by Ben Rehder
CHAPTER EIGHT
Billy Don said, “Bunion’s kind of a funny word. Don’t you think so, Red?”
The men were sitting at their regular bar stools in the Friendly Bar, drinking a couple of longnecks, listening to the jukebox, Merle Haggard singing about the big city. Moments ago, Billy Don had announced that his mother had had bunion surgery, and he was happily sharing the details with Red and anyone else who would listen.
Red’s concentration, however, was elsewhere. He was busy eyeballing Sylvia, the buxom barmaid, as she restocked the beer cooler. It was an event Red eagerly anticipated, because Sylvia tended to wear tight T-shirts without a bra, and the cold air from the cooler always perked things up around the nightclub.
“Watch out there, sugar. You’re liable to put somebody’s eye out,” Red said as Sylvia finished her task. She gave him a Go to hell look and walked down the bar to wait on another customer. Red guffawed loudly and took a long swig from his beer bottle. He loved the way Sylvia took his comments, without getting all pissed-off like some women might. He figured Sylvia secretly wanted to get in his pants, and he couldn’t blame her. Women loved a good sense of humor.
“Hey, Red, lookee there,” Billy Don said, nodding toward the entrance. Across the smoky room, Sal Mameli had removed his overcoat and was hanging it on a peg by the door. The rest of the regulars glanced over. It wasn’t often they were visited by a portly Italian dressed in a silk suit. Mameli turned and made his way through the tables to the bar, oblivious to the stares he was receiving from the locals. He plopped down on the barstool next to Red.
“’Evening, boys,” Sal said as he waved a hundred-dollar bill at Sylvia and called out, “Scotch and soda.”
Billy Don had slipped his boots off and was studying his own feet for podiatric abnormalities. So Red alone returned the Italian’s greeting—without much enthusiasm. There was something about this guy that made him uneasy. Mameli reminded Red of one of the characters in The Godfather—what was his name? Clementine? Chlamydia? Something like that. Red was tempted to turn his back on Mameli, simply ignore him, but for some reason that didn’t seem like a wise thing to do.
Mameli tapped the wristwatch on his arm. “You got the time? Dis piece of shit quit working on me.”
Red said, “Clock on the wall right over there.”
“Yeah, right. Ten-thirty.”
Sylvia brought his drink and Sal said, “Dis is the good stuff, right—not the crap from the lower shelves?” She nodded and he slid the c-note across the bar. He half turned his head to Red and said, “So how’s business? Slaton been keeping youse busy?”
“Can’t complain,” Red said. “But sometimes I still do.” A favorite line of his.
Sylvia returned with Mameli’s change and he left five bucks on the bar. “Dat’s for you, doll.”
She smiled and tucked the bill in her jeans. Sal gave her an appreciative leer. Turning back to Red, he said, “What’s the old man cutting—three, maybe four hundred acres a week?”
“Probably more like five or six,” Red said, pulling numbers out of the air. “And me and Billy Don is his chief operators.”
“Whazzat?” Billy Don asked, snapping to attention like a dog who just heard a doorbell.
“Never mind.”
Billy Don leaned forward to catch Mameli’s eye. “You got any idea why they call it the ‘BrushBuster 3000’?” he slurred. “What the hell is that ‘3000’ all about?”
Mameli scratched his head. “Horsepower? I don’t know nuttin’ ’bout engines.”
Billy Don was crestfallen. If a man who actually owned a couple of BrushBusters couldn’t answer the question, nobody could. He turned his attention back to a large callus on his left heel.
“You guys still considering my offer?” Sal asked.
Red gave him an ambiguous head-bob gesture, not wanting to commit to anything. “Mr. Slaton takes care of us real good.”
Sal patted him on the back. “I’m sure he does. Hey, looks like youse guys is runnin’ on empty. Lemme get the next round.” He signaled Sylvia for two more longnecks and another scotch.
Red watched the wad of bills come out from Sal’s pocket again. It was a roll a couple of inches thick, mostly hundreds. Well, maybe this guy ain’t so bad after all, Red thought.
The dog was damn tough, Vinnie had to give him that. It took nearly an hour for the Doberman to quit twitching and moaning and finally take a last gasping breath. Quietly, Vinnie ventured into the clearing and dragged the carcass back into the trees.
He stopped for a breather and…he heard a noise. Through the branches, he saw Emmett Slaton emerge from his house.
“Patton!” Slaton shined a weak flashlight in Vinnie’s direction. “Patton! Gawdammit dog, git in here.”
Vinnie huddled up close to a large cedar. His hand instinctively went to the .38 in his jacket pocket.
“Patton, you old bastard, come to Papa.” Slaton was gingerly stepping through the high native grasses now, coming toward the cedar grove.
Damn! Vinnie had worried that something like this might happen. He knew it could end up sloppy, unprofessional... and his dad would be mad as hell. But it had been a chance he was willing to take, because the plan had so much potential.
Slaton was about fifty yards away now, and Vinnie could see he was wearing a robe and houseshoes. The old man started whistling and clapping his hands. Vinnie had to grin. Your dog can’t hear you now, old man.
The beam from the flashlight swept across Vinnie’s face and he felt as obvious as a deer in the headlights. But Slaton kept coming.
“Patton! Dammit, I’m losing my patience!”
Slaton was fifteen yards away now... then ten. Vinnie switched off the safety on the gun. He noticed he was breathing rapidly now; way too loud, he thought, sure that Slaton would hear him.
No, ol’ Sal was all right, Red figured, after the Italian had bought yet another round—the fifth, for anyone who was counting. For a Yankee, the man knew how to have a good time.
Sylvia brought Sal change for a hundred again. Red wondered why Sal always used the big bills instead of the change from earlier rounds.
Sal, evidently feeling the liquor, held up a bill and said, “Hey, Sylvia. Fifty bucks if you show us your tits.”
Ears perked up all around the bar.
Sylvia, drying a glass, casually said, “Add a zero to that and you got a deal.”
Men hooted and hollered, and Sal looked around at the regulars. “All right, anyone willing to kick in some cash?”
No hands went up.
“How ’bout you, Red? Wanna see her twins?” Sal grinned at his drinking companion.
“Hell, like my daddy always said: If you’ve seen one, you’ve seen ’em both.” The crowd roared.
After the laughter subsided and it became apparent there wasn’t going to be a floor show, Sal said, “Geez, what time is it? Twelve-thirty already? I gotta go.” He slurped down the fresh scotch. He laid another hundred on the bar in front of Sylvia. “Get these guys another round, will ya. And the change is for you, sweetheart.”
Sylvia nodded and winked.
At twelve forty-five, Maria Consuelo Garcia Rodriguez was awakened by the sound of a garage door creaking as it trundled upward along its tracks. Seconds later, she heard the slamming of a car door and then the groaning of the garage door coming back down. Maria’s small one-bedroom cottage was behind the garage, which was attached to the end of the Mamelis’ house.
She knew her boss had left a few hours ago, and she assumed it was him returning. His wife, Angela, had already drunk herself into a stupor and gone to bed, a little earlier than usual. Maria knew this was not good. She was afraid she was due for another one of Mr. Mameli’s late-night “visits.” The thought of it—of his sweaty, flabby body lying on top of her—sent a shudder down her spine. She pulled the covers tightly around her, as if that might help ward off his clumsy advances.
She heard the familiar clicking of his Italian shoes on th
e concrete driveway, receding toward the house. Tonight, it seemed, she was in luck, and he would not be visiting her. Or maybe he wanted to check on his wife first, to make sure he would not be caught.
Lying there in the dark, feeling empty and lonely and far from home, Maria could not help but remember the first time Mr. Mameli had approached her. Mrs. Mameli was away on a shopping trip, and Mr. Mameli had asked Maria if she would fix a hem in his pants. Si, she said, happy to help. Then he’d proceeded to take them off right in front of her. Maria blushed and turned away, only to feel his thick hands on her shoulders, then reaching around her to cup her breasts. Maria had resisted, she had pleaded and begged, but Mr. Mameli would not listen.
She pulled away from him, and then she saw a side of him she had never before seen. He grabbed her firmly by the wrists, hard enough to leave a bruise, and told her she had better do what he asked or he would turn her in to the INS. I’ll send you back to your little mud hut in Guatemala, he had said. Maria wanted to pretend that she didn’t understand, but it was too late. The fear already showed in her face. So, with bile in her throat, Maria had given in.
Thinking back on it, Maria began to shake. Her cat, Tuco, jumped up into the bed and nestled beside her, as if to comfort her. Tuco was a beautiful black cat, a stray she had taken in last spring. She glanced over at the corner of the room, where Pablo, her bird, was sleeping in his covered cage. Pablo was also a foundling; one she had nursed back to health after she had discovered him, only a few days old, with a broken wing, in the garden. He was a healthy bird now, black like Tuco, handsome, with a long beak and bright eyes. His wing, however, had not mended properly and he could not fly.
Tuco purred loudly and Maria smiled. She remembered the day last week when Tuco had saved Maria from Mr. Mameli’s groping hands. Mr. Mameli had come to Maria’s cottage while Mrs. Mameli was taking a bath. He climbed on top of her, but before he could complete his filthy act, Tuco jumped on his back and hissed. Mr. Mameli shrieked like a small girl, pulled on his clothes, and left the cottage, careful to avoid the cat. He appeared to be afraid of Tuco, and that made Maria giggle.
There were times when Maria became so depressed she wanted to return to her home in Quetzaltenango, to forget her dreams and accept the life she had been given. After all, what chance did she have as an illegal alien? She had always hoped to fall in love with a wonderful American man, raise a family, and then, when the time was right, go to college. She wanted to be a doctor. She felt she had a healing heart, and that a career in medicine was her destiny. Her amigas back home had laughed when she told them that. Maybe they were right; perhaps it was silly. After all, she had been in the United States for two years now. She was twenty-three years old, and she felt that time was slipping away.
When Maria got this way—a heavy feeling in her heart—she often meditated. She would light candles, play some soothing music, and sit peacefully on the floor.
Weak batteries saved Emmett Slaton’s life. He was five yards away from Vinnie, playing the light all around the cedars, but the beam was apparently too faint for the old man to pick Vinnie out through the thick, low branches.
“Aw, to hell with you,” Slaton grumbled. “Stay out here all night and see how you like it.” The old rancher retreated toward the house and Vinnie’s nerves began to settle down. After a few moments, he heard the front door close, and he finally released his grip on the cold steel of the .38.
CHAPTER NINE
When John Marlin woke up Tuesday morning, his brain was pounding against his skull and he felt as if he had little individual sweaters on each of his teeth. Now he remembered why he didn’t hit the bourbon too often. It was five A.M., but he just couldn’t sleep any longer. So he walked to the end of his driveway and grabbed the newspaper.
Back inside, he was greeted with a front-page headline that blared, ACTIVIST BREWS UP BIG TROUBLE. Marlin chuckled. The story—another piece by Susannah Branson—recounted the coffee-throwing episode of the morning before. It stated that Inga Mueller, a Minnesotan, was being held on a variety of charges, including assaulting an officer.
Near the bottom, Inga was quoted: “I’m just trying to draw attention to the plight of the red-necked sapsucker. It’s an endangered species, but nobody seems to care. They live only in cedar trees, so we need to stop cutting the cedars before it’s too late.” Well, at least Inga was getting the ink she wanted. Marlin was surprised Susannah hadn’t called him for a quote. She must have gotten everything she needed from the police report.
Marlin glanced through the rest of the paper, then took a hot shower, swallowed a couple of aspirin, and headed out the door.
He wasn’t going anyplace in particular, just cruising. He stopped at a few meat lockers—places that typically opened at sunrise to accommodate hunters—to check the quality of the deer brought in so far. The drought in the spring had been tough on the regional deer population, but they seemed to be rebounding nicely. Marlin saw several nice bucks, with antler spreads hovering around the twenty-inch mark. Couple of nice does, too, much fatter than he had expected. Seeing a healthy deer herd always put Marlin in a good mood. Animals often had to struggle against the cruel whims of Mother Nature, so it was nice to see the deer thriving.
At nine-thirty, Jean, one of the dispatchers from the Sheriff’s Department, came over the radio with a report of a poacher at Pedernales Reservoir. The park was closed on selected dates during deer season, to give hunters access, but today the park was open to the public.
Marlin swung his cruiser east and wheeled through the park entrance in less than six minutes. Driving through the camping area, he spotted a young man skinning a five-foot rattlesnake that was hanging from an oak tree. A rifle leaned against a nearby Nissan truck. Marlin asked the young man for his driver’s and hunting licenses, and everything came back clean. The man told him the snake had almost bit his dog, and that he was concerned about letting the snake go when there were families around. Marlin sensed he was telling the truth.
“What’re you skinning him for? Gonna make a hatband?” Marlin asked.
“Naw, I just want the meat. Might fry it up for lunch. You can have the skin if you want it.”
Marlin liked the young man’s answer. So he was polite, but firm: He told the offender that firearms were not allowed in the park, and killing any type of animal on the premises was against the law. In the end, Marlin wrote him a citation for possession of a firearm within the park boundaries. He could have been much tougher, arresting the young man and confiscating his rifle, a cheap bolt-action .22.
The remainder of the morning was slow, so Marlin headed back home for lunch at twelve-thirty. While eating a sandwich, he noticed the light blinking on his answering machine. He hit PLAY.
“Yeah, John, this is Lester Higgs. I got something out here, and uh, well, I don’t want to get into it over the phone, but I really need to see you right away. It’s about eleven-thirty and I’ll be here at the house for a few minutes. But I’ve got to head back to the southern property line and you can find me there, near the back pasture. It’s urgent, John. You’ll understand when you get here.”
Lester Higgs was a Blanco County native, about Marlin’s age, now foreman of the Hawley Ranch, a large hunting operation. People called the game warden all the time with “urgent” problems, but Lester’s tone told Marlin he’d better return the call right away. Marlin knew Lester to be a man who wasn’t easily ruffled. Many years ago, Marlin had seen Lester get kicked in the head by a horse during a rodeo. Lester went to his truck, stitched the wound himself, then rode a bull an hour later. Lester wasn’t the type to call the game warden every time he heard a late shot or saw a spotlight in an oat field after dark. Marlin dialed Lester’s number but got no answer. He grabbed his sandwich and headed out the door.
Fifteen minutes later, Marlin arrived at the gate of the Hawley Ranch. There were no vehicles at the foreman’s quarters, so Marlin navigated the rutted dirt roads to the heavily wooded back pasture. He passed a r
ed late-model SUV on the side of the road, rounded a curve, and spotted Lester’s white truck along the fenceline. Marlin parked beside it.
Marlin shut his truck door and immediately heard Lester calling to him from behind a dense curtain of cedars. A tall deer blind loomed over the treetops.
Marlin came through the trees and found Lester just yards away, squatted on his haunches with his dirty Stetson in his hands. In front of him was a body.
Five summers ago, Emmett Slaton had been in the drive-through at the local bank when he’d glanced over at the parking lot of the grocery store next door. He noticed a rough-looking couple sitting on the tailgate of a jacked-up yellow truck. The man was dressed in a leather Harley-Davidson cap and a matching vest with no shirt underneath. The woman wore a green bikini top and greasy blue jeans. On her left biceps was a tattoo of a penis and a caption that read Born To Ride. Between them was a cardboard box that read, FREE PUPIES. Apparently, they were down to the last pup in the litter, a wormy-looking black-and-brown runt that lay panting on the hot pavement at their feet.