannot get a search warrant. That is not our problem now. The man outside is our problem.”
“Shee-yit,” Swank said, making it two syllables. He wanted nothing to do with the corpse in Oscar's trunk.
Now Oscar began to pace, his patience thinning. “Okay, you say you don’ want to be involve. My men will arrive tonight. We take care of everything.”
This thought actually made Swank more nervous than knowing exactly what was going on. “But…”
Oscar put his hands in front of him as Swank had earlier. “No. You leave it to me. In a few days, we will have no problems. Truss me.”
Charles Walznick, the pot dealer, had provided Bobby Garza with a long list of regular customers, other dealers, and a few friends who helped him work the marijuana farm. He had also supplied Bobby Garza with the name of Virgil Talkington, Blanco County's one and only bookie. Garza knew Virgil, and knew that he could cover just about any bet you wanted to place on any of the major sports. He'd been at it for nearly twenty years and managed to make a decent living. He knew sports well enough to put Marv Albert to shame, and he rarely had to pay off any of the bets with his own money. After all, bookies simply act as brokers between bettors. Then they take a commission, called a “juice” or “vig,” on the losing bets. So the trick was to always have the same amount of money on either side of a bet. For instance, if the Cowboys were playing the Redskins, Talkington wanted the same amount of money betting on both teams. If too many people were choosing the Cowboys, he'd just adjust the point spread to entice more people to pick the Redskins. Once he had it all evened out a day or two before the game, he'd close the books. Then, no matter what, he'd walk away with ten percent of the losing side. Standard bookie procedure.
Talkington dealt with a fairly small betting pool—most of the adult male population of Blanco County. He'd seen rich men lose tens of thousands of dollars without batting an eye. He'd watched in morbid curiosity as poor men placed bets equal to their yearly salaries. Sometimes they got lucky. More often, they were driven by a frantic desperation that caused them to place bets they wouldn't normally place.
Talkington was never concerned about the losers paying up, because he never extended credit. Everything was cash up front—the bet you wanted to place, plus ten percent in case it tanked. Conveniently, Talkington had a cousin, a vice president at the local bank, who would happily extend a line of credit to just about anyone who could sign a loan application. Sure, the cousin received a small kickback from Virgil, but on paper down at the bank, everything looked nice and legit. Virtually every betting man in Blanco County had taken out a “debt consolidation” loan with Talkington's cousin. The winners usually paid it off the next week. Losers usually took years.
Like most small-time bookies, Talkington went virtually unharassed by local law enforcement officials. In fact, Sheriff Herbert Mackey was of his most loyal customers. (Mackey had a weakness for the A&M Aggies, and would bitch until the next season if they didn't beat the spread against the Texas Longhorns.) So, Talkington had been curious but unconcerned when he had gotten a call from Blanco County Deputy Bobby Garza earlier that day. Garza had been cordial but friendly, asking to stop by Talkington's house that evening. Maybe, after all these years, Garza was coming by to place his first bet with Talkington. Mackey had done well on the pro games last weekend. Maybe word had spread.
Garza arrived at seven and Talkington greeted him at the door. Garza took a beer that Talkington offered and followed him to his garage office, Talkington's customary place of business for drop-in customers.
“So what can I do you for?” Talkington said, gesturing for Garza to have a seat in a chair next to his desk.
“I wanted to talk to you about Charles Walznick,” Garza said casually, and watched as Talkington's eyes widened a little. “We busted him this morning…growing pot on his place off Sandy Road.”
“That right?”
“Had a pretty healthy crop, with all the rain we've been getting. Thing is, he told me he never could have afforded the place except he won a few bets a couple years back. What can you tell me about that?”
“Well, Bobby, you know I don't really like to talk about my clients….”
“I understand that, Virgil, and to be honest, I don't have much of a problem with you running a book. Doesn't seem that much different than the lottery to me. If people want to spend their money, hey, who am I to tell ’em how to spend it?” Garza took a long swig of his beer. “But when the money they win gives them the capital to start a small drug operation, that's when I have a problem.”
Virgil scowled and adjusted the cap on his head. DRIPPING SPRINGS RANCH & FEED, it said above the bill, complete with a gaudy red-and-green logo. “Damn, Bobby, how'm I supposed to control what they do with their winnings?”
Both men sat in silence for a minute. Finally Garza spoke again. “I'm not trying to put you out of business. I just need you to cool it for a while. Shut down the books for maybe six months. Because when the bust makes the papers, people are gonna wonder where a lowlife like Walznick got the money for the land. Sure enough, it's gonna come back to you. Virgil, I don't need to tell you what kind of conservative population we got in this county. When they hear about drugs and gambling, they're gonna want some answers. I need to be able to tell ’em we shut you down.”
Talkington stood and began to pace the concrete floor. “You gotta understand, this is my busiest time of year, right in the middle of football season. Hell, the playoffs and the Super Bowl account for half my annual business. If I skip them, I'll plain go broke.” Talkington swung his arm and gestured around him. “You can see that I'm not exactly making a fortune anyway. Same three-bedroom house for twenty-two years.”
“I know, I know. But the pressure's gonna be on me and the rest of the department to put an end to the gambling.” Garza truly felt bad, asking a man to give up his livelihood.
Talkington plopped back down into his chair. Then his head lifted and a smile crossed his face. “What if I could tell you about something else that would be bigger than this Walznick thing, something that would blow it off the front page?”
Bobby Garza took another drink of beer, then said, “Let's hear it.”
THAT NIGHT, JOHN Marlin sat down at his desk and booted up his computer. It buzzed and clicked as it warmed up, then it asked him for his password. The security procedure—even for his home computer—was a Parks and Wildlife Department mandate. Game wardens often kept their own records of game violations, complete with offenders’ names and addresses. Marlin typed his password, then opened his word processing progra
m and began to type….
TO: Mark Russell, Texas Attorney General
FROM: John Marlin, Blanco County Game Warden
DATE: Wednesday, November 3
Mr. Russell :
I'm sending you this note in confidentiality because I'm not sure where else to turn at the moment. I have a situation developing here in Blanco County and, frankly, I don't know how to handle it. It goes well beyond the laws that encompass game and fish codes, and I thought it best to present my thoughts to the state’ s top law enforcement official. But a warning: What I have to say might be a little hard to believe….
Marlin laid out all the details in a concise, factual manner. Even so, rereading it himself, it sounded ludicrous. Roy Swank, one of the state's most powerful men, a man from the inner circles of political power, a drug dealer?
In any case, it helped Marlin clear his head just by putting everything down on paper. He had no intention of mailing the letter right now; he couldn't really do anything until he had the blood sample tested.
Red O'Brien had led a disappointing life, even by Central Texas trailer-park standards.
For starters, there was his father. A kind and gentle man, Matt O'Brien had been one of the country's most beloved rodeo clowns. Sure, younger kids loved clowns, but by the time Red reached junior high—and his dad was still working the circuit—the other kids teased Red mercilessly about his father's profession. Red ended up with the nickname “Bozo Junior,” and he began to hate his dad for the cruel abuse from his peers. Then, when Red was fourteen, his father was killed by a fifteen-hundred-pound Brahma bull in Cheyenne, Wyoming. To this day, Matt O'Brien remains the one and only rodeo clown to die from a gore injury directly to the anus.
His mother, on the other hand, was a lifeless woman with a taste for Irish whiskey. The small insurance settlement they received from his father's death disappeared into the smoky air of beer joints and honky-tonks. Sometimes she came home alone, sometimes she came home with a man, sometimes she didn't come home at all. For a while, she cleaned houses in and around their small hometown, but she spent most of her earnings on cigarettes and booze. When several of her customers began to suspect her of stealing, she and Red became outsiders in their community, living on food stamps and other government assistance. Finally, when Red was sixteen, his mother ran away with a welder. Red never told anybody she was gone, just continued to live in the old mobile home as if nothing had happened. He worked odd jobs, delivered newspapers before school, and forged her name to government checks. His mother's absence was actually an improvement in his life. He later heard that she ended up somewhere around Midland, but he never knew for sure.
Education was never Red's strong point. He hated science. He didn't understand math. History bored him. English seemed futile, since he already knew the damn language. The only class Red passed on a regular basis was PE. Most of the teachers had mercy on Red, though, and he managed to slip from one grade to the next. During his senior year, Red attended Career Day eagerly, hoping that the visiting representatives from various large corporations would see his potential. Hell, they might even offer him a job right now, without any college, Red thought. Deep in his heart, Red just knew that all this school bullshit didn't really matter in the real world. He knew that his intelligence and savvy would outshine his lackluster grades and prove that he was worthy of any career he might choose. But when he got the report back the next week, what they called a “Career Recommendation Summary,” nobody seemed to understand that Red was a diamond in the rough. Right there under “Recommended Career Fields” it said: Truck driver. Construction worker. Custodial engineer. Custodial engineer? Red was smart enough to know what that meant: They thought he ought to be a fuckin’ janitor. Red was so angry he left school two months before graduation and never returned.
His luck with women wasn't much better. He was painfully shy during high school and never dated. After dropping out, he found a woman he liked quite well. They met at a tractor pull, and she quickly accepted Red's offer for a date. She slept with him the first night, and Red had thought he was quite a charmer. Then, after a clumsy round of sex, she told him he could just leave the fifty bucks on the dresser. She smiled and said she could hold a spot for him every week if he wanted.
Finally, three years ago, Red thought he had found true love when he hit it off with a bleached-blonde woman at a dogfight. Red dated Loretta for three months, and then they made a road trip out to Vegas to tie the knot. Exactly one week after their wedding night, back in Johnson City, Red was finishing up his dinner of squirrel and Hamburger Helper when there was a knock on the trailer door. Loretta put down her cigar, answered the door, and then stepped outside to speak with the visitor. Probably Violet, Loretta's best friend who lived next door, Red thought. He went back to watching a rerun of The Dukes of Hazzard and was slugging down a sixteen-ounce beer when he noticed that the voices outside were getting loud. One was a male voice. Red stuck his head outside and saw Loretta arguing with a monstrously large man. He had a crew cut, huge yellow teeth, and hands the size of dinner plates. He wore overalls with no shirt underneath, and he clutched a bottle of cheap Mexican tequila in his dirty fist. Behind him, a worn Honda Civic clicked as it cooled down. Loretta and the stranger fell silent as Red stuck his head out the door.
“Everything all right out here?” Red asked, eyeing the stranger.
Loretta looked nervous. “Fine, Red,” she barked. “I'll be back inside in a minute.”
The stranger spoke up with a slur. “This yer brother you been tellin’ me ’bout?”
“No, sir,” Red said, doing his best to scowl as he came down the cinderblock steps. “I'm her husband.”
If the chirping crickets had understood English, they would have immediately gone quiet. The big, drunk visitor looked from Red to Loretta and back to Red. “Tha’ fuck you talkin’ ’bout? Her ‘husband?”
He went on to explain that Red couldn't be her husband, because, goddamn it, he was Loretta's husband. Red told the stranger to hold on, he'd fetch the marriage license, and the visitor said that he might as well fetch a roll of toilet paper, because Loretta was his own damn lawful wedded wife. They continued to argue and Red was thinking about slipping back inside for his twelve-gauge—but before he could make his move, the stranger popped Red upside the head with his tequila bottle. Red fell off the steps but rebounded nicely, picking up a loose brick from the deteriorating sidewalk and bouncing it off the man's chest. The man played possum, groping his ribs like they were broken, but then his eyes flashed and he moved with deceptive agility, getting Red in a headlock. The man began driving his knuckles into Red's scalp, and Red quickly decided he didn't like that at all. He managed to wriggle away, and dove for safety under the trailer. Once again the stranger was too quick; he grabbed Red by the cuffs of his pants and dragged him back out from under the trailer. Red came out grasping a square-nosed shovel and took a swing that would have made Mark McGwire proud. He caught the big man square in the forehead, and the impact made a sound like the buzzard that had hit Red's windshield the week before. Red was winding up for another piledriver when both men were distracted by the sounds of squealing tires and slinging gravel. Loretta was taking off in the stranger's Honda.
“Well, good goddamn,” the stranger said.
“Fuck me nekkid,” Red said. Both men stood silently for a few minutes, staring down the road after the long-departed sedan. Then Red went inside and returned with a six-pack of tallboys. He handed one to the stranger. “I'm Red O'Brien.”
The stranger stuck out a beefy paw. “Billy Don Craddock.”
Neither of the men ever heard from Loretta again. Billy Don had been Red's best friend ever since.
“Fuck you, Red,” Billy Don said, sitting on Red's sofa. “Fuck you and the goat you rode in on.”
Red O'Brien was used to setbacks. He'd faced them all his life. Actually, he didn't really face them as much as ignore them. “So all we gotta do is…”
“Didn't yo
u hear what I just said? Fuck you. I ain't messing around with all that bullshit anymore. I been snake-bit, I been shot—in fact, the bandages on my gut are leaking again. Can't believe I let that horse doctor take care of me. Plus, I think I caught the clap from that damn stripper.”
Red threw up his hands. “What in the world does that have to do with Roy Swank?”
Billy Don didn't respond, but just grabbed the remote and turned up the volume on Buck Fever, his favorite hunting show. Danny Jones was sitting in a tall tower blind, telling his viewers how to rattle up big bucks. “Best way to do it,” Danny said, “is have one of your buddies under the blind with the antlers, while you're sitting up top keeping an eye out. You want to really smash the antlers together to simulate two bucks fighting.” A camera outside the blind showed a man in camouflage working two antlers.
“I'm tellin’ ya, Billy Don, there's gotta be a way we can make some money offa all this.”
Billy Don turned the volume up even louder. Back inside the blind, Danny Jones was whispering, because a large buck had just come into view of the camera.
Red tried another tack. “What the hell's your problem? You scared of that little spick?”
“Don't push me, Red.”
“That's it, ain't it? You're scared. I wisht I'd knowed I was running around with a little girl.” Red raised his voice about three octaves: “ ‘I'm Billy Don, and I'm scared a that mean ol’ Meskin.’ ”
Billy Don turned to Red and emitted a low growl. Red had only heard it on two other occasions, and both times a guy had ended up in the hospital. So he quit prodding and decided to go get another beer. As if Red were psychic, the phone rang just as he rose off the couch.