by Scott Bell
She studied the man in her bed. Blond hair, square chin and the body of a Ken doll. Except with a real dick. She chuckled silently. Her little cutie was up to no good. First, he’d asked her to keep Charlie away from the book shipment. To the best of her recollection, Steven had never given the book business more than ten seconds of attention. Then, he’d made a big deal out of Charlie buying some books in St. Louis. He told Nita to stay away from the shipment when it came in. And early that morning, somebody had shot up the bookstore. It all fit together somehow.
Steven mumbled something and cracked his eyes open.
“Hey, sleepyhead.” Nita traced the outline of his semi-hard erection under the sheet. The tingle between her legs grew from a tiny buzz to a harmonic vibration. “Wakey-wakey.”
She needed to find out what her lover boy was up to. It sure wasn’t a sudden passion for literature. Whenever Steven became that interested in something, it always involved money, usually in bonus-sized amounts, which meant she needed to know what it was. So she could get a piece of the action. Fortunately, Steven had a lever that, when handled properly, unlocked all his secrets.
Nita pulled the sheet back and took him in her mouth.
Austin City Jail
Austin, Texas
Yeager spent the rest of the night, and a good part of Saturday, in jail.
When the Austin cops had arrived on scene and learned the body count, they couldn’t get the cuffs on him fast enough. After in-processing, Yeager used his phone privilege to wake Victor, who called a cousin, David Garcia, an Austin lawyer.
Yeager met Garcia for the first time in a sterile interview room—white walls, scratched-up table, two folding chairs—at ten o’clock on Saturday morning, six hours after his arrest. His first impression of the young Mr. Garcia: razor sharp. The attorney had a laser-guided haircut and a tailor-made suit cut from a cloth so rich that lint ran away in terror. His shoes were polished to a shine that the Queen’s guard would envy.
“So, Mr. Yeager.” Garcia spoke in clear Midwestern-American English, at some point having eliminated all traces of his Hispanic roots. “You have caused quite the uproar.”
The lawyer clicked the latches on his briefcase and drew out a thick sheaf of papers. He closed the briefcase, set it aside, and took a pen from inside his suit jacket. Yeager lost a mental bet when, instead of the expected shiny gold Montblanc, Garcia brought out a generic plastic roller ball.
“Let’s get started,” Garcia said. He uncapped the pen and adjusted his rimless glasses. A lock of black hair escaped when he glanced through the documents in front of him. “The Austin PD is still processing the scene… five bodies, one burnt to a crisp, the rest shot to pieces. It may take them the rest of the day to sort through all that.”
“How’s Ms. Buchanan? David? Maria?”
“They’re fine. In fact, Ms. Buchanan told me that she would be posting your bail, once we get a hearing on that.”
“Bail?” Yeager sat back and scratched under his ribs. He’d been issued an orange jumpsuit stiff from heavy detergent, and it itched. “I’m eligible for bail? I figured as many as I killed, they’d lock me up for a while outta spite.”
Garcia’s smile, though genuine, could be measured in millimeters. “Here’s how this is going to play out, Mr. Yeager.”
The young attorney recapped his pen without having used it, tamped the papers into a square stack, and lined everything up neatly on the table. “First, let me illustrate how I will be addressing the media, who are already baying at the doors for a statement. You, Mr. Yeager—an honest, hard-working veteran of the United States Marine Corps—protected a beautiful daughter of the State of Texas and her young son from the depredations of a gang of ruthless Mexican banditos. Outgunned, outnumbered, and with no thought of the risk to your own life, you engaged a superior force of armed intruders and defeated them all, protecting the lives and property of innocent civilians.”
Garcia gave another tiny smile. “Mr. Yeager, attorneys have wet dreams about clients like you.”
Yeager held up a finger. “One correction. Those guys were after me. Oh, and two”—he flipped up a second finger—“I absolutely had a thought to the risking of my own neck.”
Garcia nodded. “No doubt. You are a skilled warrior, trained by the best in the world. However, by the time I’m through with the press conference, your name will be mentioned in the same breath as Travis, Crockett, and Jim Bowie.”
Yeager tried to reach an itch between his shoulder blades.
“Now,” Garcia said, “the DA is not an idiot. He knows the circumstances here as well as I do. The reality is, even without any grandstanding on my part, it is unlikely that he would seek to try this case.”
“So what happens next?”
“We will first go to an arraignment, where you will be formally charged and a bond will be established. That charge will last only until the DA presents the case to the grand jury, whereupon he will undoubtedly ask for a No Bill, which the grand jury will approve. At that point, you will be cleared of all wrongdoing in this case.”
Yeager frowned. “What’s a No Bill?”
“It basically means that there’s not enough evidence to prosecute.”
“How long will all this take?”
“I expect a few months.”
“Months? I have to stay in jail for months?”
“Not at all. I expect the judge will set a reasonable bail, for which Ms. Buchanan will post a bond, and you’ll walk out of here this afternoon. The rest will be legal tomfoolery.”
“Can’t happen soon enough,” Yeager said, scratching his thigh.
CHAPTER 18
The arraignment played out pretty much the way David Garcia had predicted. The courtroom drama was spoken in a language other than standard English, some of which Yeager followed, specifically the part where Garcia entered the plea of “Not guilty.”
Bail set, bond posted, Yeager walked out of the Austin jail with David Garcia at four o’clock in the last of his clean shirts and jeans. Charlie had not only posted his bond, she had also brought him his bag. She hugged him fiercely in the waiting area when they buzzed him out.
“Wow. That made a stay in jail worthwhile,” Yeager teased as they walked to the exit. “How’s David?”
“He thinks it was all one big adventure. He’s staying with Maria’s brother, Tomas. Maria’s staying there, too. Tomas and Sonia have about twelve kids in the house at any one time, four of their own and the rest either neighbors or relatives. David loves it over there.” The bright light of the glass exit door spilled across the floor. “David can tell Tomas’s two boys all about the gunfight at the bookstore. He’ll be a hero for days. Or at least until they fire up the Xbox.”
Garcia walked a few steps ahead, prepared to meet the reporters outside. They hit the main doors, and a small crowd of news people lit up the scene with camera strobes. Deflecting the “how do you feel” questions with a “No comment,” Yeager let Garcia do all the talking. As promised, the attorney promoted the gunfight at Book Finders as if it had been a reenactment of the Battle of the Alamo.
A reporter asked about the relationship between Yeager and Charlie, which was when Yeager got fed up with the whole lot and excused himself. Tugging Charlie with him, he plowed through the middle of the crowd and headed to the parking lot. Charlie beeped the remote on the BMW, and they dove in, the clutch of reporters trailing behind. They accelerated away from the lot and were soon lost in traffic.
Charlie told him she had rented a two-bedroom suite at the downtown Marriott, adding that she couldn’t sleep in her own place until all traces of the attack had been cleaned up. “Besides, it’s too soon.”
Yeager scrubbed a hand over his face. How am I supposed to read this? A night in a hotel room but separate bedrooms. To hell with it. I’m too tired to read clues.
The warmth of the afternoon sun shining through the car windows acted like a drug. Only able to catnap in jail, Yeager had a bad case of the yaw
ns, and his eyes drooped. If he put his head back, he’d be asleep in minutes.
Charlie wore shorts and a sleeveless button-down top. The blouse gaped at the neck, revealing a white bra strap and an expanse of pale neck and collarbone. The muscles in her thigh danced when she shifted gears. Yeager felt a tingle in his groin and had to look out the window. Maybe I’m not too tired after all.
Charlie gave him a rundown on how she, David, and Maria had bolted out of the apartment the night before and run to the Marriott, the same one they were headed to—and called the cops from there. The night staff had nearly had heart attacks when she ran in with a gun tucked in her waistband.
“I’ll bet,” Yeager said. “And Maria with her rolling pin probably finished them off.”
Charlie laughed. “Frying pan.”
Yeager cracked his neck and leaned his head back for a second.
He jolted awake when Charlie pulled into the valet parking area in front of the hotel. They rode the elevator in silence, eyes playing the glance-and-shoot-away game. Yeager’s mind refused to engage. Not a talkative man anyway, he floundered in a sea of helplessness, acutely aware of the situation. Hotel room. Beautiful woman. Holy shit.
The suite door opened onto a central living area with a sofa, chair, and big screen TV. To the left was a mini-kitchen and a small table with two place settings. Bedroom doors stood ajar on each side of the living area.
“I checked in this morning after the police came,” Charlie said. “But I had to go back with one of the cops and pack bags for me and David. The place was insane, gawkers standing around everywhere. I closed the store and gave everybody the weekend off.”
She pulled a cell phone from the back pocket of her shorts and flopped onto the sofa. Except I don’t think this woman knows how to flop. She moves like a dancer.
“Chinese or pizza?” she asked. “Your choice.”
Yeager stood in the center of the room, hyper-aware of Charlie on the sofa, bare legs and narrow waist, and the bedroom doors only a few feet away. “Whatever you’re having is fine. I’m going to clean up, wash the stink of jail cell off me.” He gestured with his bag. “Which one’s mine?”
Charlie pointed with one hand, the other already dialing her cell. “I feel like a Chinese feast. Lo Mein, egg rolls, broccoli beef, Szechuan chicken. Sound good?”
“Absolutely.”
Yeager spent a long time in the shower. While playing in the sandbox overseas, he’d developed a particular skill set. More so than the average soldier, he became adept at killing people. In a firefight, or one-on-one, in daylight or darkness, it didn’t matter; Yeager owned a pale horse, and he rode it hard.
One of the things that gave him an edge was his ability to compartmentalize the act of killing, box it up and put it away in a corner of his mind. No hesitation, no remorse. Bang. You’re dead, I’m not. He’d developed rules to regulate the art of war.
Lost in thought, he let the water sluice over his head until the bathroom fogged with clouds of steam. He didn’t feel bad about killing men who wanted him dead. Near as he could figure, it had to be done, like cleaning up trash from a tipped-over can. Hold your nose, and get it over with.
Cutting off the water, he dried and dressed again in his jeans and work shirt, which were still relatively clean. He stepped into the living area, toweling his hair, and missed a step when he found Charlie laying out the Chinese food on the low table in front of the sofa. He was surprised he had been in the shower that long.
“Hey, stranger,” she said. “I thought you got lost in there.”
“Nearly drowned.”
“Dig in.”
He didn’t hesitate, filling his plate and digging in. “So what’s the plan?”
“Plan?”
“What are we going to do about your books?”
“Oh. The books.”
“I know you probably want to get the place cleaned up some before you get the forklift guy in to fix the machine. You have somebody who can clean up for you?”
“Tomas and Maria are on that already.” She took a bite of an egg roll. “Tomas came back from San Antonio to help. They’ll have the place spotless in no time. I’m thinking I can get the forklift guy in by Monday and get you unloaded that afternoon. Sound good?”
Yeager nodded. “Okay. I wasn’t really going anywhere on Sunday anyway. Monday, I’ll have a chance to head down to the freight terminal, maybe find a load. Gotta keep moving in this business.”
“Will they allow you to leave town? I thought the cops always said not to leave town.”
He chuckled. “I’ll stay in touch with Garcia. Come back when they want me.”
“Ah.”
The light outside the curtains of the hotel room had faded. The room had grown darker while they talked, and neither had bothered to switch on the lights. The air conditioner clunked on and started to hum. Yeager looked at Charlie, meeting her sky-blue eyes and reading something he hadn’t seen in a long time.
Without a word spoken they moved together in the center of the sofa. Her lips were as soft as he’d imagined. Light as a dream, her scent filled his lungs with heat and dimmed his vision. He cupped her face, conscious of his work-hardened hands on her delicate skin as they kissed. He pulled her close and traced the outline of her back through her thin cotton blouse.
They groped and kissed like teenagers on their parent’s sofa, all fire and passion and fumbling, trying to touch everywhere at once. Charlie broke away, panting a little, and Yeager studied her face, soaking up the heat from her eyes.
“Let’s go to bed,” she breathed.
“I thought you’d never ask.”
Days Inn
South of Austin, Texas
Hector watched the replay of the press conference on the six o’clock news. The truck driver was with his puta, and his lawyer stood there like a brick, acting all the big shot.
So. Humberto was dead. So were Chupa, Juan, Gallo, Fidel, and Julio. The whole gang had been taken down by one truck driver. Incredible.
“And you ran away,” he whispered in the darkened motel room. He’d gotten a room in a no-tell motel on the south side of town. All the doors opened onto a central parking area, and the bed smelled of industrial-strength chemicals. “Like a coward, you ran away. And pissed yourself.”
He had failed to act in the way a man should act. Somehow, he would have to make amends. He would need to strike back at the trucker, if for no other reason than he would be killed on sight if he slunk home, the only survivor, with nothing to show for it.
He was alone. Nobody could tell about how he ran. Hector could write the story and change the ending to make himself the hero. All he needed to do was pull himself together and go back for another visit.
Denny’s Restaurant
Austin, Texas
Harlan and Skeeter met John Stone for dinner at a Denny’s off Interstate 35. They got a table in the back. The waitress was a perky little college student, blond hair with dark roots, cute nose, and a slight overbite.
After she’d taken their order, Stone watched the waitress swish away in her mid-thigh skirt. “My, oh my. It’s been a long time since I had me one-a them.”
“One of what?” Harlan asked.
“A long-legged split-tail like that, Harlan my friend.” Stone leaned back in the booth. “Mm-mmm. Ass sweet as vanilla ice cream.”
“No shit,” Skeeter said. “I may come back here at closin’ time and take her for a ride in the country.”
“No playtime for you,” Stone warned. “Not until Buchanan calls and we go for the money.”
Harlan sipped his ice water and kept his eyes on Skeeter. There was no telling which way the crazy peckerwood would break. Stone talking to Skeeter as if he were a child might be enough to set him off.
“Well, one thing’s for sure,” Harlan said, keeping his voice low. The other customers averaged about a hundred years old and were likely hard of hearing, but there was no reason to take chances. “The cops are all over
that place today. It’ll be a miracle if they don’t look in the truck and find the money.”
“We would’ve heard it on the news if they found it,” Stone said. “What I want to know is, what the fuck happened there?”
“Damn good question,” Harlan said. “A big freaking shootout, right when our truck full of money shows up. Can’t be coincidence.”
“You sure the money’s there?”
Harlan shrugged. “Dmitri did his job. He called right after the truck pulled out. Said the switch was made.”
“I think that slimy fucker is up to something.”
“Who? Buchanan?”
“Yeah, Stevie Buchanan. Never trust a con man.”
“Why do we need him, anyway?” Harlan asked.
“His ex-wife owns the bookstore. What better place to get a load of books delivered? He did his job and got the woman to buy from Big River, like we wanted. Everything was going along fine—”
Stone shut up as the waitress bounced back to their table and said, “Y’all from out of town?” She filled their cups from a full pot of coffee.
“We’re desperados on the loose,” Stone drawled. He pointed at the name tag on her left breast. “That one’s named Aubrey? What’s the other one called?”
Aubrey’s face froze in that polite waitress smile. “Gee, sir. I’ve never heard that one before. Your order will be right out.” She hustled away from their table.
Skeeter grinned, showing tobacco-stained teeth. “Oh, yeah. She wants you, Stoney. Anybody can tell.”
“I flash the python at her, she’ll be all over me like a Baptist on free beer.”
“Python?” Harlan asked. “You got a snake in your pocket?”
Stone leered and grabbed his crotch. “Anyway. Everything was happening like it was supposed to. Somehow, that dipshit even got the truck to stay there overnight. Today he was supposed to keep wifey out of the way while we grabbed the pallets off the dock. But, well, shit…”