by Storm, Buck
“Hey, Texas! Let’s get cowboy hats, want to? We can lasso the brat and brand her like on Bonanza.”
Hollister rolled his eyes and sat down. He laid back and pushed out ten reps on the bench press. It was his fifth set, or fourth … or sixth. Simmons’ call had interrupted him, and he’d lost count. He dropped the bar back onto the steel arms that held it and sighed. Sure, the second half of eighty grand sounded good, but somewhere in his heart of hearts, he’d been rooting for the kid. Hoping for a happy ending for her, if things like that still existed.
“Let’s go pack,” Crystal said. “And get a smoothie or something. I’m starving.”
“Maybe a burrito. I’m not drinking any of that slime.”
Crystal pinched his cheek. “That’s ’cause you’re a moron.”
“Whatever.”
“And you’re getting fat.”
Hollister glanced at the mirror. Okay, maybe he had put on a pound or two—or twenty—but hey, stress would do that to a guy. “Yeah, okay, maybe a smoothie. Or a taco salad.”
Half an hour later, the two of them sat under a thatched umbrella in a roped-off section of a strip mall a block from their Northridge apartment. Crystal sipped a thirty-two-ounce blended concoction of what looked like grass and mud while Hollister took his third bite of a carne asada burrito.
Crystal sucked her straw and peered at him over the rims of a pair of dime-store reading glasses. “Your life insurance all caught up?”
“Why? You making plans to do something criminal?”
“Uh huh, always. But those burritos will kill you before I do. And you’ll be so fat, we’ll have to bury you in a piano crate.”
Hollister grunted and poured salsa on his prize from a small plastic cup.
“Anyway, it dawns on me that you may be worth more dead than alive,” Crystal said.
“I’ll make sure to list Auggie as the beneficiary. Help him pay for a new floor after all the weights you dropped. Where’d you get those stupid glasses?”
“Walmart. They make me look smart.”
Hollister started to reply, then swallowed it. Why bother? Instead, he dipped his burrito toward Crystal’s smoothie. “What’s in that thing, pond scum? It smells awful.”
“Ancient Chinese secret, sweetie. Plus four scoops of protein powder so I can help push your eight-hundred-pound carcass up the stairs in your old age. Or trade you in on a younger model. Either way, I have to keep up my strength.”
“The glasses look ridiculous.”
“Between you and me, I’m leaning toward the younger model.”
“Ain’t no younger model. When God made me, he broke the mold.”
Crystal poked his burrito with a dirty nail. “Don’t matter. You wouldn’t fit in it now anyway.”
An hour later, a cab dropped them at the departure curb of the Burbank Airport with another hour to spare before the flight to Texas. Other than a handful of sunburned tourists dragging huge, rolling suitcases through the double glass doors, the place was deserted. Hollister appreciated the fact Simmons had booked out of Burbank rather than Los Angeles International. LAX was always a zoo, and Hollister hated crowds.
Once through security, the two of them sat facing each other on the black, vinyl airport seats—the kind manufactured by malicious TSA workers to torture Hollister’s bad back.
Crystal still wore the reading glasses balanced on the end of her nose. In addition, she’d rounded out the look with a black cowboy hat. She studied Hollister from beneath the brim. “Penny for your thoughts, moron.”
“I’m just wondering if there’s some extra from a Roy Rogers movie bleeding in an alley after you mugged him to get that hat.”
“Don’t be jealous. It’s Marco’s. He let me borrow it.”
Marco was their actor neighbor, although most of his acting gigs were for a singing telegram service and kids’ birthday parties.
“Marco. Figures. Listen, here’s how this is gonna go. We fly into San Antonio, pick up a rental car, buzz down to some town called Agua Loco—wherever that is—pick up Miss Thing and come home. No messing around. Do not pass Go. Do not collect two hundred dollars. I just want to get there, get back, and be done with it, comprendes?”
“And slap her around.”
“We’ve been over all that. No damage to the girl. Just get her, get our money and be done.”
“We’ll see,” Crystal said as she began to whistle the theme from The Big Valley.
CHAPTER THIRTY
The Legality of Lone Stars
“What’s the matter with you, Mary Martha?” Cal said.
Doc looked the old woman over through the bars, then glanced at Paradise who sat on a mattress-less, metal cot in the cell next to his. She still wore the green Elizabeth Taylor dress. It hung rumpled and torn at the shoulder. Her hair was a mess and tears had streaked makeup down her cheeks. She returned Doc’s gaze with large, frightened eyes.
A mess—and her beauty stole Doc’s breath for the thousandth time.
“I’ll tell you what’s the matter with me,” Mary Martha said. “Fifty thousand dollars is what’s the matter with me, you fool old drunk. You know how many baggies of leaves and roots I’d have to sell to make fifty thousand dollars? And if you quit yammering, maybe I’ll buy you a couple bottles of tequila. The good stuff, too. Not that poison you get down on the border.”
“It’s just wrong, that’s what it is. These are nice people. It’s just plain wrong. And I’m quittin’ the bottle. Keep your money and your hooch.”
“Quittin’, my eye. You’ll be tighter’n bark on a log an hour after Rome lets you out. Fifty thousand! I can’t believe it.”
Sheriff Rome interrupted from behind one of the gray metal desks. “Twenty-five thousand. You’re splittin’ that reward with me.”
“What are you talkin’ about? I found her,” Mary Martha said.
“And I apprehended and detained,” Rome countered.
“Only ’cause I called you, you greedy slug. You didn’t even think to check if these two might be on the run.”
“And how was I supposed to do that?”
Mary Martha barked a laugh. “Oh, I don’t know, run their license plate? Ask a question or two? Like maybe her real name? Look on the Internet? They have that now, you know. It’s in these magic boxes called computers. You should get yourself one.”
“You can cackle all you want, you ol’ witch, but this is my jurisdiction, and I’m the one collecting. I’m willing to split it, and you’re lucky to get that.”
“I’m sorry, Doc,” Paradise said. “I thought I could trust her.”
“You’ve got nothing to be sorry about.” Doc wanted to pull the bars apart and hold her.
“Nothin’ personal, girl,” Mary Martha said. “Anyway, they ain’t gonna do nothin’ to a pretty young thing like you. You’ll be fine. You got to understand, we’re talking about a lot of money here.”
Paradise offered the old woman a defiant stare. “You tricked me.”
Mary Martha’s eyes were flat and indifferent. She might as well have been looking at an insect. “I did no such thing. But you’re gonna have to learn to keep your secrets better. You’re young yet. You’ll figure it out.”
“What now, Sheriff?” Doc said.
Rome turned and shrugged. “They’re sendin’ a couple private investigators from Los Angeles to pick her up. Should be here tomorrow sometime. That’s all I know. That and the fact I’m about to be twenty-five thousand bucks richer. That’s a lot of frijoles, amigo.” He shifted toward Mary Martha. “C’mon, Double M. I’ll buy you a cold one over at the Cantina. Celebrate our newfound wealth.”
“I’ll pass,” Mary Martha said. “What about Cal? How long you keepin’ him?”
“Don’t know. Still have King Jr. to worry about. Probably a day or two.”
Mary Martha didn’t even look in Cal’s direction. “Suit yourself, but I’ll be waitin’ on the money.” She walked out the door without a backward glance.
“Well, guess
I’ll have one for both of us, then. Adios, jailbirds.” Rome chuckled as he followed Mary Martha’s exit.
Doc stood and gripped the bars of the cell, looking down at Paradise. “Are you all right?”
She nodded. “Other than feeling stupid.”
“It’s not your fault, girl,” Cal said. “It’s mine. I never should’a let you go there. Should’a knowed better. That tequila breakfast had me thinkin’ a little crooked. Still, ain’t no excuse.”
“You were trying to be kind,” Paradise said.
“I meant what I said to the old witch. I ain’t touchin’ a drop after this. I said it before, but this time it’s gonna stick.”
“The question is, what now?” Doc said.
“Ain’t much choice, is there? Can’t walk through walls. And even if we could, that Olds of yours ain’t goin’ nowhere for a few days, at least.”
“I’m not letting Paradise go back to Los Angeles.”
“Don’t see that it’s your call. You got a plan?”
“Yeah. Play chess.”
“Just because a chicken has wings don’t mean it can fly, boy. Hard to play chess from a jail cell.”
“It’s okay, Doc,” Paradise said. “Arnie says Burt will drop the charges if I come back and live in his pool house. I’ll just make it work.”
Doc noticed his white knuckles. He hadn’t realized he gripped the bars so tight. “Drop the charges? He’s the one that should be facing charges.”
“Arnie told me on the phone yesterday. I should have told you.”
Doc shook his head. “What difference does it make if he drops the charges? He tried to molest you. Rape you! You can’t go back there. Why would you?”
“Like Cal said, I don’t have a choice.”
“I won’t let you.”
Paradise traced a seam on the Elizabeth Taylor dress with a pink nail. “I did enjoy it, Doc. Dancing with you.”
“Don’t change the subject, not this time.”
Her eyes met his. “I’m not changing the subject. I’m trying to tell you. Burt will let it go … I’ll get the part of a lifetime … and I’ll find a way to fend him off. If it’s meant to be, it’s meant to be. But I want you to know that the time I’ve spent with you meant something to me. Something very special.”
“No,” Doc said.
“No?”
“No. Not like this. If you want to go back of your own choice, and there’s no danger to you, I won’t argue. But I won’t let you give up.” Doc turned to Cal. “And you! Why didn’t you tell me about your wife? I knew something was bothering you.”
“Sorry, boy. Didn’t see any point in it. I figured Mary Martha might see somethin’ weren’t right. That woman can practically see through walls. Guess I hoped it wouldn’t come to this.”
Doc sat back on the cot. He put his face in his hands and closed his eyes. The back of his head pounded like it might blow off. “I need to think.”
The idea of Paradise going back to her stepfather caused his insides to twist. But was that it? Or was it the idea of Paradise going anywhere, period? At least without him? Probably both. He loved her, utterly and hopelessly. And she had the world waiting for her. A bad joke, that’s what it was. A useless baseball player dreaming a dream that could never come true. The Green Monster in full force.
Doc’s thoughts went on like this for a long while. Circling, jumbling, then splitting again. Never organizing into a rational line. He would’ve traded his right arm for an aspirin—or five. Cal whistled away the monotony, and the sound reverberated through Doc’s skull like a buzz saw.
At length, the station door banged open and Rome returned carrying a couple of Lone Star beers, wet with condensation. Cal eyed them dully.
The sheriff rested an ample hip on one of the desks, popped the cap off one of the beers and tipped the bottle in toward the cell. “Sorry, Cal, no alcohol for prisoners. Federal law. At least, I imagine it is.”
“Ain’t no law about a sheriff tippin’ a Lone Star in the station?” Cal asked.
“None I ever heard.”
“Don’t believe you was listenin’ all too careful in sheriff school, then.”
“You got a point. Don’t reckon I was,” Rome said, taking a long pull.
The front door squeaked on its hinges again, and Rome stood, slapping the bottle down so fast Doc was surprised the thing didn’t shatter. A man filled the doorway, blocking the light. After a moment, he entered the room. He didn’t quite have to duck under the frame, but by Doc’s estimation the guy stood at least 6’5” or 6’6”, and there wasn’t much room to spare. His face belied his age—not a young man—at least seventy, maybe older, but he exuded strength. He wore camouflage-patterned cargo pants and military style boots. A T-shirt, once probably black but now a faded gray, stretched tight over shoulders heavy with muscle. His sun-bleached blond hair was streaked with gray and pulled back into a loose ponytail. A hawk beak of a nose and a thick white-gray beard accentuated the deeply lined face of someone long acquainted with the sun.
The man took in the room with a glance, pale eyes landing on Doc, then Paradise.
“Howdy. Can I help you with somethin’?” Rome asked.
Gray eyes shifted to the sheriff. “You in charge?”
“You bet.”
“Doc Morales and Paradise Jones. These your prisoners?”
“They are.”
The man pulled a folded envelope from his back pocket and tossed it on the desk next to Rome. “Not anymore.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“Paperwork’s all there. I’m taking ’em into my custody.”
Rome’s eyes narrowed. He ignored the envelope. “You the PI? I thought there was supposed to be two of you. Where’s your partner? The woman?”
“Flight got hung up in LA.” He pointed a huge finger at Paradise. “The authorities and the girl’s stepfather want to move this along. They hired me locally. Out of San Antonio.”
“And you are?” Rome stood, apparently feeling his oats.
The pale eyes tightened, and the man took a step toward Rome. The sheriff sat back down on the desk as quickly as he’d stood.
“It’s all in the paperwork,” the man repeated. “Now, I’d like to get on the road. I got a long drive.”
Rome’s fingers trembled the slightest bit as he opened the unsealed envelope and pulled out an official looking document. “Wha … what about the money? The reward?”
The man picked up the Lone Star bottle and dropped it into a metal trash can with a loud thump. Rome jumped. Drops of the liquid splashed across the sheriff’s pants.
“Isn’t the satisfaction of bringing a dangerous fugitive to justice enough for you, Sheriff?” the man said.
Mental scrambling played out across Rome’s face. “Well, sure … sure it is. It’s just that a local citizen, Mary Martha Sloan, is responsible for the recovery. Fair’s fair, ain’t it?”
The man reached into the side pocket of his cargo pants with a sigh and retrieved another envelope. “Hmm. That might be a problem. See, this cashier’s check is made out to a Thomas Rome. No Mary Martha Sloan mentioned. Fifty thousand dollars. Don’t want to make a mistake, do we? I’d better make a call.”
“No, no, that’s right. I’m Sheriff Rome. The check should be made to me. All legal and proper channels. That’s important. Keep it neat. I’ll pass on the funds to Mary Martha.”
The man shook his head but handed Rome the check. Rome studied it for a long minute then stuffed it into his shirt pocket and began fumbling with a ring of keys attached to his belt.
He walked to Paradise’s cell. “One Paradise Jones, fugitive, coming right up.”
“I said both of them. Jones and Morales,” the man said.
Rome looked confused. “Morales is in here on local charges. Nobody said nothin’ about him.”
“Look at the paperwork. The police want him, too. I’m taking them both.”
Now Rome’s confused expression turned to dou
bt. “Look, mister, there are pending charges to be dealt with here. I can’t just let a prisoner go on your word.”
The big man shrugged. “There’s a fifty thousand dollar check in your pocket that says you can. And like I said, it’s all in the paperwork. Morales has aided and abetted a fugitive. He’s coming back to Los Angeles. The authorities want him.”
“You got any I.D. other than that paperwork? You never even gave me your name.”
The man pulled out a billfold and opened it, revealing some sort of official identification card, then closed it again and dropped it back into his pocket. He leaned over to Rome’s desk and picked up the original paperwork he’d produced. As if putting on a mask, his demeanor gentled. “You know, Sheriff. You’re right. You’re just doing your job. Due diligence, I get it. Tell you what, give me back that cashier’s check, and you can keep both of them. You work it out with Los Angeles. I think they’re getting tired of the whole thing anyway. Between you and me, the officer I talked to sounded like he’d rather just forget the whole deal. They might even drop the charges there. Either way, that fifty thousand doesn’t mean anything to me. I’m getting a lousy day rate for this. Not even expenses on top. I drove all the way down here from San Antonio for what’s probably gonna be a break-even. Give me back the check, I’ll tear it up, then they’re your problem. You can negotiate, and if the girl’s father still feels she’s worth the reward, good for you. If not, just let Jones go and do whatever you want with Morales. That way you’re covered here. Cool?”
The man held out a large hand. Rome didn’t take it but put his own hand over the check in his pocket. The panic in his eyes almost made Doc smile.
“If they still offer the reward? No, listen, you go ahead and take them. Charges against Morales are weak anyway, and it’s the taxpayer’s dime he’s living on here. I need to think about what’s best for the county. Fiscal responsibility and all. Yeah, you take ’em both. I don’t want to cause any trouble for you, and I’ll make sure Mary Martha gets this reward money. Gonna change her life, that’s sure.”
The big man shrugged. “Have it your way, then. Like I said, don’t matter to me either way.”