by Austin Davis
The old man swelled up in a trembling rage, and for a moment I thought he might attack his partner. Then the air seemed to go out of him, and he sat back down and stared at the table.
“Let me get this dairy thing straight,” I said. “Scales got the government to buy out an imaginary dairy and then used the money to build a real dairy, for which he’s getting government aid?”
“One of the biggest dairies in East Texas,” said Wick.
“Where does Bevo Rasmussen come into all this?” I asked. We were on our fourth round of beers, and I was beginning to feel a buzz.
“I’m getting there,” said Wick. “As big a success as Nyman was in the dairy business, he became an even bigger success as a horse breeder and trader. Scales found that he could insure horses for huge amounts of money and collect on them if they died accidentally. All he had to do was figure out a scheme to use on the insurance people and then create an accident. It didn’t take Nyman long to work out the details. He buys big-money horses—we’re talking fifty thousand, a hundred thousand a horse sometimes—and farms them out to his hands or his business associates. He makes it look as if the men are actually buying the horses from him, but they’re just a front operation. Nyman’s really selling them to himself.”
“I don’t get it,” I said.
“It is not difficult to figure out,” Stroud replied. “Scales really does everything. He helps finance the horse, then works a side deal with the buyer to get more money when the horse dies.”
I was feeling queasy, having eaten too much barbecue and drunk too much beer. How ironic that for the first time since my arrival in Jenks, my new associates were having a serious talk with me—were not trying to scam me in some way—and I was becoming too drunk to follow what they were saying. Once again, two steps too slow.
“So you’re saying Nyman Scales set Bevo up with horses in order for Bevo to kill them and collect the insurance, some of which would go back to Scales?”
“That makes the most sense, Clay,” Wick replied.
“But something’s gone wrong, and the insurance company isn’t paying off.”
“Yep,” said Wick. “It’s my bet that Bevo bungled the kill. Did something to make the adjusters suspicious. The whole deal depends on the insurance company not making any trouble. If they stall, and the claimant is a small-time operator, like Bevo, in bad need of the insurance money, he can have some real debt troubles.”
“And now Bevo’s bank has sued him for the quarter million it loaned him for the horses.”
“It never rains but it pours,” said Stroud.
At that moment the door opened and five men walked into the Singing Pig dressed in army camouflage outfits, their faces streaked with sweat and with green and brown paint.
“Jesus H. Christ!” cried Wick Chandler. “Walking shrubs!”
“They look like frogs from Mars,” said Stroud, his eyes glowing with savage glee. The camouflaged men stood inside the doorway, scowling at us.
CHAPTER 19
“WE DIDN’T HEAR YOU DRIVE UP,” said Wick. “Did you arrive in one of those Stealth bombers?”
“Don’t just stand there, Jack,” Stroud said, “come on in. Frogs have to eat, too.” Stroud turned to Boo behind the counter. “Boo, fix up a mess of flies for Captain Jack and his amphibians!”
The ex-pilots sat down at a couple of tables next to ours. Despite their high-tech outfits, only one or two in the bunch looked as if they had kept themselves in good shape. Captain Jack was short and thin, with tufts of yellow hair curling out from under his camouflaged bill cap and a yellow mustache that glowed against the paint on his face.
“Are you boys practicing for Halloween or just the end of the world?” Chandler asked.
This was not the tack I would have taken. Chandler and Stroud, however, were having fun.
“We’ve come to use your phone, Boo,” Jack said. “Our vehicle broke down a few miles back and we need a tow.”
“The Range Rover?” Wick asked. “I hope it’s nothing serious. You should see their car, Clay. My, it’s a fancy one. It’s all camouflaged, too, just like the boys here. When they stand in front of it, you can’t see them.”
“What happened to the car, Jack?” Stroud asked. “Maybe we can help fix it.”
Captain Jack started to say something, then stopped himself. “Forget about it, Jack,” said another commando. “Tell them the good news about Red.”
Jack smiled at us, placing his hand on the shoulder of the ex-pilot sitting next to him. “That’s right, you boys haven’t heard. Red here’s going to be made a deputy.”
“That is big news,” Stroud said. “Is it a county in Texas that’s doing that, Red?”
“This one,” said Red. “I’m going to be your new deputy, Stroud. Starting Monday.”
“Well,” said Stroud, “I know we’ll all sleep better at night, Red. Knowing you’re out there driving around looking for trouble.”
“first thing I’m going to do Monday,” said Red, “is file a report on Jack’s Range Rover.”
“The one that’s broken down?” asked Wick.
“It didn’t break down,” Red said. “It was vandalized.”
“Vandalized?” said Wick. “While you boys were driving it? Now, that’s a feat. I suppose you got a look at the vandal?”
“We’ve got a pretty good idea who it is.”
“Well, I wish you luck catching the scoundrel,” Wick replied.
“Now that your buggy’s been vandalized, Jack,” said Stroud, “you aren’t thinking of going back to riding motorcycles, are you?”
Jack came halfway out of his chair. Red grabbed his arm and pulled him back down.
“You should’ve seen these guys on their big old Harley-Davidsons a couple of years ago, Mr. Parker,” boomed Stroud. “Ripping and roaring all around, running into trees, falling in the bushes...We had to take them to court to save their lives. Those motorcycles would’ve finished them off.”
Captain Jack leaned forward on his chair and began to speak in a hoarse voice. “Tell you what we’re gonna do,” he said. “We’re gonna wait till the bombs fall, and civilization goes to hell, people screaming in the streets, government a thing of the past. And we’re gonna find all the lawyers and put ’em in a big fucking stock tank. And we’re gonna fill that stock tank with gasoline, and then I’m gonna light it. And we’re all gonna dance around the fire.” He smiled a wicked smile at us.
“Where will you be waiting?” asked Wick Chandler, leaning toward him.
Confusion flashed through Captain Jack’s eyes. “What?”
Stroud’s deep voice kicked in: “You said you’d wait till the bombs fall. Mr. Chandler here is asking where you’re going to be waiting. Will you wait out in the woods?”
The ex-pilot chewed on his mustache. “Yeah,” he answered. “We’ll be out in the woods.”
Wick Chandler leaned even closer, until he was face-to-face with Captain Jack. “Because, I mean, if you’re going to be out in the woods, I just wonder who’ll be looking after Shirelle. Hell, Jack, that wife of yours is a real screamer, and if you’re out Rambo-ing through the woods waiting for the bombs to fall, well...” Wick whispered something in Jack’s ear, making an obscene gesture with his hand.
For a moment the survivalists stared at Wick’s pudgy fingers. Then Captain Jack launched himself at Chandler. Before he could reach Wick, the air was sliced by that silent, brain-scraping screech I remembered from the morning before in the office. It cut through my senses like a cry sent up from the ghosts of a billion locusts, and the thought flashed through my mind that I’d hit the end of the trail—brain tumor! aneurysm!—but then I saw that Captain Jack was affected, too. His head jerked as if an invisible mallet had come down on it, and instead of connecting with Wick’s throat, he landed on top of our table, scattering the empty beer bottles. With amazing agility, given his bulk, Hardwick Chandler slid sideways out of his chair like a matador, and Captain Jack skidded across the table and
onto the floor. Before the little man could get up, Boo and a couple of the ex-pilots had hold of him.
“You boys better git,” said Boo to us. “You can settle up the bill later.”
In seconds, Stroud’s big Lincoln was spewing gravel out of the parking lot of the Singing Pig. In the driver’s seat, Wick Chandler powered his window down and whooped in the wind.
“Did you see me move?” he cried. “I’m a fucking ballerina. I’m James Bond!”
“It was nobly done,” Stroud told him. From a chain around his neck he picked up a small silver whistle, streaked with white flecks. He must have been wearing it inside his shirt, because I had never seen it before. He blew the whistle, and again invisible locusts swarmed inside my head, and my vision blurred with the ghostly vibration.
“Son of a bitch!” I said. “Cut it out, Stroud!”
Stroud squinted at me, then nudged Chandler. “Our boy hears it!” the old man said. “He’s got the call! I told you, Hard-dick. Dogs, morons, and the pure in heart.” He studied me, wicked merriment in his eyes. “Which are you, Mr. Parker?” he asked.
“What the hell is that thing?”
Stroud held it up on its chain for me to see: a short, thin tube of silver, randomly inlaid with what looked like ivory chips.
“It’s the voice of doom,” he explained. “It’s the final trumpet. You are privileged to be able to hear it. I can’t, and neither can my esteemed colleague here.”
“Captain Jack got an earful, though,” Wick said with a laugh. “Caught him right between the eyes.”
We were passing a yard with a couple of hounds lounging in it. “Slow down, Wick,” Stroud said. He blew the whistle, and the dogs went crazy, scrambling against the chicken-wire fence, barking and baying.
“Jesus!” I said, clapping my hands to my ears as the big car resumed its speed. “Stop that!”
“Time’s wingéd chariot,” said Stroud, “at your back. Gaining on you. That’s what you hear.” He rolled the whistle between thumb and forefinger. He looked at me again, a fierce light in his eye. “The readiness is all, son,” he said.
“You’re scaring the new man,” Wick Chandler told him.
CHAPTER 20
IT WAS ALMOST FIVE O’CLOCK when we reached the Jenks city limits. “Goddamn,” said Stroud as Wick pulled up in front of the law office, “what is our idiot sheriff thinking of, making Red Meachum a deputy?”
“What if Sheriff Nye deputizes the rest of that bunch? Can you imagine all of the ex-pilots as lawmen? They’ll come after us with torches in the night.”
“If they come on motorcycles, we’ll be safe,” replied Stroud.
Wick and I got out of the car, and Stroud scooted over behind the wheel. “I’m going home, boys,” he said. “We’ve done about all the good we can today.”
Wick and I watched the big car drive away. “He gets tired pretty easy these days,” said Wick. “You should have seen him a few years ago, Clay.”
“He should lay off the sauce,” I told him.
Wick clapped me on the back. “That’s what you’re here to help me do! We’re going to dry him out, like I told you yesterday.”
“And you should lay off other men’s wives,” I replied. “You are both going to kill yourselves if you keep going. His liver is going to fall out, and some husband is going to gun you down.”
Wick smiled, gestured at the office door. “Then all this would be yours.”
“I doubt it,” I replied. “I’m not sure I’ll hold out much longer than the last six or eight new guys. There’s too much weirdness here, Wick.”
“Weirder than city life? Come on, Clay.”
“I don’t think you guys can see it because you’re part of the weirdness. You make most of it. But it’s not just you. Jesus, it’s everything about this place. It’s Judi Rae Box. It’s bobcats in suitcases. It’s the pile of plastic body parts in a corner of your office. It’s Bevo Rasmussen...”
“It’s Sally Dean,” said Wick, “that’s what you got going.”
“What makes you say that?” I asked.
“Sally on a horse is a lovely sight,” Wick said. “I had a try at her myself a few years back. Got shut down in eight seconds flat.”
“Tell me about Stroud and Sally,” I asked.
“It’s too hot out here,” Wick said. “Let’s go inside.” We went into his office, past Molly Tunstall, who informed me that Judi Rae Box had called to say she had decided not to divorce her husband, Layton, yet.
“She said she would give him one more chance,” Molly said. “If it doesn’t work out, she figures she’ll just shoot him and have done with it.”
“Thank God for marriage,” Wick said. “We wouldn’t have much of a practice without it.”
When we were seated in his office, Wick pulled out a bottle of Jim Beam and a couple of glasses and poured us both a stiff drink. It wasn’t what I needed, but I took it anyway. I was beginning to see the appeal of staying buzzed in the country.
“What I said at lunch about Sally being a wild kid was true,” Wick said. “She was brought in on a couple of charges when she was just twelve or thirteen—shoplifting, vandalism, that sort of thing. That’s when we met her. Gill was county attorney then. He refused to prosecute her. Then we heard of a more serious charge, out west in Travis County. Apparently there was some sort of scheme in which she would sell a calf or a horse to some idiot farm boy and then Nyman would show up after the sale and claim the animal had been stolen from him. Nyman would have a sales receipt, of course. And nobody could find the girl.”
“But wouldn’t Sally have given the buyer some sort of title document? I can’t imagine anyone buying an animal just on the say-so of a young girl.”
“Sure, but the documentation Sally left behind never held up under a close look. Nyman’s sales slip would always be better. We figured Nyman forged the papers Sally used. Anyway, Sally got picked out of a lineup, and it looked like she might be sent to the juvenile facility in Gatesville. Stroud put a word in someone’s ear and got her off. It was a stupid scam, one of Nyman’s worst.”
“Sounds like she had a tough time of it growing up,” I said.
“Yes, especially after her mother died. That was about the time Sally started acting up.” Wick told me that Sally’s mother died when she was thrown from a horse. “It was an accident, all right, but there were rumors about it.”
“What do you mean?”
“Nyman might have had something to do with it.”
“Nyman Scales killed his wife?” I asked.
“Nobody thinks he meant to do it. Rumor has it he was experimenting with killing horses for profit even back then. He had scraped up some money to buy and insure a show horse, then did something to it, lamed it in some way, planning to collect on the insurance. But his wife must not have known about it, because she took the horse out for a ride and wound up with a broken neck.”
“Mercy,” I said. “Does Sally know that her father might have had a hand in her mother’s death?”
“Gill thinks she found out a few years ago, because that’s when she started straightening out like she did. It looked for a time like she was running away from home. She went to UT, got a degree, set herself up in Mule Springs. She had her last name legally changed to Dean—that was her mother’s family name. It looked like she was turning over a new leaf—that is, if you look at it from a certain direction, the one Gill favors.”
“What’s your read on Sally Dean?” I asked.
Wick finished his drink, poured another, and topped off my glass.
“Remember I told you that Nyman put the dairy in his daughter’s name? Well, he did it right after she changed her name from Scales to Dean. Now, if Sally was changing her name as a way of breaking off with her father, why would he turn right around and make her owner of one of his biggest cash projects?”
“You’re saying she may have changed her name to help her daddy rip off the government? But a simple name change wouldn’t fool a one-ey
ed auditor with an IQ over six.”
“Go find me a government auditor with an IQ over six, and we’ll talk.”
“But you also told me she severed her connection with the dairy, Wick. Why would she have done that if she was still in cahoots with her father?”
“She dumped the dairy just about the time she applied for a job in our firm. Think about it, Clay. She couldn’t very well have been involved in dairy fraud while applying for the job of Northeast Texas Judicial District Administrative Coordinator, could she?”
In Wick’s version of the Sally Dean story, Nyman Scales’s daughter had never reformed at all. Instead, she was just covering her tracks whenever necessary as Nyman moved her from one scheme to the next.
“So Nyman cut her loose from the dairy scam so that she could get the job she’s got now?” I said. “Tell me, Wick, how could placing Sally as district coordinator possibly pay off for Nyman as big as keeping her on as head of the largest dairy in the country?”
“Easy. In the last three years alone, Nyman Scales has been linked, either directly or indirectly, to five megabucks lawsuits. The three that went in his favor netted him something over four million dollars. With the right judges on the bench, his batting average might have been five out of five. Think what it could mean to him to be able to pick his judge whenever one of his lawsuits went to trial. Sally could help him do that.”
I was starting to get drunk again, for the second time that day. And it was a good thing, because Wick was beginning to make sense, and what he was saying would have depressed me if I had been sober.
“But Stroud says there’s no proof that Sally has ever influenced a trial in her father’s favor.”
“And he’s right. I’m just playing devil’s advocate, Clay. I don’t have any proof that Sally’s bad. But the facts line up more logically that way. Besides, Gill is smitten. He likes to think that he’s the reason why Sally reformed. In Gill’s view Sally was a tool of her evil father when she came to work for us, but thanks to the patience and interest and sterling integrity of Old Lawyer Stroud, she saw the error of her ways and took up the administrator’s job with a soul purged of sin. What a crock! Christ, think of the way he acted at lunch when her name came up. It should be obvious to you that he’s in love with her.”