Winning Texas

by Nancy Stancill

He consulted scribbled directions from Spud Jarvis and turned off the interstate to a farm-to-market road. He drove for a few miles and turned again, this time to a dirt road. A faux-rustic wooden sign identified the property ahead as the Jarvis Ranch. The main building was a low, dirty-white stucco house with a few outbuildings behind it. He knew Jarvis had acquired the foreclosed property recently at a courthouse-steps sale. Spud had described it as his first and last Texas home. To Krause, it looked like a far cry from paradise.

  As he drove into the rutted driveway, he could see the balding figure of Jarvis puttering in the front yard. His elongated arms and legs always hung out of clothes that weren’t quite long enough and he had an old man’s protruding belly. Krause wasn’t sure why he’d been nicknamed Spud, but knew it had something to do with an impoverished childhood on an Iowa potato farm. He’d come to Laredo as a young man and quickly perceived that it needed a dose of fun. The first of his topless clubs was a hit and he followed up with several satellites, quickly saturating the small city. Across the Rio Grande, virgin territory beckoned and he was eager to plumb its heights – or depths – with adult entertainment. Nuevo Laredo was more than twice the size of Laredo with an even higher quotient of fun-loving visitors, so it was easy to establish outposts there. But the growth of violent drug organizations along the border had stopped Jarvis’s Mexican expansion. He’d reached a détente with several groups in the mid-1980s, and in a grudging sign of respect, they even paid him some go-away money.

  Krause had sought out Jarvis’s advice more than a decade ago after acquiring his first Texas Girls club. He’d gone down to Laredo to visit Jarvis’s Triple-X Clubs and adopted some profitable practices, including bringing in live bands on weekends and offering a premium menu to attract a higher class of customers. When Jarvis confided a few years ago that he was unloading a few clubs, Krause bought two, glad to get a foothold in South Texas. By then, the Laredo entrepreneur was pushing seventy, had met the love of his life and wanted to spend his declining years with his beautiful Salvadoran dancer. Daria del Fuego, now in her late thirties, remarkably had reciprocated his affection. They’d married and moved to the ranch.

  “Welcome to Paradise,” Jarvis said.

  “Thanks, guy,” Krause said, squeezing his liver-spotted hand. “Great place. All you need is some Longhorns.”

  “Got me a half-dozen of those babies. We’ll drive out to the pasture to see them later.”

  Krause thought his friend looked more ancient and cadaverous than ever. Jarvis had always reminded him of a sad mortician until something struck him as funny. Then he’d erupt in maniacal laughter that went on a shade too long for Krause’s comfort.

  The interior of the ranch’s house was almost as plain as the exterior, with a motley collection of furniture that looked like somebody threw it in with the sale of the property. But Krause was surprised to see that the landscape outside the back door was fancy. The newly constructed patio area was paved in multi-colored stone with an outdoor kitchen. A large, custom-built pool included a float-up, thatched bar at one end and several lanes for swimming laps at the other. A sprinkler system nourished palm trees, red-flowering plants and St. Augustine grass, the only variety hardy enough to flourish in the torrid climate.

  “Fantastic patio,” Krause said, settling into a shaded chair. “Never pictured you as the sort of guy who’d hang out by the pool. Must be Daria’s idea, right?”

  “Yeah, that girl loves her swimming and grilling. Whatever Daria loves, Daria gets.”

  As if on cue, his wife opened the back door, carrying a tray of beers and snacks. Through her lacy black cover-up, Krause could see a white bikini on Daria’s well-toned body. But he knew not to look for long, because Jarvis could turn jealous.

  “Hola, Kyle,” she said, extending her cheek for a kiss. “Thank you for coming to pick up my women. Juliana will like them.”

  “Where are they?”

  “Enjoying dinner and TV in the guest house,” she said. “That’s where our visitors stay, so that no one will see them. They’re recovering from their long journey.”

  Daria’s family in El Salvador ran a high-end coyote business, bringing mostly women up through Mexico and into Texas. When women came to Daria, she would find places for them, mostly in the topless clubs or restaurants in South Texas. More recently, she had placed a select few at Juliana’s ranch.

  “You’ll meet them tomorrow morning,” she said. “I have explained Juliana’s business to them. They are eager to join her for a year, or however long their services are required. They want to make money to bring their children and relatives to Texas. When they complete their deal, she will pay them $1,000 each. She has already given me their transportation fees.”

  “All that’s between you and Juliana,” Krause said. “I’m just taking them to the ranch.”

  She nodded and the three of them chatted until dinner was served. After a meal of roasted fish with black beans and rice, Daria brought liquors and cigars and said good night.

  Krause and Spud talked about their businesses for a while, but the conversation took a more philosophical turn as the light dimmed into a quiet starlit sky.

  “This is a damned fine piece of Texas,” Spud said, puffing on a particularly odoriferous cigar. “But it’s getting ruined like everything else.”

  “What’s getting ruined? Laredo, Texas, the United States or the world?”

  “All of the above, though I mainly meant Texas,” Spud said. “A man can’t create anything great like we did. Too much interference by government bureaucrats.”

  “You sound like those secessionists,” Krause said. “Don’t tell me you’ve joined the Nation of Texas.”

  “Them folks had the right idea, but messed up everything with that stupid shootout. Got themselves in a peck of trouble that will never be put right.”

  Krause smiled and leaned forward, emboldened by the brandy. “I just joined a group in the Hill Country that has a better idea. They’re going to turn the Hill Country into German Texas.”

  “German Texas? What the hell is that?”

  “You know the Hill Country is the prettiest part of Texas,” Krause said. “But it’s always been underdeveloped.”

  “That’s true. Never been any good clubs up there,” Spud said. “Probably have more cows than girls.”

  “That’s going to change,” Krause said. “If we get our way, we can make it a huge tourist attraction – kind of like a Vegas in Texas.”

  Spud reacted with one of his odd outbursts. His entire body shook with soundless paroxysms, followed by cascades of braying laughter. Krause found it irritating and kind of scary, but didn’t say anything.

  “Are you smoking the peyote again?” Jarvis said. “Vegas in Texas ain’t going to happen.”

  “It’ll be better than Vegas,” Krause said. “You’ll see. You and I could go together and create something big. Clubs, gambling ranches, all kinds of German-themed stuff will be up for grabs.”

  “Do your German-Texas buddies know about your Vegas dreams? Bet they’re counting on cute little Alpine villages, not strip clubs.”

  “Maybe, but they’ll see it my way,” Krause said. “Money talks.”

  Jarvis leaned back in his chair, puffed on his cigar and looked at the stars. Krause thought he’d gone to sleep before he finally spoke.

  “You’re still young enough for big dreams. But I’ll stay here and enjoy my piece of Texas until it’s spoilt.”

  CHAPTER 11

  The next morning, Krause left early after packing the three Salvadoran women and their sparse belongings into the SUV. The women seemed in good spirits, preferring to sit together in back and talk. That was fine with him, because he never had much to sa
y to strangers, even less if he had to speak in another language. Like most Texans, he spoke some Spanish, but the women’s rapid-fire conversation daunted him.

  He was relieved to find that the women, introduced as Angela, Sara and Isabel, were older, perhaps in their mid- to late twenties or early thirties. They looked more Spanish than Indian, with light skin, nice faces and well-padded bodies. As Daria had observed, Juliana would applaud her choices. He couldn’t remember their last names, but knew that Angela and Isabel were sisters and Sara their cousin. Perhaps because they were older, they seemed more at ease with themselves than the young, high-strung women who auditioned at his clubs. He was glad Daria had talked to them about the workings of the ranch because he didn’t want to have to explain anything – in English or Spanish.

  The morning passed quickly and Krause pulled into a rest stop for lunch. The women looked pleased when they saw the voluminous basket of food Daria had packed. He took out the sandwiches, drinks and cookies and everyone picked out what they wanted and ate in contented silence. They piled back into the car and lapsed into an afternoon torpor. Krause drove steadily and by mid-afternoon, he’d reached the guard gate of his ranch. He spoke briefly to the man on duty and drove inside.

  Something about the place, which they’d called Krause Ranch in the absence of a clever name, had always made him uneasy. He couldn’t quite put his finger on it, but the ranch had never felt welcoming. Perhaps he and Juliana had snapped up the densely wooded property too quickly. It had been listed at a good price, but he wondered now if the previous owners had just been in a hurry to get rid of it. The trees and heavy underbrush were thick and gloomy, especially after Juliana had installed fencing and barbed wire. He didn’t much care for the people Juliana had hired either, especially Maria Espinosa, the part-time director who worked when Juliana couldn’t be there. Espinosa, a heavyset Hispanic with a broad forehead and grayish skin tones, came up to meet them. She looked and acted like a prison matron.

  The modest assortment of one-story buildings looked as innocent as a summer camp, but Krause could sense that the Salvadorans also felt the odd chill of the place. They’d stopped talking and all three seemed reluctant to gather their belongings. He wanted them to hurry up so that he could leave, but he tried to hide his eagerness to get away. The three women stood together, as if supporting each other from unseen dangers. He introduced them to Espinosa in his limited Spanish and handed her a stack of paperwork Daria had sent. Espinosa began talking with them in Spanish and they nodded in comprehension. He smiled, waved, got back in the SUV and drove without stopping through the guard gate. He felt sorry for the women who watched him drive off, but after all, they’d known what they were signing up for when they agreed to come to the ranch.

  After a few minutes on the open road, he was breathing easier. For the first time all day he relaxed. He deserved his treat, so he headed toward San Antonio.

  Six years ago, he’d built his first Texas Gas Emporium off I-10 outside the Alamo City and had been astounded by its immediate success. It was his iteration of the gigantic places that had sprung up in recent years to attract hordes of gas-guzzling motorists and truckers. The emporium boasted twenty-five gas pumps and a glittering convenience store that offered everything from warmed-up hotdogs and burritos to Mexican pottery and flavored condoms. There was an ice-cream counter and a game room to entertain the kids and a motel behind the convenience store where truckers could rent showers, rooms and if they went about it discreetly, women. Krause’s business concept was designed to fill every need of the modern road warrior.

  When Juliana joined him in Houston, she’d been so impressed with the Texas Gas Emporium and its profits that he’d built three others, one off I-10 near Beaumont and two off I-20 near Dallas and west to Odessa. But since she didn’t particularly care about cars, gas or truckers, she didn’t interfere in the management of those businesses. So he used them as an excuse to get out of Houston and to skim off money to stash in a secret account. He thought about his growing funds with satisfaction. He wasn’t about to ask Juliana’s permission for all of his purchases.

  There were a few women stationed at each emporium to give in-room massages and other, tip-worthy services as well. Some of the women had drug and alcohol habits that kept them mired in prostitution. Others would rather work for big tips from long-haul truckers than eke out meager salaries clerking at the nearby Wal-Mart. As business accelerated or dwindled, he could move the women between the Gas Emporium locations. He mostly left management of the massage business up to Bonita Vasquez, the Mexican-American woman he’d hired five years ago to run those services. She’d done well and always took time to make Krause’s visits pleasurable. He’d called earlier and told her he was an hour away.

  Now, as he pulled into the emporium, he could see Bonita on the porch of the motel-style building in back. In her mid-thirties with long, dark hair and almost-black eyes and lashes, she was attractive without being beautiful. She dressed professionally enough that she didn’t look like a madam and was a shrewd businesswoman. She and Krause shared a long history and he’d come to value her problem-solving skills as much as her willing body.

  “Kyle, mi amigo, welcome,” she said, kissing him softly on the cheek. He smelled her musky perfume and it brought back memories of happy encounters. She led him inside her unit, which consisted of a large living room leading into a kitchen with a bedroom and bathroom in the back.

  “Hi, beautiful,” he said, looking around. She had apparently redecorated since the last time he’d been here, with furniture and fabric in gaudy reds and yellows. She had also added some Mexican velvet paintings of mountains and deserts that he hated, so he refrained from comment on the new décor. He never spent more than a few hours there and didn’t really care if it was wall-to-wall polka dots.

  “How’s business this week?”

  “Good here,” she said. “Not so good at the Odessa store. Had to get rid of two of the women. Too drunk to work their schedule and stealing money from the truckers. Very unprofessional.”

  “I’ll go over the figures with you later,” Krause said. “Now I just need to rest.”

  He leaned back in the leatherette chair and sighed. She came around behind him and started massaging his neck and back. Her skilled hands felt heavenly and he began to unwind from the stress of the trip.

  “Had to get away from Juliana for a few days?” she asked. Bonita had met Juliana once, and the two women had immediately sized each other up as dangerous rivals. He cursed himself for being so open with Bonita about his frustrations with Juliana.

  “She went to Galveston with a real estate broker,” he said. “Wants to buy a beach house – the last thing I want or need.”

  “You sure she’s not making love to a beach boy?” she teased. “Maybe she needs a change.”

  Her instinct for the jugular roiled his temper. “Cut the crap, Bonita, and bring me a beer.”

  She poured two Coronas into frosted glasses from the freezer and added limes. He smiled and touched glasses with hers, trying to make amends for his cross words. After a while, she led him to the bedroom, unbuttoned his shirt and eased him down on her king-sized bed. For a few minutes, he relished being fully in the moment, as he almost never could in his problem-plagued life. It was as if time stopped – and then in an instant, it all went sour. He heard the walls shake and felt a huge explosion that definitely wasn’t the orgasm he’d hoped for. Something terrible had happened.

  He leaped off the bed, wrapped a towel around his lower body and ran ahead of Bonita to the door. The scene in front shook him almost like a second explosion. Part of the convenience store was gone. The left side of its roof had a gaping, smoking hole and the walls on that end had caved in. He knew that if he didn’t get help fast, the gas pumps in front would be next. If they blew, the entire propert
y would catch fire.

  “Get me a phone, quick,” he yelled at Bonita. “If those gas pumps go up, we’re goners.”

  CHAPTER 12

  Annie was running off the tension of her workday when her cell phone rang in the pocket of her shorts. She noticed it was Matt Sharpe and picked it up quickly. It had been four days since they’d been together at his apartment. Though they’d traded flirtatious texts, she’d begun to wonder whether their night together was the latest mistake in her star-crossed love life. She knew that her judgment about men was often flawed, especially when alcohol was involved. She hadn’t meant to sleep with him that night and was embarrassed that she’d succumbed so easily to his scotch and flattery. She tried to reassure herself that he was a decent man, but she knew that the sex would change the friendship. So she was glad that his tone of voice sounded warmer, but otherwise normal.

  He’d come by the morning after her car was vandalized and searched the area for clues. But he didn’t find anything and asked if she was certain she’d been followed home from his apartment. She knew she hadn’t imagined the dark SUV behind her in the predawn hours, but couldn’t say for sure if it had meant harm. But she felt uneasy, remembering how Alicia Perez had stalked her four years ago. Could it be Perez, risking recapture by showing up in Houston in a revenge move? That seemed unlikely, but she found herself searching online more often for signs of new secessionist activity and looking in her rear-view mirror more frequently when she drove.

  “What’s up, Matt?” she said, slowing to a walk.

  “Want to go to a porn star show at a strip club tomorrow night?”

  “Now that sounds romantic,” she joked. “What’s the deal?”

  “The Texas Girls Club on the North Freeway is hosting Carla Carmine, who’s billed as one of the busiest porn stars in California.”

  “Another feather in Houston’s cap. Is that unusual for a strip club?”