Читать книгу The Dryline - Jack Grubbs - Страница 7

Prologue

Saturday Night, December 26

Monte’s Bar, Luling, Texas

Crack. Pop. The orange five ball rolled swiftly across the smooth, green surface to the far corner, gently kissed the brown leather padding, and dropped into the pocket.

Juan Delgado, a short, wiry Mexican, openly exuded satisfaction with his poolroom prowess. He smiled at the three men circling the pool table and thumped his chest. “Soy el mejor—I’m the best.” The men’s conversations mixed Spanish with English.

Carlos Aguirre gave his new teammate a solid backslap as Juan moved around the table. Juan drew deeply on a cigarette, exhaling slate-gray smoke toward the oblong Budweiser lamp hanging over the table. Adjacent to the poolroom, throngs of beer-drinking, chain-smoking, working-class Texans crowded tables and the bar as music from a 1950s jukebox invited all, young and old, to the dime-sized, sawdust-covered dance floor.

“Two off the six.” Juan, a slight buzz in his head, walked around the table, chalked his cue, placed it comfortably into position, and took aim. A stub of Chesterfield Classic Red hung from his lips. Crack. Pop. Click. The two ball angled steeply off the six ball, hit two banks, and slowed to a stop in the middle of the table.

“Mierda—Shit.” Juan grabbed his bottle of Lone Star and took a large swig.

Manuel Rodriguez’s turn. He handed his bottle to Emilio Cepeda and moved slowly around the table, eyeing each ball in relation to the others. He was good—so good that Luling no longer fed his voracious appetite for hustling. Manuel could make several hundred dollars on a good weekend in Austin or San Antonio. He especially enjoyed taking money from the rich University of Texas kids. He dried his hands on his Levi’s and powdered them with talc. He nodded toward Juan and Carlos and, mimicking Juan, thumped his chest while announcing, “El rey de la colina—the king of the hill.”

Sure enough, the king was there. Manuel tilted a dirty cowboy hat to the back of his head and carefully lined up his shot. A second later, what seemed a white streak of light hit the nine ball, driving it into a side pocket. The eleven ball quickly followed suit.

Manuel attacked the high balls as Carlos sidled up to Juan and continued an ongoing discussion. With piercing black eyes deeply set into a stone-cut face, Carlos towered over his teammate. He asked, “So you’re telling me the people you working for can get oil out of a dry hole?”

“Hell yes, man. We pumping more oil out of that hole than they done for years. We done four other holes in five weeks. Got two machines working damn good. The other two got messed up with the down-hole tubes.” Juan drew in one last time on the dying cigarette butt, slowly blew the smoke into the air, and emptied more beer into his gut. He tossed the butt onto the concrete floor and crushed it with his boot.

Manuel continued running the table while Carlos and Juan talked.

Carlos asked, “How’re the people you work for? Treat you OK?”

“Got no complaints. I signed on in Odessa and stayed with them when they moved to Luling. I been working with them since last January. Man, it’s a cold winter in Odessa. But they pay fair and treat us fair. Told us we’ll be working with them for the rest of our lives. They got big plans for everybody.”

Ga-thump. The sound of the eight ball hitting the bottom of the opposite side pocket signaled the game’s end.

Manuel stood up, resting his hand on top of the vertical cue stick. He claimed victory. “Five beers and I still run the fucking table. Anyone want to challenge El Rey?”

“Hell no,” Carlos answered. “Everyone drink your beer and let’s go.” Carlos polished off his Lone Star and grabbed his denim jacket from the coat hook. He patted Juan on the back. “Juan, want to go with us? We’re going to Maria’s near Mendoza for food, dancing, and good times with the señoritas.”

Juan liked these guys. “Never been out there, but yeah. Let’s go. Could be one hell of a night.”

No one responded.

The men walked out of the poolroom, moving around dancing couples and crowded tables, toward the battered wooden door opening to the street. Terry Keane, the no-nonsense owner of Monte’s, glanced at the men from behind the bar. The former marine, still muscular with a close-cropped haircut, had a concrete rule that no one was to walk out of Monte’s sloppy drunk. Have some beer, laugh, dance, and play darts, but don’t overdo the drinking, and for damn sure don’t be a smartass. Whether you’re Terry’s friend or not, succumbing to either vice puts you on the outside of Monte’s. His wife and co-owner Debbie was a knockout—and maybe tougher than Terry. She’d knock you out herself if you disobeyed the standing orders. Carlos and Terry made eye contact, and Carlos quickly lowered his eyes as he continued toward the door. Terry returned to his customers.

Outside, a vanilla moon beamed down on Monte’s and on the long line of flat-faced nineteenth-century Texas storefronts along Davis Street. Oblivious to the stars in the clear sky above their heads, the men trudged into the cold Luling night, hunching their shoulders against the chill.

Carlos asked Juan, “You got a car? I’ll ride with you.”

Juan pointed to the deep red 1989 Civic parked halfway down the block from Monte’s. It looked black in the moonlight. “That’s her. She don’t look like much, but she never give me a problem. She’s the most faithful woman I ever knew.”

Emilio and Manuel walked another hundred feet, stopping at a black Ford F-250 truck with extended cab and off-road capability, ideal for working Texas oil country.

Emilio called to Juan and Carlos. “I’ll lead the way. Come up close and follow me down the back end of town. I know a shortcut off eighty-six. That’s if your little piece of shit can keep up with me.” He laughed and climbed into the sleek truck. Manuel jumped into the front passenger side.

Juan laughed as well and looked over at Carlos with a huge grin. “He don’t know this baby. I’ll be on his ass the whole way.” Carlos nodded in agreement.

Five miles out of town, Emilio turned right onto a dirt road. “This is it,” he said. A frog jumped in Manuel’s stomach. Emilio tapped the brakes a couple of times, drifted to the side of the road, and stopped at a dirt turnaround area.

“Oh shit, man.” Juan slammed on the brakes, turning the steering wheel hard left. He slowed the Civic, turned back to the right, and drove forward to the shoulder, parking behind the truck. “What’s the problem?”

“No sé—Don’t know. Let’s check it out.” Carlos opened the door and walked toward the other two men standing in front of the truck. Juan fell in step behind him.

Carlos arrived just as Emilio raised the hood. “What’s wrong?”

“It’s the fucking fan belt again. Maybe I trade my truck for your car.” Emilio nodded his head toward the Civic.

“No way, man. Who has shit now?” Juan smiled with a hint of superiority.

With Manuel’s body halfway into the engine compart-ment, Emilio spoke. “Carlos, would you and Juan check my tool chest? Need the flashlight, wrenches, and fan belt.”

“No problema. Juan, give me a hand.” He walked to the rear of the pickup. Carlos lowered the tailgate before Juan reached the back of the truck. “Help me pull the tool chest out.”

Juan grabbed the left side handle and prepared to pull. “Estoy listo—I’m ready.”

Carlos reached to the side of the chest, taking a claw hammer from the truck bed. He took a quick look at Juan and followed with a smooth, fierce blow. The hammer rotated slightly as it surged forward, hitting Juan in his temple and puncturing the side of his skull with a near-perfect hole. Juan staggered to his left, weathering the initial effects of the blow. He turned and looked Carlos in the eye. A sad frown formed on his face in the moonlight.

“Por qué…” He collapsed onto the road, clipping the tailgate with the left side of his head as he fell.