by Rehder, Ben
He could see Colby’s barn coming up now, the house back behind it.
“When are y’all heading back to Houston?” Colby asked.
“This afternoon.”
“I can mail you a copy of the lease if something opens up.”
“That’d be just fine. I’ll fill it out and drop a check in the mail.”
Buford reached into the pocket of his jacket and wrapped his hand around the little snub-nosed .38. A throwaway. Something he’d bought from a guy after a gun show. No forms to fill out, no names exchanged.
They were getting close. No sign of Little Joe popping his head up in the car window.
Buford was starting to get a bad feeling.
Getting close now, the barn blocking out the house behind it.
He used his thumb to take the gun off safety.
He’d already decided that if this went south, it might be best to take Colby away from the ranch. Maybe even drive him all the way back to Buford’s place outside Fort Worth, where he could work on him real good. Wasn’t but a four-hour drive.
Why was he feeling so damn nervous? Was it that steely look Colby sometimes had in his eyes? The one that said he was a lot more dangerous than the scum Buford usually dealt with? Sure as hell had something to do with it.
Colby pulled up next to the Caddy and parked.
Still no Joe showing.
“Where’s your buddy?” Colby asked.
Buford tried to look puzzled. He had a feeble idea. “I guess he mighta went to use your bathroom or something.”
That turned Colby’s head, and Buford could tell the man didn’t like the idea of a stranger in his home. Even in Texas, the land of hospitality, and even with Joe’s “sickness” as an excuse, entering Colby’s house uninvited would really be pushing it. Might even make Colby realize it was all a setup.
Buford said, “Ordinarily he wouldn’t do something like that, but he was feeling pretty sorry. I hope you won’t take any offense.”
Colby didn’t say a word, just stepped from his truck and peered into the Cadillac, front seat and back. He shook his head, starting to look peeved.
Buford pulled the .38 from his jacket and climbed out of the truck, keeping the gun low where Colby couldn’t see it. He had two choices: Take Colby now. Or walk with him to the house and see how bad the situation was. Colby would likely catch Joe rooting through a desk drawer or rummaging through a closet, and then all hell would break loose.
No, it was better to go ahead and get it over with. Do it now.
Colby started walking toward the house.
Buford came around the truck, his revolver leveled.
He was about to call out to the man. Better yet, fire a round down by his feet. Start out real strong with a tough old boy like Colby. That’s the way to do it.
His finger tightened on the trigger.
Then Buford heard a retching sound coming from the barn.
Colby turned quickly, but Buford managed to slide the gun back into his pocket.
Little Joe came staggering out of the barn, covered with hay, looking exactly like he’d been taking a nap. “Damn car was like an oven,” Joe said. “Mr. Colby, you suppose I could bother you for some ice water?”
11
LUCAS WASN’T SURE he’d ever seen an actual Cuban before, not face-to-face, but he was pretty sure the guy behind the desk wasn’t a Mexican. Lucas had heard a lot about all the Cubans down here, so he assumed that’s what the man was. Something about the tone of his skin seemed different than the Mexicans back home.
Then again, it might’ve been due to the fact that Lucas was flying on Ecstasy and his senses were a tad short-circuited at the moment. Unwise to attempt to sell a stolen car when blitzed on hallucinogenics? Probably. But right now it seemed kind of funny. Lucas couldn’t quit smiling.
The name tag on the man’s shirt said ENRIQUE. And since the small, run-down shop had a sign out front that said ENRIQUE’S PAINT & BODY, Lucas quickly deduced that he’d found the owner. Pretty good luck, right off the bat. Two other men, both short and dark-skinned, were eating lunch at a coffee table farther back in the room. They were watching Lucas and eating something with their hands.
“Help you?” Enrique asked.
The Corvette was parked in the side lot at a convenience store two blocks away, Stephanie waiting inside. With the doors locked. It was that kind of neighborhood.
“Yeah, uh, I was wondering…do you ever buy any cars here?” Lucas was trying his best to be smooth, but he wasn’t sure it was working out all that well.
Enrique leaned back in his chair and studied Lucas for thirty minutes. Or it might’ve been three seconds. “What kine of car?” he finally said.
That was promising. If Enrique wasn’t a buyer, why would he even bother asking? “It’s, uh, a Corvette.”
“Wha’ year?”
Good question, Lucas thought. It was this year’s model, right? He couldn’t get his thoughts straight. “Nearly brand-new. Two thousand miles on the odometer.”
“Why do you sell it?”
Another good question. And now Lucas had to do a tap dance around the facts. He didn’t want to come right out and say it was stolen, just in case Enrique ran a legit shop. So he had a line all prepared. “I don’t have the title,” he said, and let it hang there in the air. Surely Enrique would understand what that meant. I don’t have the title because I don’t own the car.
“Brand-new Corvette,” Enrique said. “But no title?” The other two men stopped eating and seemed to be studying Lucas with a newfound respect. “Where is this car?”
“Right around the corner,” Lucas said.
“Okay, you bring it in and we—”
“Uh-uh. We make the deal right now.”
Enrique frowned, as if Lucas had just spit on the floor.
“The car is perfect,” Lucas said. “No scratches, no dents, never been wrecked. Just like the showroom. You can see it before you buy it, but we make the deal first.” Lucas didn’t want to park the Corvette in front of the shop and then have Enrique pull some sort of stunt.
Enrique pondered Lucas’s proposition for a minute or two. “Do you have the keys?” he asked.
Lucas knew what that question really meant: Is the steering column broken? Was the car damaged when it was stolen?
Lucas pulled the keys from his pocket and dangled them from one finger.
Enrique held out a palm, and Lucas tossed them over. Enrique grinned. Then he pulled a small yellow booklet from his desk drawer and thumbed through it. Half a minute later, he said, “If this car is in perfeck shape, I give you five thousand dollars in cash.”
Five thousand dollars? Christ, the car was worth ten times that much. Yeah, it was stolen, but even without the title it had to be worth more than that.
Enrique must have seen the look of uncertainty on Lucas’s face, because he nodded toward the telephone on his desk and said, “You know, you must be careful in a car like that. Someone might call the police on you. You never know.”
Suddenly Lucas realized how stupid he had been to hand over the keys. He’d set himself up to be screwed, and there wasn’t a damn thing he could do about it. It was the Ecstasy. He knew he wouldn’t have made such a dumb mistake if he had been straight.
He also knew he wouldn’t have had the balls to push back, as he did now. “I’m gonna need some new wheels,” he said. “Something decent to drive, on top of the five grand.”
Enrique rubbed the little goatee on his chin, then looked back at his buddies. All three of them laughed in unison, shaking their heads at this gringo who wanted so much. Enrique turned back around, saying, “Okay, my frien’, we have a deal.”
Back on the fencing job, Red waited until lunchtime, when they were all sitting in the shade, before he brought it up. He timed it right, too. When Billy Don struggled to his feet to get another quart of cold Dr Pepper from the truck, that left just Red, Jack Chambers, and Jorge sitting there—and Jorge couldn’t hardly speak the k
ing’s English anyway. So Red said, “How’d she look?”
Jack, with his mouth full of bologna, said, “Who?”
“Loretta.” Red tried to make it sound casual. “The other night.”
“Oh, you know, the same, I guess.”
“Still lookin’ good, then.”
Jack stopped chewing for a second. “Hey, different strokes.”
Red wondered what that was supposed to mean. Well, it didn’t matter. Not everyone agreed on what made a woman pretty. It reminded him of something his daddy used to say. Beauty is only skin deep, son, but ugly goes clean to the bone.
“You talk to her?” Red asked.
“Naw, just saw her across the room is all.”
“She with anybody?”
“Didn’t appear to be.”
“Just sitting there, huh. Drinking a beer?”
“Yeah, and smoking.”
“Boy, that sounds like Loretta.” A stupid thing to say, really. It sounded like most of the women Red had ever met who hung out in bars. What else were they going to do? Drink and smoke, maybe shoot some pool. Except Loretta didn’t play much pool on account of one arm being shorter than the other. Plus, she always had to squint that lazy eye shut and it gave her a headache.
Billy Don was coming back now, chugging his soft drink, so Red decided he’d asked enough questions. Didn’t learn anything useful at all. Then Red remembered a question he should’ve asked. What was Loretta smoking, a cigarette or a cigar? It’d be a dead sure tip-off if the woman Jack had seen was smoking a cigar, because that was what Loretta preferred. Swisher Sweets. In fact, as far as Red was concerned, the smell of a good stogie was as intoxicating as the finest perfume.
Lucas was driving a twelve-year-old Honda Civic not much nicer than his ratty Toyota back home. One hundred and ninety thousand miles on the odometer. The dash was cracked, the seats were torn, and the whole car smelled like mildew. But it felt solid. The engine purred, the clutch was smooth, and there wasn’t any smoke from the exhaust. Even the inspection sticker was up to date.
Enrique was in the passenger seat, an envelope thick with cash in his hand. Lucas had counted the money back at the body shop, and he’d been keeping an eye on the envelope ever since. He wasn’t falling for any damn switcheroo.
He pulled into the side lot at the convenience store and parked between the Corvette and a Dumpster. Stephanie looked over, and she was already making a face about the car he was driving. Christ, was he going to catch heat about the Honda?
Without a word, Enrique got out and walked around the Corvette, studying it. Meanwhile, Stephanie exited the Corvette and came over to the Honda with her small suitcase in hand. She still had a grimace on her face. Lucas noticed that she had her cell phone in her hand. “Damn, Stephanie, you’re not using that, are you?”
Enrique stepped up next to the driver’s window and held out the envelope. Lucas took it and looked inside. The cash was there. He stepped out, popped the Corvette’s trunk, removed his suitcase, then handed the keys to Enrique for the second time. The Cuban slipped inside the sports car, fired it up, and backed out. He squealed the tires as he left the lot.
Lucas got back into the Honda. Stephanie was still holding her phone.
“Stephanie!” Lucas snapped. “Tell me you didn’t call anyone.”
She shook her head and started to cry. Lucas was starting to wonder if she was having a bad trip on the Ecstasy.
“No,” she said. “They called me. I just checked my voicemail.”
“Who called you? Who?”
She was actually trembling. “The cops from Blanco. They called three times.”
Lucas’s heart sank. More than anything, he had wanted to keep Stephanie out of all this. The cops weren’t supposed to figure out where she was or what she was doing. Then again, maybe they hadn’t. Lucas tried to remain calm. “What did they say?”
“Nothing. They just said I was supposed to call them.”
Lucas grabbed the phone from her hand, getting angry now. “You weren’t supposed to bring this, remember? You can’t make any calls because they can track where we are. Remember?”
Stephanie nodded, tears running down her cheeks.
Lucas leaned out his window and threw the phone into the Dumpster.
John Marlin was a state employee, but his office was located in the county building that housed the sheriff’s department. After lunch, he closed his office door and was preparing to make some calls when Darrell, the dispatcher, put Howell Rogers through.
“How the hell are ya, Howell?” Marlin asked. Rogers was one of the old-time game wardens, in his midsixties and still as tough as an old boot. He’d been nailing poachers in Burnet County, just north of Blanco County, since Marlin was a boy. Rogers had been friends with Marlin’s father, who had also been a game warden.
“Doing great, Johnny. I hear you’re keeping busy.”
“As always.” Marlin quickly brought him up to speed on the Scofield investigation.
“I might have something for you on that,” Rogers said. “It may be nothing, but I figured I’d share it.”
Marlin’s ears perked up. Howell had provided critical information in plenty of cases in the past. “What’s up?”
“It took me a while to place that name, Scofield, but this morning I sorted it out. Remember when I gave you a hand in January?”
“Yeah, sure.”
Near the end of the last deer season, there had been a particularly high number of poaching calls in Blanco County—more than Marlin could handle alone. Rogers had responded to several of them at Marlin’s request. A common courtesy among game wardens.
“Well, if you recall, one of those calls was to a ranch out on Yeager Creek Road. I get there, and the landowner—man named Chuck Hamm—you know him?”
“I’ve been to his place a couple of times. Never any problems out there.”
“Runs that Wallhangers Club.”
“Right.”
“Anyway, I get there and Hamm is hopping mad, saying this guy Scofield was out there with another guy—man named Pritchard?”
“Yeah, that’s Scofield’s lawyer.”
“What the problem was, Pritchard had shot one of Hamm’s best bucks. So I separate the men and get the story. Apparently, Pritchard had done some legal work for the club through Scofield or something, so Hamm was gonna let him do a little hunting. But Pritchard was supposed to take an eight-point or smaller.” Rogers was starting to chuckle. “Turns out he wasn’t a hunter and didn’t know what the hell he was doing. He ended up shooting a fourteen-pointer, and damn was it a fine buck. I’m talking massive. Hamm was furious. Started hollering that Pritchard was Scofield’s guest, so Scofield owed him twenty thousand dollars. Scofield was getting just as mad, saying it was an honest mistake. They went back and forth for a while like that.”
“What’d Pritchard say?”
“He more or less stayed out of it. Just looked embarrassed as hell.”
“So how’d it end up?”
“Hell, you know, the money issue—that was up to them to figure out, not me. But I didn’t want to see these two hotheads shoot each other, so I stuck around until they cooled off. Last thing I knew, they agreed to work it out themselves. But, like you were just saying, if Scofield took off because of money troubles, I guess this fits right in, huh?”
“Yeah. Yeah, it does.”
Marlin thanked Howell for the information and hung up. Then he thumbed through the yellow pages in the Austin phone book. He flipped to the heading MODELING AGENCIES, deciding it was as good a place to start as any. There were fewer than a dozen listings, so he chose a number at random and dialed it.
A woman who sounded about fifteen years old answered the phone. Marlin explained who he was trying to locate.
“I think you might want to try one of the other agencies,” the woman said with a mild laugh. “We don’t offer that sort of service here.”
He thanked her, then tried a second number. Again, it was
answered by a young woman, but this time it was a recording:
Hi there. Thanks for calling Touch of Class. For discreet and pleasurable lingerie modeling in the comfort of your own home or hotel room, please leave a message at the tone. I’ll return your call as soon as possible.
Marlin smiled and told the machine to have a nice day.
Okay, so some of these “agencies” offered services beyond what one might consider traditional modeling. That explained why the first woman had giggled. Judging by the names of the companies, Marlin realized he could delete five of them.
He tried two more numbers and found that they had been disconnected.
Finally, at a place called Image Makers, a man named Bob answered the phone. Again, Marlin identified himself and explained the situation.
“Can’t help you,” Bob said, “but you might want to call some party planners instead. That’s more up their alley.”
Marlin thanked Bob and returned to the phone book, looking under the heading PARTY PLANNING. There were more than a hundred listings, so Marlin chose a company that specialized in “Las Vegas style events.” It just felt right, considering the way some of the casino employees in Vegas dressed. Young, attractive women in revealing outfits.
Marlin had his patter down to a routine now, so he quickly told the woman who answered what he was trying to find out.
“There’s a man named Sid Smith who specializes in that sort of thing,” she said. “If you’ll hang on I’ll find his number.”
Thirty seconds later, Marlin was dialing again, and when Sid answered (“Yo, this is Sid”), it sounded like a cell phone connection. Sid had the flat, distorted inflections of a Texas native trying to sound like a player from the West Coast.