Rogues

by George R. R. Martin

On the porch, a skinny guy with shaggy brown hair—Jared—and a tall girl with long, straight blond hair had been making out on an old sofa beside the front door. Now they jumped up. Jared opened the door to wave at someone inside, and Hank Williams III fell silent. I could hear crickets and cicadas again, but the voices from the porch were just a mumble.

  I closed my binoculars flat. No one would be looking in my direction now that the van had arrived. I jammed the binoculars into the back pocket of my black jeans, then zipped up my black sweatshirt and flipped up the hood. Late April in Central Texas, even in the middle of the night, was too warm for this ensemble. And the sports eye black I had smeared over my face made me itch. But sometimes comfort had to be sacrificed for style.

  I left the trees and angled fifteen yards across the driveway in a low scuttle, ducking behind the PT Cruiser. I paused a moment, then made my way to the Civic. My knees didn’t hurt enough to slow me down, but I could still feel them more than I would have liked. At my checkup right after the move from Chicago, my new Texas doctor had said I was in decent shape “for a forty-three-year-old who smokes, drinks, and already has a touch of osteoarthritis.” This from a seventy-year-old G.P. with peanut-butter breath and a gut like a beach ball. I might not have minded if he hadn’t gone on to ask if I wanted to do something about my thinning hair. “At least mine’s still brown,” I’d said. “Tick-tock,” he’d replied. My kind of guy.

  I stopped in a crouch behind the left-front fender of the Civic, holding my breath. I could hear hi-how-ya-doin’ chatter from the porch. But under that, there were soft voices from the bed of the Ford pickup on the other side of the Honda.

  “What’s happening?” It was the whisper of a teenage girl.

  “They’re about to make an offer,” a male whisper answered. “Don’t worry. Tyler’s got this.”

  “Shouldn’t you be up there too, Donny?”

  “Naw, it’s cool. Come on, Marisa. Kiss me again.”

  “Marisa” was a name I recognized from a few days before, when I’d subbed a college-prep comp-and-lit class. She had been a tiny, dark-haired young woman with huge brown eyes and a hint of a Tejano accent. She had said some perceptive things about D. H. Lawrence’s “The Rocking-Horse Winner.” I had been impressed enough to remember her.

  But as it turned out, she was just another teenage criminal. It was disappointing because I hadn’t expected any of the kids involved in the theft to be smart. Sure, these particular thieves had been smart enough to get in and out of Kingman Rural High School at night without being picked up on security video—but there were only three working cameras, and two of them were aimed at the main entrance. It wouldn’t take any valedictorians to avoid them.

  When I heard the wet sounds of Marisa and Donny gnawing at each other’s faces, I crept to the Civic’s rear fender and looked around it. I was within ten yards of the house now, and my angle was straight toward the west side of the porch. There wasn’t even a railing. If the kids and their buyers stayed where they were, I would see the whole deal.

  In the pickup bed, Donny was doing his best to turn his make-out session with Marisa into something more. But Marisa was disengaging every few moments to rise up and watch the proceedings on the porch. I was amused. But I had to watch the porch, too.

  Three Caucasian high-schoolers—Jared and the girl from the couch, plus Donny’s football buddy Tyler—stood with their backs to the open front door. Tyler was a lumpy-nosed, stubble-headed bruiser in blue jeans and a Toby Keith T-shirt who was destined for a career in either the NFL or the liquor-store-holdup industry. He hadn’t had jack to say about “The Rocking-Horse Winner.”

  Two adult dudes stood with their backs to the van. One was a pink-faced, grizzled white guy wearing a NASCAR cap who could have been a less-beefy, much-older clone of Tyler. He looked about sixty-five or seventy, but some of that might have been due to hard living. I thought I recognized him as a long-ago skunkweed associate of my old man’s, but I couldn’t be sure.

  The other guy was a slim, fair-skinned hombre with a grim expression and gunmetal-gray eyes. He looked to be in his mid-thirties. He was wearing a white cowboy hat, a gold-paisley-embroidered red jacket over a black shirt with white-pearl buttons, a gold bolo tie and wristwatch, crisp black slacks, and pointy-toed red rodeo boots. Here was another man who knew that comfort sometimes had to be sacrificed for style. Or maybe he had just come from a gig.

  NASCAR-Cap Guy was talking. “—appreciate the offer, but we’d prefer to evaluate the goods out here. Carlos and I can drink our own beer, know what I mean?”

  Tyler grinned and stuck out his hand toward the man in the cowboy hat. “Carlos, is it? I’m looking forward to earning your business.”

  I winced. Tyler was doing an imitation of an appliance-store salesman. It was not good.

  Carlos didn’t like it, either. His eyes narrowed, and his shoulders twitched. He did not extend a hand to meet Tyler’s.

  NASCAR-Cap Guy gave a forced chuckle. “Uh, ‘Carlos’ ain’t his real name. I’m just calling him that for the purposes of this transaction. And you should call me Mr. Anthony, as I told you on the phone, on account of I’m your respected elder. Now, let’s get on with it.”

  Yup, this was the guy I remembered from when I was a kid. Bobby Anthony. Daddy had called him Bobby Tone. He had gone to the pokey for a while. And my mama had not liked him even a little bit.

  Tyler dropped his hand. The scowl on his face said that Carlos and Bobby Tone had disrespected him, and he was offended.

  I winced again. Bad move, Tyler. These guys might pull your spine out through your nose.

  Fortunately, the scowl passed in an instant, and Tyler turned into Willie Loman again. “Well, sure, of course! Let’s get on with it! Jared, you want to bring ’em out?”

  Jared looked confused. “All at once?”

  “Kaylee can help.” Tyler nodded toward the blond girl, who was looking down at her feet and brushing her hair from her eyes.

  Now Carlos cleared his throat and spoke. He was dressed like a banda musician and standing on a porch in Texas, but his voice sounded as if it belonged to an Anglo news anchor in Connecticut.

  “As I understand it,” he said, “you have three different models available. I suggest you bring them out one at a time, so I can evaluate them individually.”

  Tyler and Jared stared dumbly, and Kaylee continued looking at her feet. Then Bobby Tone barked at them. “Goddamn, boys, what you waitin’ for?”

  Tyler flicked a hand at Jared, and Jared hurried into the house. Kaylee scuffed her flip-flops, but otherwise didn’t move.

  In the bed of the Ford, Donny grunted. I looked up and saw that Marisa had been watching the porch with her arms propped on the sidewall of the pickup bed. But now Donny was trying to pull her back down.

  “Donny, no!” Marisa said, no longer whispering.

  Donny grunted again and kept pulling. Marisa vanished downward, and I had the sick feeling that I might have to do something. Which would be really stupid of me.

  “Donny! Basta ya!” This was accompanied by the sound of flesh being smacked. I guessed it was Donny’s face. And I relaxed a little.

  On the porch, Carlos glanced toward the Ford. Which was pretty close to glancing toward me. I held my breath.

  But Carlos didn’t let his gaze linger. He turned back toward Tyler, checked his wristwatch, and muttered something about amateurs.

  Marisa rose up to look over the sidewall again.

  Donny stood, hissed “Screw this,” and jumped to the ground. Then he stomped to the porch.

  “’Bye,” Marisa whispered. Her back was toward me, but I had the sense that she was smiling.

  I smiled too. Then I looked toward the porch again.

  Tyler scowled again as Donny hopped up to the porch. “You need something, bro?”

  “Yeah, but I ain’t gettin’ it.”

  Bobby Tone cleared his throat. “If you boys could put your love lives on hold until we’re done, we’d
appreciate it.”

  Then Jared came back outside, lugging a trapezoidal black-plastic case that was almost as big as he was. He flopped it onto the concrete porch with a thud, and Tyler squatted down to snap open the latches.

  “Feast your eyes on this, gentlemen,” he said.

  The top of the case swung up so I couldn’t see what lay inside. But I could see the sour expression on Carlos.

  “Uh, no good?” Bobby asked.

  Carlos gave one slow, grim shake of his head.

  “Mucho asso sucko,” he said. He still sounded like he was from Connecticut.

  Bobby Tone took one step forward, put a work-boot-clad foot against the case, and kicked it off the porch. When it hit the ground, the big white bell of a sousaphone tumbled out, rolling a few feet in my direction before it came to rest facing the porch. The coiled white tubing of the rest of the instrument fell from the case, and then the case flopped over on top of it.

  “Hey!” Donny yelled. “What the hell?”

  Carlos regarded Donny and Tyler with a dark glare.

  “Fiberglass,” Carlos said. His voice was a growl.

  He reached behind his back, under the jacket, and came out with a revolver so big that it looked as if it belonged in a cartoon.

  Then he cocked it and blasted away at the sousaphone bell.

  He was a good shot, too.

  3. Bull-shiit!

  I ducked behind the Civic’s left-rear tire. The movement might give me away, but it was better than catching a pellet. Carlos fired five rounds in all, each one making a noise like a half stick of dynamite. I recognized the sound: .410 Magnum shotgun shells.

  When the last echo had died away and my humming ears could make out the voices of shouting teenagers, I risked a look around the Civic’s bumper again. The sousaphone bell now sported five golf-ball-sized holes and a peppering of smaller wounds. The grass around it was dusted with white-fiberglass snow.

  While Bobby Tone reamed his ears with his pinky, Carlos flipped out the cylinder of the big revolver and dumped the empty shotgun shells. Then he reached into his jacket, brought out five more shells, and reloaded.

  “This firearm,” Carlos said, snapping the cylinder back into place, “is called the Judge. And the Judge doesn’t like fiberglass.” He looked sidelong at Bobby Tone. “Didn’t you tell them the Judge wouldn’t like fiberglass?”

  Bobby nodded. “I mentioned that low-quality instruments would not be considered.”

  Tyler stabbed a finger toward the ventilated bell. “That’s a King! It’s a four-thousand-dollar horn!”

  “If you say so,” Bobby Tone said. “This ain’t my area of expertise. I’m just the middleman.”

  Carlos tucked the Judge behind his back again. “So, children,” he said. “What else do you have?”

  While Tyler, Donny, and Jared conferred in a nervous huddle and Kaylee sat down on the tattered couch again, I glanced at the Ford. I didn’t think any of the shotgun pellets had pinged the truck, but I guessed Marisa had gotten a good scare. And sure enough, she was out of sight. I assumed she had flattened on the floor of the pickup bed.

  Good. A smart kid like Marisa needed to be scared away from dodgy crap. Otherwise she might wind up in a hoodie with eye black all over her face, crouching in the weeds somewhere.

  Up on the porch, Jared was dragging another big black case outside. This time, when Tyler opened it, I saw a gold-lacquered brass bell gleaming inside.

  Carlos pursed his lips. “This appears to be acceptable,” he said. “But let’s find out.”

  In a few smooth motions, Carlos had the sousaphone out of its case with the bell attached. He dropped the circular tubing over his head and onto his shoulders, then placed his fingers on the valve keys and his lips to the mouthpiece.

  A fast, booming scale burst forth and made the Civic’s bumper rattle. I could feel it in my chest, too. It wasn’t as sharp as the sound the Judge had made, but it penetrated deeper. I was impressed.

  Carlos stopped after thirty seconds, removed and disassembled the instrument, and replaced it in its case. He snapped the case shut, then stood up and looked at Bobby Tone.

  “Twenty-two hundred,” he said.

  Donny made a noise like a burro kicked in the balls, and Tyler exclaimed “Bull-shiit!”

  Carlos turned away and stared off into the night.

  Bobby Tone extended his hands toward the boys, palms turned upward. “He says twenty-two hundred, it’s twenty-two hundred.”

  “Aw, Jesus,” Tyler said. His appliance-store-salesman voice had morphed into a whine. “That’s a Conn. It sells for eight thousand new, and it’s only, like, four months old. It ain’t even been marched. You gotta give us at least four thousand. Especially since y’all shot up the King.”

  Carlos remained stock-still.

  Bobby Tone raised an eyebrow. “Boys, take it or leave it. And if you leave it, he will not be making another offer.”

  Tyler and Donny both cussed. But Jared just looked at Kaylee, who was sitting on the couch with her hair in her face, staring down at her knees.

  I saw her nod.

  Then Jared and Tyler exchanged a look, and Tyler gave an exasperated groan.

  “If we gotta, we gotta,” he said.

  Carlos turned to face them and reached behind his back again. The boys flinched. But this time Carlos brought out a leather wallet the size of a small notebook. He opened it as if it were the Bible, counted out twenty-two bills, and handed them to Bobby Tone. Then he tucked the wallet back with the Judge.

  Bobby peeled two bills from the stack and extended the rest toward Tyler.

  “Dude, you’re shorting us,” Tyler whined.

  Bobby Tone frowned. “Nope. My finder’s fee is 10 percent. So you still owe me twenty bucks.”

  Tyler took the stack of hundreds and stuffed it into his back pocket.

  “Now,” Carlos said, “did you save the best for last?”

  Donny jerked a thumb at Jared, and Jared went inside.

  “We did, sir,” Tyler said. The kid was doing his best to regain his composure. “This one is about three years old, but it’s in perfect shape. A new one would run you 15 K.”

  Carlos raised an eyebrow. “Sousaphones don’t often cost that much.”

  Tyler grinned as Jared dragged out the third case and set it on the porch beside the second.

  “That’s because this sucker ain’t a sousaphone,” he said. He squatted, unsnapped the latches, and flipped open the lid with a flourish. “According to my band-geek colleagues, this right here is a Gronitz concert tuba. It’s the Kingman High band teacher’s pride and joy since he convinced some rich San Antonio asshole to donate it. But Mr. Garrett’s loss can be your gain.”

  That made my teeth grit. Up to now, I had held out some hope that David Garrett might be part of the sousaphone-stealing conspiracy. After all, he was a low-paid teacher with access to high-cost instruments. But there was no sign of him here, and Tyler seemed amused by his potential discomfort.

  Nuts. I hadn’t even been introduced to Garrett yet, but I was pretty sure he was sleeping with my ex. It would have made me happy if he were a criminal. All I’d seen for sure in the five weeks I’d been back in Kingman was that he was talented, handsome, popular, and drove an almost-new Nissan Maxima. Also, he was African-American, which gave him some heritage in common with Elizabeth. Of course, I knew that my European genes weren’t the reason our marriage had cratered. But then, I had wished I were black ever since I’d seen Freddie King play at the Armadillo in Austin when I was six. My father had shown me a few good things besides how to pick a lock.

  Carlos leaned over, looked into the case, then gave a sigh.

  “No,” he said. “No, I don’t think so.”

  Tyler stood up bug-eyed. “Are you kidding? This thing is pristine.”

  “And look at all that metal!” Donny said. “There’s more than in three sousaphones!”

  Carlos looked into the case again. “This would be fine a
s a recording instrument, or for a symphony—but these are not my markets. I think you may have been misled by the fact that in Mexico, a sousaphone is simply called a tuba.” He gave Donny a disdainful glance. “As for the amount of metal, I assume you think I am in the scrap business. I am not.” He looked into the case a third time. “Eight hundred.”

  Then Carlos turned away and stared into the night again.

  This time Donny was the one who yelled “Bull-shiit! Bu-ull-SHIIT!”

  Bobby Tone held out his hands. “Boys, you got ten seconds.”

  I watched as Tyler and Donny stomped and cussed some more. Then, as before, Jared looked at Kaylee, whose face was still hidden in her hair. She was picking at a piece of dead skin on her ankle. But she gave Jared another nod, and Jared passed it on to Tyler.

  Tyler groaned and held out his hand.

  As before, Carlos turned around, produced the big wallet, pulled out some bills, and handed them to Bobby Tone.

  Bobby thumbed the top bill away and tucked it into his pocket. “Now you don’t owe me twenty anymore.” He handed Tyler the remaining seven hundred.

  Tyler, as sullen as a neutered bulldog, stuffed it into his back pocket with the rest. The pocket bulged now, but that only seemed to make him sadder.

  I would do what I could to relieve him of that burden. Twenty-seven hundred wasn’t a huge payday. But I’d often settled for less.

  Carlos turned to Bobby Tone. “If there’s nothing else, we should be going.”

  Bobby pointed at the house. “Y’all got anything else in there?”

  “Naw, that’s all we could grab,” Donny said. “Kingman only has one other sousaphone anyway, and it’s old and beat-up.”

  “In that case,” Bobby Tone said, “you might want to expand to other school districts. Carlos tells me we can use trumpets and trombones, too. But those won’t bring as much. If you want the big money, grab more sousaphones.”

  Carlos made a dismissive gesture toward the blasted bell in the grass. His upper lip curled.

  “But remember,” he said. “No fiberglass.”

  There was a moment of silence. Then Bobby Tone kicked the lid of the tuba case closed. “All right, boys, load ’em up.”