Heart of Texas

by Kirk Haggerty

  Can I go home now?

  I was yawing so I turned up the radio, just in time to hear ‘Sweet Home Alabama’ by Lynyrd Skynyrd[1]. I hadn’t heard this song in a long time. I may not like the South, but at least I like Southern Rock, so I began to sing along. I turned a sharp curve; only to find a parked police car, near a tree, with an officer holding a radar gun. I put on the breaks, but it was too late and I passed him. Seconds later he came after me with his flashing lights and siren blaring. I signaled and pulled to the side of the road. Sorry, Lynyrd, perhaps another time.

  I’ve seen Texas cops on TV; they love to be where the action is and have an all-out turkey shoot. Of course, in Texas, cops take great care to inflict 'non-fatal injuries' on the bad guys, since they like to leave the executions to the judges.

  Two Texas Rangers stepped out and approached my Dodge. One looked clean cut, like a Marine. His partner, wearing a cowboy hat, watched me from the back, with his hand on his holster. The Marine came up to me. “Good afternoon, may I see your driver’s license.”

  I decided not to use the phony license that Mr. Bronsworth gave me. If they ran it through their computer and discover it as fake, I could be in big trouble. Would they know who I was out here?

  “Mr. ‘Preece’, do you have any idea how fast you were going?”

  “Uh, it’s Price.” A lot of people don’t know how to say my name right; it’s like a curse that goes back to my childhood. Everybody pronounces it as ‘Preece’, and I always have to correct them by saying, “No, it’s like the word ‘Price.’” Then they say, “Oh, like ‘The Price is Right?’ Wish I had a dollar for every time I heard that! I have a cousin in Germany with the same name and nobody ever has problems saying it over there.

  “Excuse me?” His Texas accent began to slip.

  “It’s pronounced Price.”

  “Mr. Price, will you answer my question?”

  “I must have gotten tired, sir. I got carried away listening to the music. Was it eighty-five when I saw you at the tree?”

  “It was almost ninety. I see you’re from Boston. How long have you been in Texas?”

  “About three hours. Just flew in today on business.”

  “Where are you headed?”

  “Hamilton.”

  “The maximum speed limit is seventy-five in Texas. We take traffic safety serious in these parts. You need to be more cautious, you hear?”

  I took that as a warning and answered, “Thank you, sir. I’ll pay better attention.”

  “And if you’re tired, I recommend the café in Cranfills Gap, just up the road, otherwise, you’ll catch another speed trap. I’m letting you know that because you just arrived here.”

  “Thank you, I’ll do that.”

  “Welcome to Texas and don’t let me catch you speeding anymore.”

  “Thanks, officer.”

  That was the nicest cop I’ve ever met. No ‘Boss Hog’ or ‘Buford T. Justice’ out here. Texas gets a brownie point in my book.

  Going ‘up the road’ Cranfills Gap (population 281), was more like fifteen miles. The first house I saw on the roadside had both Texas and Confederate flags adorning its doorstep. The café was a green shack called the ‘Horny Toad’. Stop thinking dirty, Daniel.

  Well, in case I was being watched by the Texas Rangers, I took their advice and went inside. The place was like a barn where you could have filmed an old version of ‘Hee Haw’, with wagon-wheel lamps, cow skulls on the walls, barbecue grills, rough wooden bar stools and a pool table. Despite the porterhouse steak in Dallas, I was starving because I chowed down a burger with fries and two cups of strong coffee, before ordering an ice-cream sundae.

  I’d spent almost an hour there when I heard the deep roar of motorcycles pull up. From the window I saw about ten Harley-Davidsons, all of them with at least 750cc engines, parking all around my Dodge. In a cloud of carbon monoxide and cigarette smoke, ten men wearing Hell’s Angels jackets stampeded into the Horny Toad Bar and Grill.

  And I couldn’t get out.

  Chapter Three

  I wasn’t sure how I was going to get out of this one - surrounded by ten, rough and tough men in motorcycle leathers with nose rings, tattoos and other weird objects sticking out of their hair and other orifices of bodies – and if I could escape out alive and unharmed.

  I paid my bill, trying to figure how to get my Dodge Dakota out of this sea of chrome. I mustered up as much courage as I could and tapped the shoulder of the least aggressive-looking of the Harley Axe Murderers “Um, excuse me, but you’re blocking my truck.”

  He turned and looked at me as if I just spat in his mother’s face. “How d’you know it’s me, you cockface?”

  “Hey, all I want is to leave, Jack.”

  “How the hell do you know my name?” He rose to look me in the eye, all six foot, six inches of him; his three-day beard was worse than mine. More of his male leather banshees were now surrounding us. A guy next to him, with pulled-back hair like a samurai, blew cigarette smoke in my face.

  “I don’t know your name; it’s a figure of speech. Look, you want a beer? I’m more than happy to pay for yours.”

  “You’re not from around here, I hear a Boston accent,” said the tough guy. His voice was also east-coast; I noticed the insignia on his leather vest, which might save my ass.

  “Yes, I’m from Boston and you sound like you’re from New York. Your patch indicates you’re a 10th year member of the Hell’s Angels New York Chapter, at East 3rd Street, in lower Manhattan.”

  That raised a few busy eyebrows in the ZZ Top fan club. “How would you know that, Sherlock?”

  “Because I wrote an article about the Hell’s Angels last winter.”

  “That’s what they all say. What else do you write?”

  Ask a stupid question. “I posted a video on YouTube about how boring and useless YouTube is.”

  He scanned me from head to toe then smiled. “Holy shit, I remember you. Weren’t you at our Christmas fund raiser last year?”

  “Yes, and you were the Santa for the kids. I took your picture.”

  “I remember. You wrote a good story about us.”

  “Thanks.”

  He held out his hand and said, “I’m ‘Killer’ Jack Evans.”

  I took his hand. “Daniel Preis.”

  Another bearded biker spoke behind me. “So, you’re that asshole on the internet.”

  I’ve been smoked out. Can I jump out the window, please?

  “Back off, T-Bone. He’s friendly.”

  “Let him prove it,” answered T-Bone.

  Prove it, I wondered how? Why were they so far away from home? Most of the time, they stay in territories.

  “You guys are long way from Manhattan,” I said.

  “It’s a free country,” snapped T-Bone.

  “Look, would it be any help to know there’s a speed trap waiting for you outside this town, in the direction of Hamilton?” That’s what I recalled the officer saying.

  Killer Jack turned his attention from me to another rider. “Nat?”

  Nat, a bald-shaven member, pulled out a smartphone-like device from his leather jacket and inserted earplugs. He tapped around with one finger and then looked up.

  “It’s true. Three miles west of here.”

  I sighed with relief.

  Killer Jack placed a leather-gloved hand on my shoulder. “What’s the hurry, Daniel?”

  “I have an appointment in Hamilton.”

  “Tell us about it, while you order our drinks. Then maybe my associates will move their bikes out of your way.”

  Fair enough. At least I could keep my pretty face from the plastic surgeons. I pulled out a credit card and handed it to the bartender. “A round of beers for my friends.” The bikers applauded me.

  “That’s the spirit,” said Jack.

  I will bill this to Bronsworth if it’s the last thing I do.

  Another hour passed with small talk from the gang, and a few rounds of pics from smart
phones. The jukebox cranked away endless country music. Jack was interested in knowing about my assignment in Texas.

  “Just write something that everybody will like,” he explained as he inhaled his umpteenth cigarette.

  “My boss wants people to read anything that’s bullshit, so it can sell magazines.”

  From the window, I watched T-Bone move his bike, revving his engine loud as he re-parked.

  Jack made a smoke ring and said, “You have the right to your opinions, but as long as you’re staying here, I’d keep it to myself until you’re safe in Boston again.”

  “Thanks. So tell me,” I hunched closer to him to speak softer. “Why are you so far away from home?”

  He chuckled and slammed his fist into my shoulder – it hurt too. “Like I said, buddy, can’t tell you everything.”

  T-Bone came inside and punched me in my other shoulder – ow!

  “You’re a good kid, Daniel,” he said. “Stay out of trouble, leave that for us.”

  After T-Bone left us, I decided to try something that I knew went against common sense. I pulled out a business card and handed it to Jack. “I don’t want to get in trouble either. I’m giving you this. If you need help for anything, call me. I hope you can do the same for me. Do you have a number?”

  He took the card and pulled out a pen. On a napkin he wrote down a number.

  “This is the owner of the Horny Toad. If you’re in trouble, call him and he’ll inform me.”

  “Thanks.” I rose and shook his hand gangster style. I’d been trying my best the whole hour not to wet my pants. I was allowed to leave, unscathed, from the Hell’s Angels. That was a story by itself. I hopped in my Dodge and pulled away. Around the block I stopped to double-check that my tires weren’t slit, and that there were no bombs or strange items left in the back. When all looked fine, I got back on the road to Hamilton.

  The Texas Ranger speed trap was still there as mentioned by the officer earlier. I made sure I was slower than seventy-five, yet still they waved me to the side.

  “Just checking to see if you’ve been drinking, sir. Please breathe through this.”

  I puffed into the breathalyzer and they seemed satisfied. “You haven’t seen any motorcycle gangs?”

  So that was it. Killer Jack’s trip out here wasn’t just a holiday after all.

  “No, sir.”

  “There’s been some criminal activity with bikers in this area. If you see any gangs, please notify us.”

  “I will. Thanks.”

  I passed the little green sign that read Hamilton, population 3,095. A large water tank also confirmed where I was – the home of the Bulldogs. Woof. After passing some shops I was surrounded by peaceful-looking houses and gardens resembling Main Street USA, but I didn’t see Mickey Mouse anywhere, or ‘Wally and the Beaver’.

  The motel was simple but clean. At least it had a swimming pool, air-conditioning, and an internet connection so I could upload my blog. Across the street was a meat-packing and beef jerky plant – the ultimate destiny of Texas Longhorns. It was almost 6:30 PM and I was beat. After settling in I made some phone calls, first to my boss.

  “I don’t understand, Mr. Bronsworth. Hamilton has an airport, why did you make me drive out here?”

  Bronsworth laughed. “That little strip of asphalt isn’t worth flying to. I made no mistake. I wanted you to pick up the truck in Waco and drive across the countryside to get a first-hand look at your environment.”

  “Fine. Just to let you know I got caught in a speed trap, but they let me slide.”

  “Why are you telling me this? Go and write it on the blog.”

  “I also had a close call with the Hell’s Angels.”

  “Man, it’s your first day in Texas and you know how to make enemies.”

  I could hear from Bronsworth’s voice that he was enjoying every minute of it. I explained what had happened at the Horny toad. “Can you do me a favor and ask your contacts in New York what they know?”

  Bronsworth cleared his throat into my earpiece. “You think something’s going down? Looks like you’re in the right place at the right time. I’ll call a buddy of mine at NYPD and ask what he knows. Maybe you can meet up with this Killer Jack guy once again.”

  “I’m not here to do criminal investigations. I’m here to observe and record.”

  “You’ll go wherever I order you to go. That’s part of the package deal. I already have a list of people I want you to see.”

  “For example?”

  “A guy named Bo Hopkins at the Texas Central Bank. Call him tomorrow morning to take out a loan.”

  “A loan for what?”

  “Think, Preis. You’re staying for a year. You’re going to need capital to start a business.”

  “You mean open a bookstore?”

  “What else are you good at, Chowdahead? You can’t stay at a motel for a year. You’ll need to find an apartment, and washing dishes or pouring cocktails won’t pay the rent. I made sure your credit card has a 5K maximum limit.”

  “You’re all heart, chief.”

  “I do my best.” I couldn’t believe he meant that seriously. “Now write up what you experienced today and send it off this evening.”

  I was tired and not in the mood to write anything. I tried to call Debbie but her voice mail activated, so I left a message that I’d arrived and that I missed her already.

  I let my folks know that I was here. My mother wanted to know all the details of the trip, including which motel I was staying at. Talk about overprotective.

  “I’m fine, mom. Don’t worry about me, really.”

  “If I were you, I would tell that boss of yours to stuff it and find a real job,” she said.

  “Now be nice. Don’t want to bite the hand that feeds me, even though the man deserves his arm bitten off by a great white.”

  “I don’t like this, Danny boy.” I hate it when she calls me that, but mentioning it never changes anything. “You can get in big trouble. Everybody in Texas hates you because of your blog.”

  “I’ll be careful.”

  “What are going to do there for a year?”

  I explained to mom about Bronsworth’s idea about a loan for a book store. “You should have come to us, son, if you need a start-up. Oh, I wish you could manage your father’s book shop and get out of that smut factory.”

  “I won’t be there forever. Who knows, maybe there’s an opening for a journalist in Houston or in Dallas. I’ll look into it.”

  “Please do, Danny Boy.”

  “Come out and visit me, too.”

  “I will. Got to go now, son. Love ya.”

  “Luv ya too, mom.”

  I recalled seeing a Mexican restaurant within walking distance of the motel, so I went to find it.

  The evening was still warm. The horizon became pink and purple after sunset; it was a picturesque site.

  At the ‘Taco Loco’ I ordered a burrito with a beer. A group of high school kids sat at the next table and watched me eat.”

  “You’re not from here, are ya?” One of the girls asked me.

  I nodded as I tried to swallow. “How did you figure?”

  “Your Boston Red Sox baseball cap.”

  I felt my face turning as red as my cap. How stupid of me. I had to take a swig of my beer so I wouldn’t choke. “Yeah, I’m from the East coast. First time in Texas.”

  “What you seen so far?”

  I smiled and mentioned the Horny Toad in Cranfills Gap. They all laughed. Another guy answered, “Well, it doesn’t get more Texan than that.”

  “I believe it. You all live in Hamilton?”

  The girl said, “Yeah, our high school is round the corner.”

  “Do you know of any night-life in town?” I asked.

  “Well, there’s the Sonic Drive-In on the 36, just a couple miles up the road,” said one of the girls looking questioningly to her boyfriend. He shrugged his shoulders and asked me, “What are you looking for?”

  “Mo
vies, billiards, dance clubs, things like that.”

  “They don’t have anything like that in Hamilton,” said a young man with an inverted baseball cap with earphones attached to his iPod. “You got to go all the way to Stephenville.”

  “Where’s that?”

  “At least fifty miles north of here, on the 281. They got a cool billiards bar called Bostocks and a rock club called City Limits.”

  The girl interrupted, “Yeah, they also have the Cinemark Cinema.”

  I nodded. “That’s it?”

  “Otherwise you have to go all the way to Austin or Dallas-Fort Worth if you want more sophisticated action.” He pinched his girlfriend’s ass and said, “Right, honey?”

  Of course she slapped him back, but nothing serious. At least the kid has someone to hold and joke with.

  My report wouldn’t be as exciting as Bronsworth was hoping.

  Only 364 days to go.

  Chapter Four

  Mr. Bo Hopkins from the Central Bank of Texas in Hamilton gazed at my financial credentials as he sat uncomfortably behind his desk. The data were faxed to the motel this morning by Bronsworth. I had very little time to go through them myself, but I figured it was a bunch of bullshit anyway.

  I think Bo saw it that way as well. Fidgeting with his bolo-tie, the middle-aged, overweight loan officer broke the silence by saying, “Um, see here, Mr. ‘Preece’…”

  “That’s ‘Price’, sir.”

  He studied the first page once again. “That’s not how it’s spelled on your form.”

  “That’s how you pronounce it in German.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “With the ‘e’ before ‘i’ you pronounce it like ‘aye’. I know it’s a bit complicated.”

  Bo shook his head. “What’s not complicated here is the lack of collateral you’re providing, especially for a $450,000 loan to open something as simple as a book store:”

  “I’ll need to renovate it according to my business plan,” I explained. “It’s all spelled out there.”

  Bo laughed and leaned back into his chair – the same way my boss does. It must be something in the gene pool that dictates it. He pulled out a cigar and lit it. “You expect if you combine a book store with a coffee shop, an internet café and a video games store you’ll attract customers?”