by Ben Rehder
Slaton brought over a couple of drinks and sat in the chair next to Sal. The dog lay obediently beside Slaton’s chair.
The men chatted for a minute-polite but meaningless conversation-and then Sal decided to lay it on the table. “Emmett, I know you’re a serious man, so I’ll be straight wit’ ya: I’m interested in buying your land-clearing operation. As you know, I’ve been in the business a few months myself, and it’s treated me well.”
Slaton took a sip of bourbon but didn’t comment. So Sal continued: “I hope you don’t mind-I done a little research, found out how many machines you own, how many employees you got…”
Sal removed a pen and a small notepad from his coat pocket and wrote a figure on a page. “… and dis is what I’m prepared to offer ya.” Sal held the notebook up for Slaton to see. “I’m ready to pay twenty-five percent now, and the rest one year from today.”
Slaton remained quiet.
Sal squirmed a little in his seat. He was used to holding the upper hand in negotiations like this. “Whaddaya say, Mistuh Slaton? Can we talk about it?”
“What’s there to talk about, son?” He broke into a grin. “The outfit’s all yours.”
“Seriously?” Sal hadn’t expected things to go quite this smoothly.
“Hell, yeah,” Slaton said. “I know a good offer when I see it. I’ll get my attorney to draw up the contracts on Monday. Until then”-he raised his glass-“I’ll wish you luck on your new venture.”
Sal raised his beer. “Te salute.”
Slaton eyed Sal a little suspiciously, probably thrown by the foreign phrase, but he drank anyway. “So, how you enjoyin’ Texas so far?” the rancher asked.
“Fuhget about it,” Sal said. He figured he’d make a little small talk, then exit gracefully. “What-we’re already into November and it’s eighty degrees outside? And the summertime? Place is a goddamn sauna.”
“It’s not so bad,” Slaton said.
“You kidding me? I don’t know how you live in dis hellhole.”
Right then, Sal knew he’d made a mistake. Slaton stood slowly, and the only sound was the scrape of the chair on the tile floor. Sal felt awkward looking up into the old man’s weathered face.
“Son, did you just call the great state of Texas a ‘hellhole’?” Slaton asked.
Sal gave a feeble smile. “I was just talking, ya know? Figger of speech.”
“Well, the deal’s off. You can take your figure of speech and your shiny East Coast suit and get the hell out of my house.”
“C’mon, Mistuh Slaton, why ya breakin’ my balls? I was just-” Sal heard a growl. The Doberman had risen also, and was now at Sal’s right elbow, fixing him with an unsettling stare.
“I think it’s time for you to leave, Mameli.”
Sal couldn’t believe it. What would have been an offhand remark back home was apparently cause for a duel here in Texas. “Aw, fuck it,” Sal said. “You’re making a mistake here, pal. A big one.”
“You’re the one who made a mistake, son. Now clear out.”
On his way toward the door, Sal pointed a meaty finger at Slaton. “You’re gonna regret dis.”
Twelve miles away, two twenty-year-old men were smoking a fat joint and slamming Budweisers at Pedernales Reservoir. Terrence Jackson Gibbs-“T.J.” to his friends-was lying on top of a picnic table, indifferent to the puddle of old ketchup that was ruining the back of his hundred-dollar polo shirt. His friend, Vinnie Mameli, was sitting on the table’s bench seat, shooting a pellet rifle at any bird who made the mistake of lighting in a nearby tree. Vinnie was a tall, well-muscled kid, with dark eyes, close-cropped hair, and a purple birthmark on the left side of his neck. T.J. was smaller, and thick through the middle, like a frat boy who’d been drinking beer all summer.
“I need a new car,” T.J. wheezed, propped on an elbow, trying to contain the pot smoke in his lungs. “My fuckin’ Porsche sucks.” He finally exhaled a large cloud of gray smoke. “It’s in the shop half the time, then I have to drive one of my dad’s trucks. Feel like a redneck.”
“Goddamn, quit yer bitchin’ already,” Vinnie said. “Just get your old man to buy you something else.” He spotted a mourning dove thirty yards away in a Spanish oak. He pumped the rifle five times and let a pellet fly. The bird flapped, then flew away erratically, leaving a few feathers to drift gently to the ground. “You’re spoiled rotten anyway,” Vinnie said.
T.J. sat up straight. “Look who’s talking, you asshole. You’re the one who’s always packing a wad of hundreds. And you don’t even fuckin’ work. At least I got a job.”
“Assistant manager at Dairy Queen? You’re really climbin’ the corporate ladder, T.J.”
“Hey, work builds character. At least that’s what my dad tells me. And anyway, I also got my own place to stay.”
Vinnie snorted. “Aw, give me a break. You’re livin’ in the guest cabin on your parents’ ranch. That’s really cutting the ol’ apron strings, I tell ya.”
T.J. thought it over. “Fuck it,” he finally said.
“That’s what I say. Fuck it. Pass the joint.”
T.J. handed it over, and Vinnie took a long hit. “Dude, why don’t we go over to the ranch and do a little four-wheelin’?”
Since moving to Texas, Vinnie had discovered-and fallen in love with-this exciting and aimless activity. Guys in jacked-up four-wheel-drive trucks or all-terrain vehicles would take off cross-country, bouncing over culverts, splashing through creeks, trampling the foliage and any animal unfortunate enough to find itself in the vehicle’s path. T.J. owned a bright-red Toyota four-by-four with an oversized engine, headers, enormous tires, and a roll bar. Hell on wheels, but too tricked-out to be street-legal.
“Nah, there’s a couple of guys over there clearing cedar and shit. My dad musta called ’em. He drove in from Austin yesterday. He’s been comin’ out more often lately, ever since the party. Like he’s checking up on me.”
T.J. and Vinnie had thrown a huge celebration three months earlier, for T.J.’s birthday. T.J. had done it up in style, with a dozen kegs, a live band, and enough illicit substances to stock the local drugstore. Naturally, every county resident between the ages of fifteen and twenty-five had attended. It was a fairly typical T.J. Gibbs party, with topless women in the hot tub, minors vomiting behind bushes, and three fist fights. When Walter Gibbs showed up unexpectedly the next morning, what angered him most was the fact that the riding mower-a brand-new John Deere-had somehow ended up in the swimming pool.
“Where is the trust?” Vinnie asked with a smile.
“No shit,” T.J. replied, missing Vinnie’s sarcasm. “Plus, I gotta be at work at five.”
“Better smoke up, then, my man.”
As T.J. took another hit, Vinnie’s cell phone rang. He slipped it off his belt. “You got Vinnie, talk fast. Oh, hey, Pop.”
After a thirty-second conversation, Vinnie hung up and turned to T.J. “My old man on his car phone. He’s pissed off about something. I gotta go.”
CHAPTER FIVE
Rodney Bauer wiped the sweat from his brow and vowed for the hundredth time to lose about twenty pounds. Forty would probably be a healthier goal, according to his doctor. The weight always had been a bit of a problem, but really became an issue when he was quail-hunting, hiking around in the Texas sun.
His small ranch-like the rest of Blanco County and the Hill Country west of Austin-was poor quail habitat. Too rocky, not enough wide-open grassland, and too many fire ants, which could kill the quail’s hatchlings. But there were usually a few coveys scattered about on his acreage, and that’s what he was searching for on Sunday afternoon.
Rodney’s dog, Honeybee, a one-year-old yellow Lab, had a decent nose, but Labs weren’t really meant for quail. Rodney enjoyed running the birds with her just the same.
Honeybee was scampering through tall native grasses about twenty yards ahead of Rodney when she came to a stop. Rodney eased up beside the dog, and then raised his shotgun to his shoulder. “Git �
�em,” he whispered. The dog bolted straight for a mound of cedar brush-and the air exploded with the sound of flapping wings. A dozen quail took to the air, and Rodney fired two quick booming shots. Honeybee scurried through the grass, picked up a quail gently in her jaws, and delivered it to Rodney.
“Good girl!” Rodney said, stroking the dog’s neck. “Now, fetch! Get the other one!” Honeybee started in the direction of the other fallen quail, but suddenly veered to her left and took off at a run, wagging her tail.
Rodney was shouting at Honeybee, calling her back, when he realized he had an unexpected visitor. A woman had emerged from the cedar thicket that bordered the open meadow where Rodney was hunting.
For a moment, Rodney was stunned. The woman was gorgeous: tall, with flowing blonde hair. Trim but curvy. Like something right out of a beer commercial. She was dressed in snug blue shorts and a bikini top that was barely handling its contents. Rodney was suddenly grateful it was unseasonably warm today.
The woman was kneeling down, rubbing Honeybee’s head, and that gave Rodney time to regain the powers of speech. “’Mornin’,” Rodney said, walking over. “I wasn’t expecting a visitor today.”
The woman looked up and gave him a smile that made his palms sweat. She said in a soft voice, “Sorry to barge in on you like this, but I was driving by and heard the shots. I’ve always wanted to learn how to hunt, so I just hopped the fence.” The smile again. “I hope you don’t mind.”
Honeybee was still wagging her tail furiously-and Rodney would have been doing the same thing if he had one. “No ma’am, don’t mind at all. My name’s Rodney Bauer, and this is my ranch.” He stepped forward and offered his hand.
The woman’s fingers were slender and smooth. “Inga Mueller.”
“Oh, you’re German. Same here. Guten Tag.”
“Well, German on my father’s side. My mother is Swedish.”
Praise the Lord you take after your mama, Rodney thought. There was an awkward pause, and Rodney finally said, “So…you want to learn how to shoot birds?”
“I’d love to,” the woman said in the same sexy voice. “I find guns very…exciting.” She stepped closer and lightly touched the barrel of Rodney’s twelve-gauge. “That’s a very nice gun you have there, Rodney.”
Rodney visibly gulped. What was going on here? Had someone set this up as a joke? This couldn’t possibly be happening. Rodney stole a nervous glance in the direction of his house, imagining the heat of his wife’s glare from five hundred yards away. “Why, thank you,” Rodney croaked. “I’d be happy to show you a thing or two. I need to grab a little more ammo, so why don’t we walk over to my truck?” Actually, Rodney had plenty of shells in his hunting vest. He just wanted to continue this conversation over by his Chevy, tucked in the privacy of the trees.
As they walked, Rodney noticed the hiking boots the woman was wearing, and the way they brought out the fine lines of her sculpted calf muscles. “You sure are lucky to own a ranch,” she said. “You do a lot of hunting out here?”
“Oh, yeah, all the time. Shot a twelve-point buck yesterday,” Rodney lied. “Gonna mount him for sure.”
The woman said, “Do you mount a lot of things, Rodney?”
Rodney’s face flushed and he began to feel a little dizzy. He tried to answer, but only managed a few stutters. The woman looped her arm in his and walked beside him. She leaned and whispered in his ear: “Cat got your tongue?”
Rodney could feel her warm breath on his neck, and desperately wished he could play this game as well as she did. He wanted to think of something clever to say, but was stumped. He managed to blurt, “Ever shot a gun before, Inga?”
“Nope, I’m a virgin.” Another suggestive smile.
By now, Rodney was waiting for Allen Funt to step from the brush and tell him he was on Candid Camera. “It’s really simple,” he said. He showed the woman how to load the shotgun, the proper way to hold it, and where the safety catch was. “The main thing is, never aim it at anything you don’t intend to shoot.” He handed her the weapon.
“Ooh, this feels nice.”
“Great,” Rodney said. “Let’s see if Honeybee can scare us up some quail.”
“That would be really fun, Rodney. But first, let me try a few practice shots.” Suddenly, the woman turned, shouldered the shotgun, and aimed at Rodney’s one-year-old pickup. Before Rodney could react, the woman fired.
The first shot tore through the front grille and loosed the contents of the radiator.
The second shot turned the windshield into a network of cracks with a gaping hole in the center.
The last shot punctured the right front tire. The air whooshed out and the truck bowed like a circus elephant on one knee.
Rodney began to whimper softly.
Honeybee cavorted around the woman with glee.
The woman turned to Rodney and said, “Well, look at that. I think I’ve already got the hang of it.”
“You’re about the most stupidest hillbilly I ever met, you know that, Billy Don?” The men were back in Red’s truck, driving over to Emmett Slaton’s house. Red felt certain they’d both get fired this time. They had wasted a great deal of time chopping cedar on the wrong ranch, and now they had to come clean with their boss.
Over on the passenger’s side, Billy Don was pouting. “It wasn’t my fault, Red. All I done was foller the map, and it was wrong.”
“The map, huh?”
“You saw it.”
“But you’re the one who drew the freakin’ map!”
“Oh yeah.”
“I have to tell ya, I’m impressed, though. I didn’t even know you could operate a pencil without an owner’s manual.”
Billy Don gave Red a harsh glare-kind of a cross-eyed grimace that appeared when he was particularly angry-and Red knew he was walking on thin ice. Billy Don was a three-hundred-pound brute, and Red decided he’d better ease up.
“Well, I’ll see what I can do about keeping our jobs. Just leave the talkin’ to me.”
As Red turned into the gate at Emmett Slaton’s ranch, a late-model Lincoln coming the other way barreled through beside him, blasting its horn. Red caught a glimpse of the driver as it passed by. “Hell’s bells, what’s wrong with that guy?” He glanced in the rearview mirror. “You know, that looked like that Eye-talian who tried to hire us last week.”
“Wonder if his offer is still good?” Billy Don whimpered.
Red hissed: “You can go to work for a wop if you want, Billy Don, but not me. Besides, somethin’ didn’t feel right.”
The man had called Red on the phone, offering an employment deal that included complicated incentives and escalating per-acre commissions. You could make a coupla g’s a week if you work hard enough, the man had said. Red wasn’t sure what a “g” was, but he had pulled a few fast ones in his time and he thought it sounded like a scam. He said thanks but no thanks, he was sticking with Slaton.
Red parked the truck and the Doberman bounded off the porch, howling at the visitors.
“Hey there, Patton,” Red said, and the dog wagged its docked tail. “Look what we got here.” Red pulled a piece of beef jerky from his pocket and Patton gently took it from his hand. “You’re just a big ol’ pansy, ain’t ya? Where’s your daddy at?”
As if he understood, the dog ran to the front door and barked.
Emmett Slaton opened the door and ushered the men into his den. “What brings you out here this time of day, boys? You done with the Leaning X already?”
Red held his hat in his hand and told the full story, waiting for Slaton to get angry, tell them they were both idiots. But Slaton didn’t get mad, and actually seemed distracted, as if he were hardly listening.
When Red was finished, Slaton simply nodded. Then he pulled a large handgun out of a drawer and laid it on his desk. “Either of you ever shot a forty-five? I want to sight this in, but my eyes ain’t quite what they used to be.”
Red was startled. “What about the Leaning X, sir? Ain’t y
ou gonna fire us?”
“Aw, hell, son, I would never fire you for that. Besides, you wasted your time, not mine. Now help me sight this gun in.”
Red stared down at the weapon. “Somethin’ got you worried, Mr. Slaton?”
The rancher shrugged. “Aw, not really, son. But a man can’t be too careful these days.”
Sunday evening, a cold front moved southward into Blanco County, bringing half an inch of much-needed rain, harsh winds, and a twenty-degree drop in temperature. John Marlin was glad to see it. The first week of deer season was always his busiest, and the nasty weather would help put a damper on poaching activities around the county.
He received only one call that evening. Just after sundown, a hunter on a day lease had struck an axis deer with his truck. The landowner was furious, claiming the hunter owed him two thousand dollars for the imported exotic buck. The hunter didn’t see it that way, and wanted the landowner to pay for the damages to his Chevy. Marlin knew the law, and sided with neither of them.
Over the phone, he told them the hunter wasn’t liable for the cost of the deer and the landowner wasn’t liable for the damages to the truck. They each had to take their own lumps. That seemed to satisfy them both, and Marlin hung up, grateful he didn’t have to brave the weather for something so petty.
CHAPTER SIX
The rain was long gone by Monday morning, but things were still slow-no calls from the sheriff’s dispatcher-so Marlin met Phil Colby for breakfast at a small cafe attached to the bowling alley in Blanco. He was also expecting to see Rodney Bauer, who had called Marlin’s home number early that morning. Bauer wouldn’t specify why he wanted to see Marlin, but said it had something to do with an odd incident that happened while he was quail-hunting yesterday.
The diner was quiet, with only a dozen or so customers, all die-hard regulars willing to brave the weather for a hot breakfast. Marlin and Colby were in a booth, drinking coffee, waiting for the waitress to bring their orders.