Читать книгу South Texas Tangle - T.K. O'Neill - Страница 10

Rachel Hayden went to the kitchen to answer the phone, hoping they’d found her husband’s pick-up truck burned to a crisp in an isolated arroyo somewhere. Teach Robert a lesson for leaving the keys in the ignition. His precious damn truck—and he always left the keys in it. Truly a wonder it hadn’t been stolen a long time ago.

But the call wasn’t the news she was hoping for. They’d found the truck all right, cop on the phone saying it was unharmed. “Unharmed” like it was a person. Men and their goddamn classic cars. Now she’d have to find a way down to Corpus and drive the damn thing back here, the old truck riding like a buckboard. But Rachel knew how to make the best of things and soon was planning a day at the beach and a relaxing dinner alone where she didn’t have to watch her husband talk with a mouth full of food. And, who knows, maybe Corpus Christi nightlife had some surprises for her.

Looking straight ahead out the sliding glass balcony doors in his hotel room, Sam Arndt could see the blue water of Corpus Christi Bay glistening in the sunshine. Turning his head to the left, the tops of buildings and the John F. Kennedy Causeway came into view. Gazing at the long metal span, Sam couldn’t help thinking that having a bridge named after you was insufficient compensation for getting your head blown to bits in a shitty redneck state like Texas.

The Lone Star State.

What did that mean, anyway? Only one star in the night sky? Obviously bullshit. Only one native Texan ever making it to the top level of the entertainment industry? Not accurate. More likely it was self-indulgent cowboys romanticizing their rugged-individualism bullshit.

Lone Star State, indeed.

Sam stepped out on the balcony and felt the breeze move his thinning gray hair. He looked at his cell and hit Jimmy Ireno’s number again. Having popped a pill immediately upon arrival in the room, Sam was impatient for the biting sand flies to retreat. At least far enough to allow him a modicum of comfort, comfort not being something he felt very often lately. With only three pills left, he was hoping beyond hope that this awkward situation could be resolved within the next twenty-four hours. He didn’t know what kind of withdrawal symptoms came on when you went off Xanax and didn’t want to find out, having seen an old woman in his building back home being carted off to the emergency room belted to a gurney, the poor wretch writhing and screaming in the throes of Valium withdrawal. The symptoms of which—the poor woman’s next-door neighbor told Sam as they watched the ambulance jockeys wheeling the old woman away—didn’t start until a few days after you ceased taking the little devils.

Now there was something nice to look forward to.

Sam tried to push down the growing belief that no amenable solution to this cash problem existed. Goddamnit, what the hell could anybody do? The money was gone. If you hunted down Jimmy and braced him hard to find out if he took it—which Sam doubted very much—and you discovered that the degenerate bastard really didn’t know what happened to the cake—then what? Well, Jimmy would get dead and Sam would probably follow him into the ground or the water or the mouths of flesh-eating beasts—whatever they did with dead bodies down here in Texas. Bob Ryan wouldn’t get his cash but everyone concerned would get the message that the big mick cocksucker was someone not to fuck with. One thing you could say about organized-crime people, they were consistent in their response to employee incompetence. Not necessarily creative, but consistent.

And then Sam’s phone buzzed and it actually was the no-good-bastard Ireno: “Jimmy, is that you?”

“Yeah it’s me, Sam. Who’d you expect, George fuckin’ Bush?”

“Aha, very funny. Always the jokester, Jimmy. Even in the face of this catastrophe, you make with the jokes. Always pulling on old Sammy’s foot.”

“Leg, Sam.”

“Uh-huh—ah—what’s that again?”

“Nothing Sam. Forget it. You down here in Texas?”

“Yes, Jimmy, my friend, I am. And we need to talk. Very soon.” Talking down to Jimmy gave Sam some strength, the perception of Ireno’s weakness reviving him.

“Isn’t that what we’re doing, Sam?”

“We need to get up close and personal, as they say.”

“Sorry if I’m not feeling the need, Sam. I kind of like my body in one cohesive unit, not a piece here and a piece there.”

“What are you saying, Jimmy? That your old friend Sam would have you chopped up, like a dead chicken?”

“Not you, Sam. I know you’re a teddy bear. But that Irish asshole you’re working for lacks your sensitive nature.”

Teddy bear? Sensitive nature? Wasn’t that the same as calling you faggot? Weak? This shit made his blood boil, losers thinking he was soft. Someday all would learn that the snake inside the basket had fangs. Sharp ones. “We intend you no harm, Jimmy. We just need to be sure you didn’t abscond with the money and concoct this—you must admit—somewhat preposterous story.”

“Would I still be here if I had that cash, Sam? You need to ask yourself that. I told you before that it was the fault of whoever fastened the plates to the van, which, by the way, was in the local paper this morning. I saved the article for my scrapbook.”

“What is this? The mounter of the license plates was in the newspaper?”

“Incorrect, Sam. Jesus, man, listen to what I’m saying. There was an article about the van being found. But there was no mention of any money in it. Strange, don’t you think?” And after a short silence, Jimmy said, “You sound a tad slow this morning, Sam, still into the downs?”

“Maybe a little bit. But this isn’t your problem, Jimmy. You are the fucking problem here.”

“Stick your problem up your fat ass, Sam.” Jimmy severed the connection.

Sam listened to the emptiness on the other end of the line. Feeling the rage heating up his neck, he wanted to smash the goddamn phone but then the little bugger started vibrating in his hand. Looking at it, Sam discovered he had a text message, one of the few he had ever received. Sam didn’t like texts, believing they were never completely erased and remained forever in the ether as possible incriminating evidence.

Text message was from Frankie Neelan:

Ryan says Texas database currently lists our vehicle as abandoned on I-37 without license plates. Est worth 3K. No mention of $ found inside. Am in hotel pub waiting for u.

Sam got a jolt to his solar plexus and felt the tiny sand flea teeth grinding away again; effectively eradicating the anticipation of relief he got from taking the pill. Goddamn kids with their goddamn smart phones. Always texting and emailing. Didn’t anyone use phones to talk anymore? Ah, but what the hell was the difference? NSA caught it all no matter what.

Knowing he’d need to be talking soon and talking fast, and well enough to survive the day—or at least as long as it took him to figure out how to kill Frankie—Sam went to the bathroom and splashed water on his face, working on his story as he toweled off.

* * *

Sam went through the archway into the synthetic luxury of the hotel lounge and saw Frankie at a circular black table by the windows, the goon staring at his phone, legs stretched out in front of him like it was Club Med and he was waiting for a consort. Sam had his strategy together. He knew that a little truth helped lend credibility to a lie. And that talking too much or too little made you seem guilty. Sam was ready to slap the truth on a bare wall and see what transpired.

Frankie got more intrigued with every text from Bob Ryan, the last one saying Ryan was booking a flight to Texas, ASAP.

Frankie put down his phone and picked up the tall cocktail glass, saw his charge Sam Arndt stepping into the pub, the man like a cautious teddy bear, Frankie wondering if the old fuck was trying to work a scam. Wouldn’t put it past the smiley A-rab. Bloke as slippery as the slime on a snake’s belly.

Arndt sat down at the table and Frankie put on an accusing look. “Yer not lookin’ too sharp, Sammy boy,” he said. “Lookin’ like a load of bad news, ya are.”

“Bad news, indeed, Frankie. First your text—and then my man finally gets through and gives me the truth about things. Tells me the license plates disappeared from the van somewhere along the way. Says that’s why the cops pulled him over. Boy had to run for his life just to avoid going to jail. And from what I hear, jails in Texas aren’t much better than Mexican prisons, keep you just alive enough to be available for the torture.”

Frankie’s throat constricted. Anger heated his face. He was the one put the plates on the van. Couldn’t find the proper screws in Ryan’s filthy garage and used the wire things from the box of rubbish sacks. Doubled ’em up to make sure. Seemed enough at the time. Somebody must’ve fucked with ‘em out on the road. Had to be it. But clearly Bob Ryan wouldn’t find the news very joyful. And Arndt running his gob to the man wouldn’t help matters at all. Frankie took a long pull on his cocktail, looked Sam in the eye and said, “Yer boy’s story sounds a bit queer, don’t ya think, Sam? Sure yer boy ain’t got his trousers full of Bob’s cash?”

“Jimmy is my most trusted man, Frankie. You really think he’d still be lingering around if he’d taken it?”

“Ya got a point there, Sam. So ya think yer Jimmy would be available for a confab? Bob’s flying down tonight and I ‘magine he’ll desire a bit of a gab with yer ‘most trusted man’.”

“Yes,” Sam said, making a face like he was freakin’ about Ryan arriving. “I’m sure Jimmy will be available. Just say the word and I’ll tell him where to meet us.”

“Didn’t give ya his location, yer most trusted man?”

“Would you if you’d lost Bob Ryan’s money?”

“Again ya got a point, Sam. Least he’s not grassin’ us out to the law. Least we got that goin’.”

“Exactly. Jimmy will be here when I say. I can call him anytime.”

“First things first, Sam.”

Sam fidgeted in the chair watching Frankie type out a text. A long one. Sam stared out the tinted window at the palm trees moving in the wind. Wind always seemed to blow down here in Texas. Then Frankie finished texting, knocked down the last of his cocktail and searched for a waitress, catching the eye of a cute little brown girl. Frankie ordered another drink. Sam didn’t order anything. Watching Neelan slurp Sam was fighting the urge to get up and leave when Frankie’s phone sounded on the tabletop. Sam took slow deep breaths and watched Frankie’s face for an inkling of what Ryan was texting, Sam’s stomach doing somersaults.

Time seemed to stand still. Sam looked at the clock on the wall behind the bar, stared at the hands not moving. Clock had no numbers on it, just little gold lines where the numbers should be. Finally Frankie looked up. “Bob said his web masters came up with the moniker of the highway copper watching the road that night, Sammy. Bloke name of Dan Henning. Patrolman Dan Henning of the Tex-ass State Poopers. Our boy Henning punched out that night leaving no record of the van or any confiscated cash, some citizen called it in the next day. Bob says we should have a look at the trooper’s dwelling, maybe converse with him about the current rate of currency exchange.”

“I don’t think that would be at all wise, Frankie. What if it’s a trap to attract the owners of the cash? We going to walk in and introduce ourselves as the money launderers from Minnesota?”

“It’s good ya got yer sense of humor, Sammy. But that might be the only play we got. Y’know, at least until Bob shows up we just have to keep a grip on the reins and hold steady. But I gotta tell ya one thing, I wouldn’t be shocked at all if Bob sends you off to the cop shop to claim the green. It’s well known how your people don’t trust banks.”

“My people?”

“You towelheads. I’ve read the magazine articles about you dudes stashing yer savings in coffee cans and flowerpots and shite like that. Seems like a logical enough excuse for stuffin’ cash in the wall panels of yer van, ya ask me.”

“So this was my life savings and I was transporting it down to border country in a van belonging to somebody else—for what purpose?”

“Fuck me if I know, that’s somethin’ you and Bob will have to blade out.”