by Hondo Jinx
Turning back to his friends, Brawley told Tanner he might have some business for him soon.
“Hell, Brawley,” Tanner said. “You know I’ll lend a hand. No need to pay me. Beer and brisket will do the trick.”
“I appreciate it,” Brawley said. “Might could turn into a real job for you and your crew, though. The girls and me will handle a lot of it, but I want to move quick. I could use the extra hands and your know-how.”
“Well, you just say the word, buddy, and Football Construction will be there.”
“Wait,” Nina said, a grin coming onto her pretty face, “your business is called Football Construction? What does football have to do with construction?”
Tanner shrugged. “I played football.”
Nina raised one brow and swung her attention to Sean, who was grinning like a madman. “So you’re the smart friend, huh?”
Everyone laughed.
“Yeah,” Tanner said, “and I’m the cool, good-looking, successful friend.”
“Actually,” Sean said, “I suggested the name Football Construction.”
Nina laughed. “Why?”
“People call this God’s Country,” Sean said.
Brawley nodded. “This is God’s Country. You don’t believe it, you just watch the weather, and the Almighty will convince you.”
“True,” Sean said, “but this is also football country. We take our football very seriously. Friday nights in the fall, we all go to the high school game and cheer even if our team loses every game.”
Tanner nodded. “Folks around here make Cubs fans look fickle.”
“When our team wins, we are enraptured,” Sean said, and his eyes were starting to glisten. “Having a winning football team lifts us up. And Tanner was one of the best players Haboob has ever seen.”
“One of the best?” Tanner said, feigning hurt feelings again. “Why you want to do me like that, Sean?”
“All right. The best. On defense anyway.”
“Tanner had more sacks than a grocery store,” Brawley said. He was feeling good. It was nice to be home, hanging out with his women and his friends drinking beer in his favorite bar.
“Tanner’s team won the state championship,” Sean explained.
“Twice,” Tanner said.
Sean nodded. “Which makes this big red-haired lug a local celebrity. Hence Football Construction.” Sean’s voice suddenly thickened with emotion. “When I think about how well you’ve done…” But Sean trailed off, overcome with emotion. Tears leaked from his glistening eyes.
Brawley grinned. Sean was smart and funny, had a great wife and a one-eyed dog, and did a good job managing the furniture store on Main Street. But he cried more than a teeny-bopper with front-row concert seats.
Sean wiped his tearing eyes and sniffed. “I’m just so damn proud of you, man.”
“Thanks, buddy,” Tanner said, patting the weeping man’s shoulder.
Brawley picked up the pitcher and topped off everybody’s beer.
The jukebox switched, and Waylon Jennings started singing about Luckenbach, Texas.
Around the bar, people had mostly quit staring and gotten back to their own business. Some of the guys kept glancing toward the pool table. Who could blame them? But they knew Brawley and left the girls alone.
Callie pressed tight against him and gave his hand a squeeze. She lifted her lips to his ear. “This is nice. Thanks for bringing me.”
Brawley kissed her forehead. “Good to have you along, darlin.”
Sage returned, beaming.
Remi was still back at the pool table, holding out her hand while a stunned-looking Santiago Cruz handed her some bills.
“You won?” Brawley said.
“Twice,” Sage said. “I have determined that billiards is indeed an enjoyable pastime.”
Sean was unabashedly impressed, perhaps even on the verge of shedding fresh tears. “You beat Santiago? He’s the best player in these parts.”
“Correction,” Remi said, tucking the money into the hip pocket of her tight leather pants as she approached the table. “He was the best player in these parts. Sage took his title.”
“But you never played before,” Callie protested.
Sage squinched her glasses up. “I simply analyzed the position, considered the physics, then calculated the correct angles and velocity necessary to sink a ball and reconfigure the table into the most favorable position.”
Tanner and Sean gaped.
“Beginner’s luck,” Brawley said, interrupting before one of the girls said something that would be hard to explain. He was glad to have shared everything with his parents but wasn’t ready to tell his friends about psionics. “But yeah, Sage is sharper than a cholla spine.”
Remi swiped Callie’s beer, drained it in a gulp, and said, “Don’t be too impressed, boys. I’m about to whip blondie’s ass.” The Carnal burst out laughing and started dragging Sage back toward the table.
“Hold up,” Frankie called. “I’m coming with you.”
Brawley enjoyed watching the curvy Gearhead disentangle herself from the booth. “Drool much, babe?” Nina whispered, and nipped his ear.
Brawley’s danger sense prickled.
He turned to see a crew of familiar assholes entering the bar.
Blanton Cherry’s outfit. Cherry wasn’t with them, though. Neither was his big-ass driver, Jarvis. But Roscoe, the cocky bastard who’d been driving the black truck, strutted at the front of the pack.
Roscoe swaggered over to the juke, pulled the plug, and killed Willie Nelson.
No one at the bar complained. Most folks just hunched over their beers, pretending nothing had happened. A few watched warily as Roscoe plugged the cord back in and started punching buttons.
A second later, George Thorogood’s “Bad to the Bone” came on.
The newcomers roared with approval.
Sean frowned at the men then turned back to Brawley. “Let’s grab a couple six packs and go get your mattresses.”
“All right,” Brawley said, “after we finish our beers.” He told them about meeting Blanton Cherry.
Tanner and Sean hadn’t met Cherry but knew of him. Apparently, everybody in these parts had. His outfit was making a name for itself. And not a good one.
“They ain’t cowboys,” Brawley said. “Cherry’s snapping up ranches and blasting over on the Widow’s place. I want to know what they’re up to.”
“I wouldn’t bother asking if I were you,” Tanner said. “They aren’t exactly conversational types. That stocky guy in the black shirt is meaner than a badger with a stick up its ass. Last weekend, he spread Deke Crenshaw’s teeth all over the floor.”
“Is that right?” Brawley said. He liked Deke Crenshaw about well enough to nod to. The guy talked too much and got real loud when he drank, but he was harmless.
More to the point, Deke was part of this town. Part of Brawley’s town.
His inner bull gave a territorial snort.
“They’re a rough bunch,” Sean said. “You might want to call the girls over before these assholes start some shit.”
Brawley saw Cherry’s men notice the girls, saw them point and gesture, and knew they were just waiting on their beers before ambling over to hit on his women.
“Seriously, dude,” Sean said. “Let’s go out the back. I can get you a discount on the mattresses. Sheets, too. Hell, I’ll even throw in free pillows if you leave now.”
“Sean’s right,” Tanner said. “These guys will fight at the drop of a hat, and they’ll drop the damn hat.”
Sean stood. “Let’s go.”
Brawley thought about it for a second. Then he gestured for Sean to sit down.
Sean took his seat but didn’t look very happy about it.
Cherry’s crew started for the pool table. Roscoe led the way. He was bow-legged with a narrow waist, broad shoulders, and muscular arms. He had the misshapen ears of a wrestler. His thick black hair was heavily greased and combed straight back but losing
its form, dark spikes jutting like the comb of a fighting cock.
His brutal face leered at Sage, Remi, and Frankie. “Well, well, well. You girls like playing with balls, I got a big stick for you.”
“Oh shit,” Sean said, taking off his glasses. “Damn it, Brawley, if we get arrested, Heather’s going to kill me.”
“You stay here, buddy,” Tanner said, putting a big hand on Sean’s shoulder. “You’re a married man and a respectable store manager now. I got Brawley’s back.”
“Like hell,” Sean said, suddenly angry. The boy might be weepy, but he had more guts than you could hang on a fence. “You think I’m going to sit here like some kind of bitch, you—”
“Stop,” Brawley said, rising from the booth. “Both of you.” His voice was calm and quiet, but both men did as they were told. “I’ll handle this myself.”
Brawley was actually glad Cherry’s crew had come in. He’d let them show their true colors. Then he’d release a little Seeker juice and see what Cherry was doing with the ranches.
Roscoe leaned in, saying something Brawley couldn’t hear. Sage drew back with a disgusted look on her face. Remi stepped between her Seeker sister-wife and Roscoe.
Seeing the look of anger coming onto Remi’s face, Brawley started forward. He didn’t want the beautiful Carnal to lose her cool and mop the floor with these assholes. That would complicate things here in Haboob.
Showing up at the Lone Star with a bunch of gorgeous women would kickstart the rumor mill. For as much as he wanted to stay out of gossip, however, he’d rather deal with it than hide his women on the ranch.
But if one of his beauties kicked the shit out of half a dozen men, people would be talking all the way to El Paso.
Roscoe turned to Frankie and licked his lips. “Those real, baby? Hold on. Don’t tell me. Let me squeeze them and see for myself.”
Frankie took a step back and grabbed a pool stick.
Roscoe followed. “They sure look real, the way they wobble.”
The assholes behind him laughed like a pack of hyenas.
Roscoe started to reach for Frankie.
“You touch her, you’re gonna wish you hadn’t,” Brawley said. His plan had been calculated, perhaps even prudent, but now his inner bison was bellowing with rage, wanting to bang heads with these men who had dared to approach his females.
Roscoe turned an ugly grin toward Brawley. “Look who it is. The friendly neighborhood cow catcher. Get lost, kid.” One of Roscoe’s boxy hands shot out, making a grab for Frankie’s breast.
Before the sneering asshole could grope Frankie’s tender flesh, Brawley seized his wrist and squeezed just hard enough to let him know.
Roscoe cursed and tugged at his wrist.
Brawley held tight and released a trickle of Seeker juice, wondering what Cherry was up to.
But his Seeker search came up empty. No insight into Cherry’s business and not a blip of background on Roscoe.
That’s when Brawley realized the surprising truth. Roscoe was cloaked.
Before Brawley could consider the implications, he reeled backwards. He hadn’t even seen the punch, a sneaky right that filled his head with sparks.
To Roscoe’s credit, he didn’t waste time talking shit. He came at Brawley with a barrage of powerful hooks.
Brawley got his guard up, dipped the shots, and came back with a hook to the liver. He felt the ribs break.
Roscoe folded in half and collapsed to the floor.
Then his buddies rushed in, swinging for the fences.
Brawley knew he had to take care of this pronto, before his women jumped in. So he greeted his attackers with devastating hooks and crosses and a thunderous uppercut that knocked one of them clean off his feet.
Two seconds after jumping him, they were all down.
Roscoe struggled to his feet, spitting curses. One hand clutched his broken ribs. The other dug in his pocket and jerked back out with a snapping motion. There was a clicking sound, and a flashing blade sprouted from Roscoe’s fist. “Gonna gut you like a carp.”
“You try to stick me and you’ll be sipping soup through a straw for six months,” Brawley said.
Roscoe slashed at Brawley’s midsection.
Brawley leaned away from the blade, which sliced through the air where he’d been standing. Roscoe was fast. The attack would have disemboweled a non-Carnal.
Brawley stepped into the wake of the blade and fired a blistering three-piece. The short jab froze Roscoe in place. The right uppercut, he pulled, nailing Roscoe just hard enough to lift his chin over his guard. The left hook shattered Roscoe’s exposed jaw, knocked him out cold, and dumped his sorry ass to the floor.
Cherry’s men grumbled, eyeing Brawley with restrained fury like a pack of angry dogs without the balls to bite.
Brawley swept them with a quick Seeker search that came up empty. Cloaked, every last one of them. That was aggravating.
“My name’s Brawley Hayes,” he told them. “This is my town and my bar. Y’all get the hell out of here and take Sleeping Beauty with you.”
Cherry’s men talked some shit, but nobody made a move. They grabbed Roscoe under the arms and started dragging him toward the door.
“This isn’t done, asshole!” one of the men yelled back at Brawley. “Jarvis will fuck you up!”
“He’s welcome to try,” Brawley said. “Cherry knows where to find me.”
10
Battered and bloodied, Cherry’s crew withdrew, nursing wounds and casting vicious looks back over their shoulders.
Watching them retreat, Brawley wondered why they were cloaked. He reckoned Cherry was a Seeker after the stunt the slick-talking son of a bitch had pulled back at the widow’s place. But the question remained. Why bother cloaking them?
“We’d best clear out before they come back with a mess of friends,” Tanner said.
“Or guns,” Remi said.
Brawley stayed put. “Not till we finish our beer.”
Several nervous-looking patrons packed up and lit a quick shuck. Others came over to clap Brawley on the back, pleased that a local boy had finally handed Cherry’s crew their asses.
Gus, the owner of the Lone Star, set two pitchers onto the table. “On the house,” he said. “Those boys have been hurting business. Thanks for running them off, Brawley.”
Just as Brawley and his friends were finishing off the final pitcher, the front door opened, and Sheriff’s Deputy Otis Dale entered the bar.
Brawley knew Otis. They’d gone to school together. They weren’t friends, but they had always gotten along all right despite occasional “professional disagreements” since Otis had started wearing a badge.
Otis came over, looking uncomfortable. “Hey, Brawley.”
Brawley stood and offered his hand. He’d gotten into a little trouble over the years. He’d even spent a few nights behind bars, sobering up and nursing split knuckles.
But it was no big deal. A custom of the country, really. Hell, it was almost expected of young men in these parts. And those brief scrapes had never soured Brawley on law enforcement. Nor had the sheriff’s office held a grudge against him.
So it came as a surprise when Otis didn’t shake his hand. The deputy looked tense. He rested a hand on his pistol and glanced at the girls, Sean, and big Tanner. “Brawley, you want to step outside and talk a second? Alone?”
Brawley said sure and followed Otis toward the door.
As they passed the bar, people started calling out their support for Brawley.
Otis pretended not to hear them.
Which was curious.
Outside, Otis turned on Brawley, all business, his face etched in shadows beneath the buzzing bar sign around which swirled a swarm of summertime insects.
“Got a call that said you assaulted some men inside,” Otis said.
“Assaulted?” Brawley laughed. “One of them sons of bitches sucker punched me, so I let him have it. Then his buddies jumped in, so I licked them, too.”
> Otis frowned. “Look, Brawley, don’t take it personally, but I’m supposed to bring you back to the station and ask some questions.”
“Bullshit,” Brawley said. “I’m going home. You got questions, ask everybody at the bar. They saw everything plain as day.”
Otis was shaking his head and, Brawley realized, detaching the handcuffs from his belt.
Brawley was nothing if not a West Texan. His people had little tolerance for actual crime. They were, after all, the descendants of men who had, without a badge between them, hung cattle rustlers and horse thieves.
But with this rough justice came a deep-seated hatred for injustice.
Brawley didn’t mind getting cuffed once in a while. If he deserved it.
Which he didn’t tonight.
So Otis’s attitude kindly bothered him.
“Otis, you try and put them cuffs on me, and we’re going to have us a situation.”
Otis’s eyes flashed, and Brawley could sense fear coming off the man. Fear and some sort of desperation, odd as that seemed.
“Look, Brawley, don’t be stupid,” Otis said, trying to keep his voice steady. “You going to make me call for backup?”
The veiled threat made Brawley madder than hell. “Backup? The hell you talking about, Otis? Those sons of bitches brought it to me, and I sent them packing. What was I supposed to do, stand there like a punching bag?”
Otis hesitated for a second. “I have to bring you in, Brawley. Okay?” He lowered his voice. “It’s just a damn show. All right? Blanton Cherry is madder than hell.”
Brawley laughed. “Cherry? What’s he, sheriff now?”
Otis frowned again and looked left and right. “That’s enough of that kind of talk, Brawley.”
“I don’t give a rat’s ass what Blanton Cherry thinks. This here is a raw deal. You’re the damn law, Otis, not an errand boy.”
Otis straightened a little and pointed to the front of the bar. “Now I’m going to have to ask you to turn around and hold out your wrists.”
Brawley spat on the sidewalk. “I ain’t going nowhere with you, and I sure as hell ain’t spending the night in jail. You get your ass out of here.”