by Ben Rehder
“How can I help you?”
“I believe you may know a client of mine. Sal Mameli.”
“Yeah, I know Sal,” Garza said, trying to put as much disapproval into his voice as possible. He expected the lawyer to protest his questioning of Sal about the bribery case. But Garza was in for a surprise.
The attorney said, “Mr. Mameli and I would like to arrange a meeting with you—as soon as possible. Vincent believes he might have some information regarding the murder of Emmett Slaton.”
Marlin was enjoying another wonderful meal prepared by Inga, but he was afraid he wasn’t very good company. He was preoccupied, replaying his conversation with Becky that afternoon.
“Great food,” Marlin said.
Inga smiled. Marlin knew she could sense his mood. He was about to apologize when the phone rang. It was Bobby Garza.
“Can you meet me at my office at eight-thirty?”
“I guess so,” Marlin said. “What’s going on?”
“Something interesting has come up, and I want you to sit in.”
Billy Don was happy to take a break and ride into town for supplies like Red asked. Shit, as far as Billy Don was concerned, this thing with Smedley was going nowhere. That’s because Red had it all wrong. Ain’t no way that guy worked for Sal Mameli. He was too damn nice for that. A couple of times, Billy Don had gone in and talked to him for a few minutes when Red was sleeping. Just another regular guy, friendly as can be. Billy Don hated the way Red was abusing him. In fact, Billy Don had snuck in and turned down the volume before he left, so poor old Smedley wouldn’t go completely cuckoo from listening to that Hee Haw song. As long as Red didn’t check the headphones, he’d never know.
Billy Don pulled into a convenience store and went inside. Just don’t go to that one owned by Ay-rabs, Red had said. Hell, Billy Don didn’t need Red to tell him that.
Inside, Billy Don began loading up a basket with potato chips, pretzels, Slim Jims, and little chocolate donuts. He even threw a package of Twinkies in for Smedley. Billy Don thought Smedley looked like the kind of guy who could appreciate a Twinkie now and again.
Billy Don was making his way toward the counter when the front door opened and Kitty Katz, the TV reporter, walked in. Behind her was Darrell Bridges, the sheriff’s dispatcher. They were giggling about something. Billy Don instinctively turned and strolled casually to the far side of the store.
Kitty and Darrell walked in Billy Don’s direction but stopped at the soda fountain, where they began to fill some cups. Billy Don could tell from the way they were standing, brushing hips on occasion, that they had the hots for each other. It was quiet in the store, so Billy Don couldn’t help but overhear what they were saying.
“Aw, come on, Darrell. Just between you and me,” Kitty cooed.
Darrell glanced around the store and Billy Don pretended to be studying a quart of motor oil.
“All right,” Darrell whispered. “But off the record, okay?”
Billy Don couldn’t see, but Kitty must have batted her long lashes at the dispatcher.
“It was Emmett Slaton’s body in that car,” Darrell said.
Billy Don wondered if his ears were playing tricks on him.
“And there were a couple of guns in there with him,” Darrell went on to say. “A forty-five and a thirty-five. They’re running ballistics down at the lab.”
Billy Don quietly set his basket on the floor, took the long way around the store, and walked out the front door as quickly as he could.
CHAPTER FORTY-TWO
At precisely eight-thirty, Marlin watched Bobby Garza escort Sal Mameli, who was on crutches, his son Vinnie, and a third man—presumably Sal’s lawyer—into the interview room at the Sheriff’s Department. Marlin was sitting in an adjoining room, watching through a one-way mirror. Beside him were two deputies: Bill Tatum and Rachel Cowan. The lawyer, Kramer, had insisted that Garza conduct the interview alone. (But, Garza had said, he didn’t say anything about spectators.)
“I hear you had quite a commotion out here,” Kramer said, making small talk to break the uncomfortable silence.
“Word travels fast,” Garza replied.
All four men took a seat around the lone table, Sal and Vinnie surveying the room as if they expected cops to be hiding in the corners.
“Before we begin, I would like to lay down a few ground rules,” Kramer said.
Garza nodded.
“Mr. Mameli tells me that you paid him a visit yesterday on an unrelated matter. Considering that my clients are coming forth out of their own concern for the community, I will ask that you restrict your questions to the Slaton case alone. If any questions should stray from that topic, I will advise my clients not to answer. Are we clear on that?”
Marlin knew the lawyer was discouraging Garza from fishing for details about the bribery case. And possibly the attempted rape case, if Vinnie was involved.
Garza kept a poker face. “Agreed.”
“Well, then....” The lawyer gestured toward Vinnie, who looked as if he was about to vomit.
“I saw the news this morning,” Vinnie said. “I saw T.J.’s car gettin’ pulled outta the lake and everything. And, uh, the thing is…I kinda think T.J. killed that old man.”
Red was sitting on the couch, keeping an eye on Smedley, flipping through a copy of Juggs magazine, when he heard Billy Don come roaring up to the trailer. A few seconds later, he felt the entire structure shake as Billy Don thundered up the steps and came bustling through the front door.
“Red!” he said. “Turn on the news! They found Emmett Slaton!”
Garza sat quietly for a couple of beats, his eyes boring into Vinnie’s. “And why do you think that?”
Vinnie leaned forward, putting his elbows on the table. Then he changed his mind and removed them. “See, me and T.J. was out four-wheeling once, and we kinda wandered onto Slaton’s place. We wasn’t doing nothin’, just riding through a coupla his pastures. But he came ridin’ up in his truck and started screamin’ at us, tellin’ us we was trespassin’. Guy was pissed off, too. I thought he was gonna drop dead right then from a heart attack, he was so worked up.”
Vinnie went on to say that Slaton and T.J. had been enemies ever since. Anytime they saw each other, they would exchange harsh words.
Garza asked when and where the incidents had taken place, and he took notes as Vinnie answered. Most of them, Vinnie said, had happened outside of various businesses in Johnson City. Apparently, T.J. and Vinnie had nothing better to do than park along Main Street and “just hang out.”
“Did anyone else ever see these arguments?” Garza asked.
Vinnie glanced at the lawyer, who nodded. Vinnie continued:
“Well, they wasn’t really arguments, more like the two of them just cussing each other. T.J. would make engine sounds, you know, like four-wheeling noises, when Slaton would walk by. Slaton would glare at us and tell us to stay the hell off his land.”
“You didn’t answer my question,” Garza said quietly. “Were there any other witnesses to these exchanges?”
Vinnie scratched his head. “None that I can remember.”
The room was silent as Garza wrote something on the pad. “So,” the sheriff said, “if you think T.J. killed Slaton because of this bad blood, do you have any idea how T.J. ended up dead himself?”
Vinnie lowered his eyes to the table. “Yeah, I heard about that this afternoon. I got no idea how that happened. Musta drowned somehow. He was always out on the lake, just fuckin’ around.”
Garza nodded abruptly, and it was obvious to Marlin that the sheriff thought everything Vinnie had just told him was worthless. “Anything else?”
The lawyer glanced at Sal, who finally spoke up. “Yeah, dere is one other thing. I think the kid was stealing from us.”
“T.J.?”
“Yeah, T.J. We had a coupla things go missing after the kid had been at our house. My wristwatch, some cash on the kitchen counter, some of my wife’s diamond earrings.
” Marlin could tell from Sal’s facial expression that he hoped Garza would find that information very interesting.
Garza didn’t. “Did you report it?” he asked.
“Naw. Didn’t figger it was wort’ the hassle.” Sal laughed. “Figgered youse guys was busy enough already.”
Garza slid his chair back. “All right, then. Thanks for coming in.”
The deputies filed into the interview room, Marlin bringing up the rear. Garza had sat back down again, drumming his pencil on the table.
“What do you think?” Tatum asked.
“Total bullshit,” Garza said.
Out in the parking lot, Sal rested on his crutches and shook hands with Eugene Kramer. He gave Vinnie a big smile. These small-town cops were so much easier than the Feds. And he had played them just right. Now they had a good reason to look at T.J. for the death of Slaton. And if they ever managed to trace Sal’s .35-caliber back to him, he could simply say that T.J. must have stolen it. Why didn’t you mention the handgun in the interview? they would ask. I hadn’t noticed it was missing yet, Sal would say. It was perfect. He felt much better now, not so angry at Vinnie. “Well, dat went pretty well,” Sal said.
Smedley liked the big guy, Billy Don, much more than Red. Billy Don was nicer, doing things like turning down the headphones and cutting Smedley loose to go to the bathroom when he needed to. But now, if Smedley could have freed himself from the chair, he would have jumped up and kissed Billy Don. Because he had just said the magical words: They found Emmett Slaton!
It was all over now. Red would have no reason to hold him anymore.
He listened as Billy Don told Red a story about being at a convenience store. Billy Don had overheard a cop talking to a reporter about Slaton’s body. Oh, thank God there were still a few loose-lipped officers around!
Red turned off the DVD and switched the TV over to KHIL. Sure enough, there was Kitty Katz, giving a live report. She was saying that a reliable source had confirmed that the body found in the car pulled from Pedernales Reservoir was Emmett Slaton, as rumored. She went on to say that the police had also found two handguns in the car—a .45-caliber and a .35-caliber.
Smedley wondered: Did she just say .35-caliber? Smedley was putting it all together, thinking that Sal Mameli was the only person he knew who owned a .35, when—
WOOOOM!
The trailer was rocked by the most enormous explosion Smedley had ever felt. It was followed by another. And another. And another—until Smedley thought the assault would never end. Finally, the explosions did stop, and now all three men were lying on the floor of the trailer, in a stupor, like G.I.s after a mortar attack. The interior of the trailer was bathed in an eerie orange glow.
“What in the fuck was that?” Red said, as he struggled to his feet.
Smedley began to grunt urgently, the tape still over his mouth, trying to capture the men’s attention. Surely they would have the good sense to turn him loose before something worse happened.
Red swung the front door open and Smedley could feel the heat from the fires burning outside.
“Oh, Jesus,” Red said, staring out the door as if aliens had just landed. “Billy Don, come take a look at this.”
But Billy Don wasn’t listening. Smedley was elated and grateful and relieved to see Billy Don coming toward him with a pair of scissors.
Red simply could not believe what he was seeing. The BrushBusters were on fire. All of them. With flames shooting thirty feet high, big goddamn clouds of black smoke rolling into the sky.
Then he saw that he was mistaken. There was one solitary BrushBuster that wasn’t on fire. And there was a man sitting in the driver’s seat. Red couldn’t be sure, because the fires were roaring pretty loud—but he thought he heard the BrushBuster’s engine running.
Just then, their prisoner, Smedley, went pushing past Red into the night. Red didn’t even try to stop him. He had much larger problems on his hands now.
Billy Don came up behind him and they stepped out onto the front porch. They watched as the man tried to operate the BrushBuster, first going forward, then putting it into reverse, backing away from the flames.
“Grab my forty-five,” Red said. “On the kitchen counter.”
“But Red—”
“Do it!”
Billy Don turned and went into the trailer. The BrushBuster made a left turn and seemed to be heading away from the trailer. He’s stealing my last goddamn machine, Red thought. That lousy sumbitch. Then the man slowly swung around and came to a halt, eighty yards away.
Billy Don returned and handed the gun to Red.
“What the hell’s he doing?” Billy Don asked.
Red shook his head, thoroughly confused.
The man seemed to be staring right at them, just watching them.
“You know, there’s that mental hospital right up the road,” Billy Don said. “Maybe he—”
Red held up his hand for silence.
Then there was a gnashing of gears as the man put the tree-cutter into DRIVE. He started slowly, then picked up speed. He was heading straight for the trailer.
“What’s wrong with that crazy fucker?” Red said.
The BrushBuster was forty yards away now, and closing fast.
Red and Billy Don began to yell, waving their arms as if they could somehow ward him off.
The machine kept coming.
Red lowered his gun and fired a round at the machine.
Twenty yards.
Red fired again.
Ten yards.
And then they both dove for the inside of the trailer as the BrushBuster came smashing through the front door.
The chaos was incredible. Tremendous wrenching sounds as metal was twisted and torn. The sound of the tree-cutter’s engine whining as it tried to plow forward. Red felt himself being tossed and jostled, like he was riding an inner tube down the rapids of a flooded river. He was aware of a tremendous pain in his leg.
Finally, the noise came to an end as the BrushBuster’s engine sputtered and died. The tree-cutter was now sitting inside of the trailer, the floor sagging beneath it, the ceiling above crumpled.
Red looked down and saw that his left leg had been gashed by a ragged sheet of metal. He heard Billy Don moaning on the other side of the machine.
Billy Don knew his arm was seriously damaged, pinned under the BrushBuster’s front wheel. But for some reason—maybe he was going into shock—he found himself mesmerized by the metal plate that was right in front of him, riveted to the machine’s frame. He had never noticed it before. The plate was well lit by the fires burning outside.
“Billy Don, you okay?” Red called.
“I think I’ll be all right.” Billy Don said, still staring at the plate. On it, he could see all kinds of information about this particular model of BrushBuster. There was a serial number. Net vehicle weight. The size of tires you were supposed to use. Even the amount of gas the tank held. And at the bottom, there it was: the pounds-per-square-inch that the pincers applied.
“Hey, Red,” Billy Don called.
“Yeah?” Red answered, grunting as he extracted himself from the wreckage.
“I know what the ‘3000’ stands for now.”
CHAPTER FORTY-THREE
Bobby Garza, the two deputies, and Marlin were sitting around the table now, drinking coffee, brainstorming about the Mameli case. They had stopped calling it “the Slaton case”; they were that certain one of the Mamelis was involved.
Ten minutes earlier, a lab tech from Austin had called with disappointing news. Both of the handguns in the Porsche had been dusted for prints. Both were clean. Likewise, Bobby Garza had thrown out the name Roberto Ragusa, but none of the deputies recognized it. They had run the name through the computers, and it was like the man had fallen off the face of the Earth. His last known address was in New Jersey, but that had been more than three years ago. Since then, there was nothing in the public records for Ragusa. He hadn’t voted, renewed his driver’s license, or
even filed a tax return. The man was a ghost. Garza planned to make some calls to New Jersey in the morning, to see what he could find out. In the meantime, the deputies were rapidly running out of ideas.
“What about a warrant to search Mameli’s house?” Marlin asked. Marlin was surprised nobody had suggested it yet.
“We don’t have enough,” Garza said. “You have to specify exactly what you’re searching for and why you think you’ll find it there. We don’t even know what we’d be looking for.”