by Steve Brewer
Marlin smiled. “Hey, we’re not all in it for the racks.”
“You do hunt, don’t you?”
“Oh, you bet I do. When I can find the time. It’s kind of ironic: I became a game warden because I love the outdoors, and especially deer hunting. But it’s my job that keeps me from hunting as much as I’d like. Here, have a seat.” Marlin gestured toward the couch and they both sat down. But then Marlin suddenly felt very self-conscious in the robe and stood up again. “Why don’t I go get dressed real quick and then we can head out?”
“No hurry,” Becky said. “I don’t have to work tomorrow.”
Marlin looked at her and grinned. Her remark sounded kind of forward, but he knew she hadn’t meant it that way.
Becky turned bright red. “What I meant was, I don’t mind driving back home late tonight since I don’t have to go in tomorrow.”
“I know that’s what you meant. I’ll be right back.”
Becky looked around the living room and thought: Definite bachelor. The house was neat and clean and everything, but it just didn’t have a woman’s touch. Functional but boring furniture. No art on the walls, no color anywhere. Nothing was there just for the sake of making the room more pleasant—like a bowl of potpourri or a vase of flowers. The glass-topped coffee table held a few plastic coasters and a stack of magazines. She glanced through them. Texas Trophy Hunters, Texas Parks and Wildlife, Southern Outdoors, Esquire…Esquire? That seemed as out-of-place as a refrigerator in an igloo. But maybe there was more to John Marlin than she thought. He definitely seemed intelligent, sensitive, and, since she could think of no other word to describe it, worldly. Before she met him, she would have guessed that your average game warden was a grade-A redneck—a tobacco-chewing, truck-driving, Confederate flag-waving member of the NRA. So much for stereotypes.
She rose from the couch and walked over to a wall that displayed a collection of framed photographs. She saw what were obviously old family portraits, including a few shots that showed John with his parents, she assumed, and another young man about his age. There were a few hunting, vacation, and party pictures, and she recognized Phil Colby in many of them. There were also a couple of John with a brunette woman. Very nice looking, Becky noticed. Is that a little bit of jealousy? she wondered. She passed it off as curiosity.
She took a sip of her beer and skimmed through his CD collection on the entertainment center next to the television. George Strait, Johnny Cash, Dwight Yoakam. Those, she expected, but she also found Fats Domino, ZZ Top, Frank Sinatra, and AC/DC. This was getting interesting. She was holding a copy of Fandango when Marlin walked back into the room wearing his warden’s uniform.
“Sorry ‘bout the duds, but I gotta wear ‘em when I’m on patrol. You like ZZ Top?”
She looked down at the CD case she was holding. “Love ‘em, but especially their older stuff. Like this.” Marlin arched his eyebrows at her in surprise. “Mexican Blackbird is a classic,” she said.
In a growling, bluesy voice, Marlin sung, “Aw, let’s drive that ol’ Chrysler to Mexico, boys.” Becky laughed and Marlin joined in, both of them feeling a little silly.
“You want another beer?” Marlin asked, gesturing at her empty mug.
“No thanks.”
“Well, why don’t we head out, then? I’m not promising the most exciting night of your life,” Marlin said as he opened the front door for her.
He’d remember making that statement much later, and realize how wrong he was.
22
“YOU NEVER TOLD me why you hunt,” Becky said. They were at a rest stop on Highway 281 near Miller Creek Loop, finishing the picnic dinner Becky had brought along as promised. No calls from the dispatcher yet. It was a balmy evening, partly cloudy with just a trace of a southerly breeze. Crickets performed a buzzing symphony and frogs called urgently from the nearby creekbank.
Marlin pondered the question for several moments before responding. “You know, I’ve thought about that myself a lot, and I’m not exactly sure why I do it. It’s just something that’s part of me, I guess. I mean, I love venison, and that always seems to be my main reason. Gotta fill the freezer and get enough to last the year.”
“So you eat it all?” Becky asked.
Marlin looked at her as if she had asked if he breathed oxygen on a daily basis. “Well, yeah, I wouldn’t hunt anything I’m not planning on eating. For instance, I don’t like dove meat, so I don’t hunt dove. Same with fishing. I like a little catfish occasionally, just not enough to get me out on a boat to catch my own. But I do know plenty of hunters who just want to find the biggest buck in the county and don’t really care about the meat. I think that’s the perception most non-hunters have of us: just a bunch of trophy-driven killers.”
Becky touched his arm lightly, “Oh, I hope you don’t think that’s what I was saying….”
“You don’t mind hunting?”
“No, of course not. We’re part of the food chain, aren’t we?”
Marlin nodded.
“And as long as it’s done humanely,” Becky continued, “then I really don’t see the problem with it.”
“I’m glad you feel that way,” Marlin replied. Then, without thinking: “Next time, I’ll whip up some chicken-fried venison. Ever had it?”
“No, but that sounds great.”
Marlin hadn’t meant to be presumptuous about a next date, so he flushed a little and looked down at his plate. Then he continued with his train of thought. “There’s more to hunting than just the venison, though. It’s like feeling a kinship with the outdoors, a way of staking your spot in nature, being a part of it instead of just a spectator. Most people, all they ever see of nature is what they can see from their car windows.”
Becky raised her hand. “Guilty as charged. Not that I’ve never been for a hike in the woods or a picnic in a state park or things like that. But I’m not exactly Calamity Jane, riding a horse and killing my own dinner.”
“But you do appreciate the outdoors?”
“Love it. The problem is, when you live in the city, you can get everything you need at the grocery store, the mall…you can even watch wildlife twenty-four hours a day—on the Nature Channel. So most people don’t have a lot of reasons to get out and explore. I’d say you’re a lucky man. You seem to love what you do, and you get to do it away from all the turmoil of the city and the crowds, the road rage and the stress.”
Marlin nodded. Sometimes he took it all for granted, and it was nice to hear someone reaffirm his choices in life. It was easy to wonder, at times, whether he should be off chasing the almighty dollar like everyone else. Life’s too short, he always concluded.
“This is really good,” Marlin said, taking a bite of his fried-chicken sandwich.
“I hope you don’t mind it cold. When I was a kid, we used to always eat leftover fried chicken right out of the fridge.”
“Excellent,” Marlin said, just as a call came in over his cruiser’s radio.
Marlin took Highway 290 north through Johnson City, then turned west on Sandy Road. Four minutes later, he pulled into a ranch entrance between two stone columns. The mailbox said BUSHONG. One of the Bushong’s neighbors had called to report rifle shots. Marlin climbed out of the cruiser, opened the recessed gate, then continued on. He followed the winding driveway about a half-mile through a thick copse of tall first-growth cedars, then the cruiser broke back into open terrain. The headlights bounced off sluggish cattle standing on each side of the road. Marlin came to several forks, and each time he turned as if he had a mental compass. He came to two more gates, which he opened and closed behind him as he progressed onto the ranch.
Finally Marlin came to a large field and saw what he was looking for: Bobby Bushong’s old Chevy pickup moving slowly in the low grass. Marlin steered the cruiser off the rutted road and pulled alongside the driver’s side of the truck.
“ ‘Evening, Bobby,” Marlin said to the shaggy middle-aged man inside. A curious young weimaraner whimpered from
the bed of the truck.
“How you doing, John?” Bushong replied.
“Just out making the rounds. Got a report of some shots over here.”
Bushong nodded. “Doing a little spotlighting, cleaning up some of the pigs out here before the hunters show up on Saturday. They never want to shoot ‘em, and they don’t believe me when I tell ‘em they eat as good as the pork they buy in the store.”
“Any luck?”
“Got two big ol’ sows and a young boar over yonder.”
“Anything else?” Marlin asked as he switched on the spotlight attached to the side of his cruiser.
Bushong grimaced. “Well, you know how it is.”
Marlin played the spotlight over the field and came to rest on the three wild hogs. A large white-tailed doe lay next to them. “I guess that’s all you need for tonight, huh? I mean, those should last you a while.…”
Bushong brightened. “I reckon they will.”
“And I imagine you remembered to buy a hunting license this year.”
“Yes sir,” Bushong said, reaching for his wallet.
Marlin waved him off. “That’s all right, I don’t need to see it.”
The men made small talk about the prospects of the upcoming season, then Marlin turned around and left the ranch.
“Didn’t you see the deer lying there?” Becky asked.
“Yeah, I saw it.”
“Well, that was illegal, wasn’t it? It’s not hunting season until Saturday, right?”
Marlin was back on Sandy Road, just cruising, heading northwest to the edges of Blanco County. “Let me tell you something about Bobby Bushong,” Marlin said. “His family has been on that ranch since the turn of the century. He somehow manages to make a living, selling fenceposts and firewood, raising cattle, leasing it out to hunters. He’s a hardworking man, and he’s not a cheater. But sometimes it can get a little rough, like with the bottom dropping out of the cattle market this year. There’s a lot of families like his, people who would rather make do for themselves than turn to the government for food stamps. He’d never go out and shoot a deer just for the antlers or just for the sport of it. What he was doing was putting food on the table.”
They rode on in silence for a few minutes. Then Becky said, “But how do you know he won’t do it again?”
“Oh, he’ll do it again. And they’ll eat every last scrap of it.” Marlin opened his mouth but couldn’t find the right words. Finally he said, “The way I see it, part of my job is knowing who needs to get busted and who doesn’t. Sometimes that’s an awfully easy call.”
Red was sitting on the plush leather sofa next to Billy Don. Man, that soft leather sure cradles you, Red thought, like easing down onto a plump hooker. Both men were drinking beer from longnecks and had been warned several times by Roy Swank not to spill it. “That’s full-grain leather, you know, not split-grain,” he’d say, as if expecting the two rednecks to nod their heads in appreciation. “And try not to get your goddamn donut crumbs all over everything,” he added, glaring at Billy Don. Billy Don swept a clumsy hand over the sofa, flinging crumbs out onto the bearskin rug. Swank was half-drunk, from what Red could tell, and sat nearby in a matching leather recliner. He was nursing a big tumbler of scotch on the rocks, but he didn’t seem too concerned about the possibility of his own spillage.
The living room was immense, larger than the entire square footage of Red’s trailer, and it seemed to Red that it would cost a fortune to fill it up with furniture. He could think of other things he’d spend his money on, like a new Remington shotgun or a tricked-out exhaust system for his truck. But the one thing he wouldn’t change would be the entertainment system. With that high-definition wide-screen TV, you could sit back, watch the Nashville Network, and damn, the Dixie Chicks were so lifelike you wanted to reach out and cop a feel. He could sit here for hours, which is exactly what the three of them had been doing. It was starting to get a little goddamned boring, to tell the truth.
There wasn’t much conversation, and during the silences, Red had to remind himself why they were here. Actually, he still wasn’t sure why they were here. They weren’t really bodyguards, and Swank hadn’t asked them to do much around the house or the ranch. “Just be ready to do whatever I tell ya,” he had said. “And try to keep the newspaper columnist away from the small guest house.” Red figured that’s where the Meskins were. At one point, Red had bluntly asked Swank who the Meskins were. Swank wouldn’t show his hand, though; he just said that they were “associates” who had “differing opinions” on matters of “great importance.” They’d be gone in a few days. Instinct told Red to watch his ass.
Whiling away time, Red had noticed something about Swank. What he noticed was, this big, powerful businessman wasn’t as different from everyone else as he’d like you to believe. He was just a man, with a line of bullshit as weak as the next guy’s. He wasn’t always calm and collected, like some big-shot who didn’t get a little sweaty under the pits the same as everyone else. He got nervous, he paced the room, he worried about beer getting spilled. When he wasn’t in a pissy mood, he told stories that were full of lies, just like every other ol’ boy in Blanco County. The only real difference was that Swank had somehow managed to make a shitpile of money. Red figured Swank kept a large sum of cash tucked away somewhere in the ranch house; after all, Swank had already given him and Billy Don a pretty good amount. Red knew he’d never get his hands on any more of it as long as they all just kept sitting around watching the damn TV.
23
THE NEXT CALL came in from A. Robinson Road near Pedernales Falls State Park, east of Johnson City. Mrs. Beulah Byrd, a retired schoolbus driver and regular caller to the poacher hotline, had reported a vehicle sitting on the shoulder of the road using a spotlight. “They ain’t got the brains God give a billy goat,” she had told the dispatcher. “I walked out to the end of my driveway and they’s just setting out there, squeezing off a round ever’ now and then. They’s drunker’n Cooter Brown, too, from all the hollering.” Mrs. Byrd found it all highly amusing. “Only weird thing,” she said, “is it sounds like they’s shooting pistols, not rifles.” She said it in a conspiratorial tone, as if she were trying to unravel the JFK assassination.
Marlin did a U-turn on Sandy Road and headed east back to Highway 281. He jumped the speedometer up to ninety and got to A. Robinson Road in about four minutes. Another six minutes and he was approaching the state park. Marlin glanced over at Becky and smiled. She was gazing intently up the road and seemed to be enjoying the excitement.
“There they are,” Marlin said quietly as he spotted a late-model Ford pickup on the side of the road. Marlin shook his head in disbelief. The buffoons still had their portable spotlight sticking out the window, lighting up a pasture on the other side of the road.
Marlin slowed to about twenty and eased past the truck with his spotlight on. It was always best to get a complete picture of the situation before stopping. He glanced into the cab and saw two Hispanic men staring back at him. One held up a beer can in salute as Marlin rolled by.
Something is strange here, Marlin thought as he did a 180 and came up behind the Ford.
“I gotta piss like a mule,” Billy Don announced, and then extracted his large frame from the downy comfort of the leather sofa.
Red and Roy Swank didn’t respond. They were too busy watching SportsCenter on ESPN, where a reporter was saying that the Cowboys’ star receiver was doubtful for this weekend’s game against the Redskins. “Damned pantywaist,” Red said with contempt. “Guy gets a quarter-million a game, the least he could do is play.”
Swank nodded, but Red could tell his attention was elsewhere.
Red licked his lips and turned to his boss. “Notice your scotch is running a little low there, Mr. Swank. Want me to grab ya another bottle?”
Swank looked over at Red with glazed eyes. “In the cabinet under the wet bar,” he said, pointing. “Chivas Regal, not that other crap.”
Red rose and
walked behind the bar. He emerged with a new bottle, cracked the seal, and poured four fingers in Swank’s glass. “That oughta set ya up,” he said with a smile. He placed the bottle on the end table within Swank’s reach.
Red sat back down on the sofa and looked at Swank out of the corner of his eye. “Mr. Swank, I gotta tell ya, I’m still not real sure why we’re out here. Not that I mind or anything. We could watch TV for a week, all I care. Just wanna make sure you’re getting your money’s worth.”
Swank took a long pull from his glass but didn’t say anything.
“These Meskins you got runnin’ ‘round here,” Red continued, “now, something tells me you and them got some kinda deal going on that you don’t wanna talk about. That’s fine. But I hate to see a man like yourself get screwed around by a buncha south-of-the-border types. I’m just wondering if there was some way I could help out.”
“You’re helping out just by being here,” Swank croaked, his voice rough from the whiskey. “More than that, you don’t need to know.”
Well, at least he’s talking, Red thought. So he plowed forward. “I just don’t think they’re giving you the respect they oughta be giving you, Mr. Swank. They’re out there skulking around like they own the place. You keep saying it’ll all blow over soon, then they’ll be gone. But in the meantime you’re holed up in here like a rabbit.” Red paused a moment to let that sink in. If he could just get Swank to loosen up, maybe he could find out what was going on. Then he could find a way to cut himself in on it.
Swank turned to Red and looked as if he might say something. Then he shook his head and looked back at the television. “Just drink your beer, son. And enjoy the free ride while you can.”
For a few seconds, Marlin considered running a check on the license plates. Play it safe, a voice told him. But in twenty years, Marlin had never run into a situation he couldn’t handle. Plus, he had to admit, he didn’t want to look nervous in front of Becky. Vanity. So he put his spotlight on the Ford truck and used his PA. “Driver…step out of the car.” He waited, but nobody emerged. He repeated the order, but the driver did not obey. He could hear one of the men responding in Spanish.