by Steve Brewer
“I’m telling you, her husband is a first-class horse’s ass. Never pays her any attention, won’t let her have the kids she wants, just a real all-’round S.O.B.” Bo paused to chase a wad of sweet roll down with steaming black coffee. When he finished smacking, he continued. “So you can’t really fault a woman for wanting more of a man than that.”
Garza knew precisely where this was headed, but he let Bo tell it in his own time.
“One time last year, she came into the bank to talk to Claude about something, and when she came outta his office we kinda made eye contact, and well…” Bo trailed off and let the silence explain the rest. “It don’t really bother me telling you about me and her, ‘cause she’s fixin’ to divorce him anyway. But as I’s saying, Kelly told me something that Claude had told her a few years ago, right after they got married.” Bo took another bite of sweet roll, then realized he was being selfish with the rest in the package. “Roll?” he said, offering one to Garza.
“No thanks, I had breakfast.” Garza just gritted his teeth and wished Bo would hurry up with the story.
Bo gulped some coffee and then took a dramatic pause, as if he were about to tell Garza where to find the Holy Grail.
Skip Farrell, the widely read columnist and senior editor for Texas Outdoors magazine, was the ultimate schmoozer and wheeler-dealer, a man who had managed to turn his hunting hobby into a lucrative career. His columns highlighted premier hunting ranches and leases, innovative new hunting products, the latest weaponry, ammunition, camouflage, and outdoor gear, the most rugged sport utility vehicles and all-terrain vehicles, even the best restaurants and hotels in Texas’ most popular small hunting towns, such as Llano, Mason, and Carrizo Springs.
Years ago, before his career in journalism, Farrell had had to pay for things like rifles, taxidermy, and butchering, just like any other hunter. Not anymore. A few kind words in his column could make product sales boom, lease fees skyrocket, and coffers in small towns overflow. So Farrell was indeed a popular man among the hunting community across Texas. Hunting invitations flowed to Farrell’s mailbox like bucks to a doe in heat. Farrell had not been at all surprised when Roy Swank had called him the past summer and told him about an opening-weekend extravaganza he was having this year at the Circle S. Wanna really show off what I’m doing with game management these days, Swank had said. Gonna be senators, congressmen, CEOs from around the state. Farrell had gladly accepted. Swank had recommended that Farrell show up a couple of days early, plenty of time to see the ranch and take photos of Swank’s prize bucks.
Now, as he drove up the winding dirt road to Roy Swank’s house, Farrell was reflecting on how fortunate he was. In fact, he was so lost in his own good fortune, he almost didn’t see the battered red Ford pickup careening around a curve on his side of the road. Farrell swerved onto the grass and cringed as the red truck barely missed the left front fender of his brand-new Chevy Suburban.
He looked in the side mirror and saw the redneck driver flip him off as he scooted down the road.
“Fuck you, too,” Farrell said to himself.
“According to Kelly,” Bo Talkington said, “Claude told her that he had taken a bribe from Roy Swank in exchange for turning Phil Colby down for a loan. ‘Parently, Colby needed some cash to pay county taxes because they were right at the point of taking his ranch away. He went to Claude, Claude promised him a big loan, but then Swank approached Claude and gave him a hundred grand to turn Colby down. But the trick was to keep stringing Colby along, telling him he’d get the money, until the county was really banging on his door. Then, the day before Colby’s very last deadline to pay up, Claude turned him down flat. Really fucked him over.”
“So that left Colby with nowhere else to turn,” Garza said, more of a statement than a question.
“Yeah, and I also heard rumors that Swank spread a little money around the county tax office, too, to prevent them from giving Colby another extension on his taxes. From what I heard, they had given him several extensions already….He owed taxes from several years back, plus he was in hock with the big boys, too.”
Garza raised his eyebrows.
“The IRS,” Bo explained. “Man, it’s like getting your nuts caught in a vise with those guys. You can put them off for a little while, but not nearly as long as the county. So Colby had to choose between losing the ranch to the county, or screwing up the rest of his life with the feds. I’d say he made the right choice.”
20
“GRAB SOME A those pretzels, and those tater chips,” Red said. Billy Don was pushing the shopping cart ahead of him, cruising the narrow, dimly lit aisles of the grocery store. So far they had six cases of beer, a box of Slim Jims, assorted snack cakes, a dozen cans of Vienna sausages, a bag of miniature chocolate donuts, and a large bottle of Pepto-Bismol.
They made their way to checkout, asking the teenage girl at the counter for an entire box of Red Man chewing tobacco. Twelve three-ounce packages. Enough for a week, Red thought. If they were going to be holed up for seven days at Swank’s, better be prepared.
They left the grocery store and then swung by Red’s trailer to grab a few sets of clothes and lock up tight for the week. On the way back to Swank’s, Red bounced his thoughts off Billy Don. “The way I figger it,” Red said, “we’ll have plenty of time to sorta snoop around, see what Swank is up to. He can’t keep an eye on both of us all the time, so we’ll just see what we can come across.”
Billy Don came forth with a chocolatey belch of approval. He had already broken open the donuts. He chased the loose crumbs in his cavernous mouth with a swig of Bud Light. It had been on sale.
Red looked over. “Don’t be eatin’ all a those at once. Save some for me.”
Billy Don dug back into the box, grabbing two of the brown, waxy-looking rings this time.
Red looked back at the road. “Even if we don’t find anything, we’ll still be ahead ten grand each. Sounds like a sweet deal to me.”
“Wat’choo think we might find?” Billy Don asked.
Red’s mind had been knocking around that particular question for several days now, but he had been unable to come up with any plausible explanation. “Could be anything,” he said, letting his imagination run. “They might be playing around with generics out there…you know, reengineering some kinda perfect deer. Or maybe doing something like those ol’ boys over in Denmark who cloned that goat.”
“I thought it was a sheep,” Billy Don said around a mouthful of donut.
“Pretty sure it was a goat,” Red said, not wanting Billy Don to be more up-to-date on current events than he was. “Named Dolly.”
Billy Don tilted his head to the side as if the information was weighing his brain down.
“You know who they named her after, don’tcha?” Red asked.
“Dolly Madison?” Billy Don replied hopefully, pointing to the name on the donut bag.
Red shook his head. “Dolly Parton, on account a her big tits. You could make two tits out of each one of hers, and that’s what they did with the goat…made two outta one.” Red was always happy to share his insights with Billy Don on topics such as this.
Tim Gray had started operating on Wednesday, right after talking to Swank. He had set up shop in Swank’s barn, which was actually clean, well-lit, and featured hot and cold running water—more inviting than many of the homes Gray had seen in Blanco County.
Even though Gray was dealing with tremors, chills, and the occasional feeling that he was being watched by little men in the hayloft, he felt like everything was going smoothly so far. The hardest part was rounding up the deer, which Swank kept in an adjacent five-acre pasture surrounded by a ten-foot fence. Gray had to chase them around with one of Swank’s trucks until they tired out, then pop one with a tranquilizer gun. Fifteen minutes later the deer would lie down like an old man going to bed. After he finished with that deer, he’d tie a piece of surveyor’s tape around its neck. Had to keep them sorted out. Didn’t want to be scurrying around afte
r deer he’d already worked on.
By Thursday at noon, Gray had operated on seven of the contraband-carrying white-tailed deer. It was a simple procedure really, less difficult than removing a benign abdominal tumor or spaying a bitch. All he had to do was put ‘em under, open ‘em up, remove the drugs, then stitch ‘em back together. He didn’t have to take quite as much care with these animals as he did with his customers’ pets: If one of them died, that was Swank’s problem. What did he expect, pushing Gray as hard as he was?
Staying awake wouldn’t be a problem, either. Gray had a neat little system set up. Do a deer, do a line. Do a deer, do a line. That powder Swank had given him was damn good. He wasn’t even sure if it was heroin or cocaine, but he didn’t really care, as long as he kept buzzing along.
So far, all of the contraband was in good shape. The latex balloons were not corroded or cracked, not aging in any way. That made Gray feel a lot better after what he had found in that other deer, the one Swank wanted to give back to Phil Colby. Granted, the balloon had been in the deer much longer than with these animals. It had been the first deer they had worked with, sort of a test subject to see if the latex would hold. When Gray had gone in later to remove the drugs, he must have missed one balloon. But he had found it Tuesday evening, just the tattered remnants, no drugs left inside. At least now he knew why that deer had been behaving so strangely. Colby’s precious deer would be fine.
Gray was sitting on a milking stool, just finishing up a line, when two Hispanic men and a large white guy in fatigues and combat boots walked into the barn. They stood just inside the entrance and surveyed the surroundings, as if they expected to find more than what they were seeing.
“Hola,” Gray said, trying to be friendly.
None of the men replied. Gray stood up and began to approach them, but thought better of it. Something about them made him nervous. He simply stood there fidgeting, feeling like a kid in the principal’s office, as the men spoke to each other in hushed tones. Finally, the oldest guy, short, with a droopy mustache, approached Gray. The military-looking guy—a large weightlifter type—followed behind him.
“Tim Gray,” the veterinarian said, sticking out his hand to the older man. He ignored it.
“How many deer have you operated on so far?” he asked in near-perfect English.
Gray wasn’t sure who these guys were, but he figured they must be with Oscar. Probably best to answer him, he thought. “Seven.”
The man looked at the ground and shook his head. The weightlifter next to him smiled broadly and laughed.
Gray smiled, too. Then Droopy Mustache nodded at the steroid junkie, who suddenly drove his right fist into Gray’s solar plexus. Gray immediately doubled over and began gasping for air. His heartbeat was pounding so loudly in his ears, he barely heard Droopy Mustache say: “That is not good enough.”
From the south-facing window in his den, Roy Swank could see three strangers approaching the barn where Tim Gray was working. One man—a big son of a bitch—was fair-complected, but the other two looked Colombian. So Oscar really did it, Swank thought. Brought a trio of his assassins up here just like he said he wouldSwank crossed to his desk and opened the middle right-hand drawer. Sitting inside was his favorite pistol: a Colt Mustang Pocketlite .380. He eased the rack back a little to make sure there was a round in the chamber. The .380 wasn’t a very powerful weapon, but it was compact and lightweight. This particular model fit neatly into his pants pocket, which is where Swank placed it. Like Swank always told his friends and colleagues: He had never been a Boy Scout—but he damn sure agreed with their motto.
“Hi, this is Marlin. I’m not here right now, so please leave a message at the tone.”
“Marlin, it’s Bobby Garza. Hey, I just wanted to say sorry that I couldn’t give you more backup on that whole Swank deal. I believe you and everything, but without that powder, I didn’t have a chance in hell of getting a search warrant. Anyway, if he’s doing what we think he’s doing out there, we’ll catch up to him sooner or later. Just a matter of time. We’ll talk more about it. But listen, I wanted to tell you about something else, too…about how Swank ended up getting the ranch from Phil Colby. You ready for this? Swank bribed Claude Rundell so that he wouldn’t give Colby the loan he needed. Found out this morning. Anyway, I’ll give you the full story. Give me a call.”
The machine clicked off, the red light began flashing, and the room fell silent again.
The small man named Luis had been rustling around in Marlin’s desk, but now he stopped, knowing what he needed to know. Not only was Marlin aware of what was going on, so was the cop. Luis had no idea what all that stuff was about a bribe, but he didn’t care about that. He didn’t know how to erase the message, so he simply turned the machine off. He let himself out the back door, leaving everything else just the way he had found it.
21
“DAMN,” MARLIN SAID, as he watched the thin trail of blood meander down his chin. He always seemed to nick himself shaving when he was preoccupied. It was nearly eight o’clock and Becky—still “Nurse Cameron” in his mind—would be at his house shortly.
He splashed a little warm water on his face and that helped to stem the flow of blood. He had shaved and showered that morning, prior to his full day of Wildlife Commission meetings, but it always made him feel relaxed and comfortable to freshen up again before a long night. And poachers typically made the nights right before deer season busy ones. Rural residents would place calls reporting rifle fire, spotlights sweeping fields and hillsides, and vehicles trespassing onto their property. It wasn’t unusual for Marlin to get home at four or five in the morning, just hours before first light and the official start of one of the most anticipated annual events in Texas. Sometimes Marlin would catch a few hours of sleep and then head out in the morning to check hunters’ licenses, make the usual rounds to the butcher shops and taxidermists, and answer calls as they came in from the dispatcher. Other times, Marlin wouldn’t even bother to sleep; he’d just load up on coffee, eat a light breakfast, change clothes, and get back to it. This schedule repeated itself Saturday night. It was grueling, but Marlin loved it. It was like deer season was a huge party and he was the bouncer. Behave yourself and you could come right in. But try to skirt the rules and you’d get tossed out on your ass.
Marlin was actually kind of glad he had the coming of opening day to distract him from his date with Becky. Date? Was that really what it was? Marlin looked in the bathroom mirror and said to himself, “I’ve got a date.” He smiled and shook his head. It sounded kind of funny, and he couldn’t even remember the last time he had used that word. Sure, he had been seeing Louise for a while. But that really wasn’t what he’d call dating. It was just having sex with someone he felt comfortable spending time with. It wasn’t butterfly-inducing, knee-wobbling, sweaty-palmed dating. He had forgotten what it was like.
Marlin hopped in the shower at fifteen minutes before eight, hoping that Becky wouldn’t arrive early. As he lathered up, he took stock of his middle-aged body. His muscles weren’t as defined as they once were, and he had some small love handles. But all in all, not too bad. Marlin’s body was like that of a linebacker who hadn’t played in nearly twenty years—which is exactly what he was. He had played Division II ball at Southwest Texas State University and had held the school record for unassisted tackles for a few years. His torso was still powerful, yet not as lean as it once was. His arms were in good shape, but not as bulky as in his college weight-lifting days. Marlin, like most men his age, found it easy to rationalize away the benefits of staying in top shape. What’s the point of having a rock-hard physique when your job doesn’t really call for it? Football’s one thing, but you don’t need to be able to bench 250 to write a poacher a ticket. That line of thinking always made it easier to have a second helping of chicken-fried venison and another cold beer. But maybe it was time to dust off the weights in the garage, Marlin thought. Start watching his diet a little. He was rinsing the shampoo out of
his hair when he heard the doorbell.
“Am I early? Nice outfit,” Becky said with a giggle, standing on the front porch. Marlin had answered the door wearing a cotton robe, a wet towel hanging around his shoulders.
“No, sorry,” he said swinging the door open. “I was a little late getting back from Austin. The Commission meeting ran a little long. Come on in.”
There was an awkward moment as Marlin went to shake Becky’s hand. He wondered if he should have given her a quick hug. After all, they had gotten to know each a little over the past week. Marlin closed the door behind her and escorted her beyond the small entryway into the living area. “I’ll be ready in just a sec. Would you like something to drink?”
“What ya got?” Becky asked.
Marlin noticed that even though she had been very friendly at the hospital, she seemed even more easygoing and casual now. He liked it. He also liked the way she was dressed: faded, well-fitting jeans, a lightweight red sweater, and white tennis shoes. She smelled great, too, Marlin noticed, like one of those scented magazine inserts. He didn’t know any of the popular women’s perfumes by name, but he knew he had smelled this one before.
“How about a Coke or a beer?” Marlin replied over his shoulder as he made his way into the kitchen.
“A beer would be great.”
Marlin opened the refrigerator and said, “Miller Lite all right?”
“That’s fine,” Becky called from the other room. “I like your house. But there’re a few things missing that I thought you’d have.”
“Like what?” Marlin asked, returning with a beer in a frosty mug.
“Trophies on the wall. You know, big bucks with big antlers out to here.”