Читать книгу South Texas Tangle - T.K. O'Neill - Страница 14

Frankie Neelan leaned his shoulder against the faded white wall of the empty petrol station and put the binoculars on the cute bird’s Jap car as it bounced onto the southbound lane of I-37. Frankie was thinking there were too many people here with connections to Minnesota to be just a coincidence. You had the four involved with the van: Ireno, Sam, himself and Ryan. And now the thieving trooper’s old lady had on a Minnesota Gophers shirt. Made his conspiracy alarm sound off. Was this some kind of set-up, Ryan and the trooper working a scam? Trying to make it look real? You couldn’t be sure with old Bob. He was an enigma, always playing the crime-boss role to the max in private—Frankie’d seen that a million times—but put him out in full view and it was a different tale altogether, the man coming across humble and maybe even a wee bit paranoid at times. Like he thought the Big Leprechaun was gazing down from a spy satellite in the clouds or some shit. Gave you pause. And reason to worry. But shit, everyone was a tad paranoid these days, so maybe it was all just nerves.

Sam’s gut was twisted up like a German pretzel. All he wanted was to get back where there was a comfortable toilet, a good bed and a television set. But this crazy mick bastard clearly had other ideas, bozo obviously getting off on the trooper’s wife. Man was probably dreaming up some depraved Irish shit, the Irish being drunks and perennial losers, comfortable wallowing in the muck for centuries now.

Sam was hoping Frankie’s short attention span would kick in and he would tire of this nonsense and give Sam a chance to relax before Bob Ryan arrived. Sam was gambling that Ryan wouldn’t kill him as long as Jimmy was still running loose. Bob likely wanting everyone together for a nice mass-grave situation, efficiency-conscious prick that he was. Sam was trying his best to keep an optimistic outlook—implausible, yes, but what else could he do as he waited for his subconscious to come up with a solution? He sensed something percolating in his cranial recesses, an idea still beyond his grasp, but the gods seemed to be pushing him to the brink, as always, making him suffer until he could barely stand it.

Just like Jimmy Ireno on the basketball court, always bringing you to the brink of despair before saving things at the last possible moment.

Sam was in the passenger seat of the expensive goddamn Escalade, watching Frankie strut around the old service station with his fancy goddamn binoculars. But oddly, in spite of the chaos, confusion and fear, Sam felt a web of familiarity weaving around the edge of things. Like this was only the gods presenting another test of his will and tenacity, nothing more and nothing less.

“Miss Honey Thighs has departed, Sammy,” Neelan said, climbing in the driver’s seat. “What say we take a ride over and see what we can find inside the tin can?”

“You crazy, Frankie?” Sam said, voice going up an octave. “It’s still daylight.”

“Who’s gonna see us? Fookin’ Roy Rogers? Lone Ranger and Tonto? Maybe Wiley Coyote or the Roadrunner? Beep-beep, Sam.”

Sam ate his frustration. “Whatever you think, Frankie. You’re in charge of this operation.”

“That’s the spirit, Sammy. Buck up now, me lad, maybe the lady left some undies on the clothesline you can sniff.”

Sam swallowed hard against the acid reflux. He could feel psychic relief coming on as the chemicals in the Xanax slowly crept up his legs. Some times there is freedom in having no choice at all, he thought, surrendering to his fate. He leaned back in the seat and waited for the languor as Neelan started the Escalade, drove across the overpass and down the road toward the trooper’s mobile home, the big SUV throwing out dust everywhere. The moronic mick turned in the trooper’s drive, drove up and parked close to the trailer in the shade of three young trees. Sam saw a swing set anchored in the dirt just past the far end of the trailer, a child’s plastic tricycle lying on its side in front of the swings.

His brain flip-flopping between raging anxiety and the dull apathy of the downer currently spreading over him like warm syrup, Sam said, “How you plan on getting in? Cop might have a security system, some link to his headquarters.”

“Been watching them cop shows on the telly, Sam? Guard lives out this far in the boondocks is gonna think being a copper is enough to keep the bad guys away. Like, ya know—who the hell would come all the way out here to burgle a fookin’ caravan? Den of bandits over the next hill? Band of renegade Apaches? Come on now, Sambo, cut the shite and let’s move. Most of these things have a sliding door in back, easy as popping a tin of sardines. We’ll be in and out before ya know it.”

“It’s not me knowing it that I’m worried about.”

The trailer did have a sliding glass door in back. But it wouldn’t move in spite of the easy way Frankie unlatched the lock with a thin metal tool from his satchel. Sam stood impatiently behind Neelan, watching Frankie jerking the handle of the glass door. “Just like a man with something to hide, Sam,” Frankie said. “Must be a stick in the track.”

The drug having finally won him over, Sam was feeling bold. “Don’t be an idiot, Frankie. This is a young couple with a kid. Man must work the night shift sometimes. Of course the lady would have a stick in the door. Now let’s get the fuck out of here before one of his trooper friends shows up with a twelve-pack.”

“Not so fast, Sam. Don’t forget who’s in charge.”

“I didn’t forget. Bob Ryan is in charge. And I’m not sure he’d enjoy bailing us out on a B and E.”

“Yer like a miserable old woman, Sam. As Bob’s chosen operative, I have implied permission to do what I think is best. What if the copper’s got the cash stuffed in his closet or under the floor in there? We find it and our job is done. I get a generous reward and you get to keep your shriveled-up gonads.”

No longer having the inclination to argue with the much younger, bigger man, Sam shrugged and walked slump-shouldered to the swing set, wedging his nearly-too-big buttocks into one of the swings. Resting his elbows on his thighs and his chin in his hands, he gazed wistfully at the dirt at his feet, thoughts drifting along languidly in the back of his head, Sam only vaguely conscious of the sinking sun and the sound of traffic whining along out on the freeway.

And he must’ve drifted off for a moment, because the next thing he knew, Frankie was looming above him, goon typing on his cell phone. “You get in?” Sam said, rubbing his eyes.

“Nah. Bob rang me up before I could go in the window. He’s at the hotel and wants us there—now.”

With some effort, Sam extricated himself from the swing and followed Neelan to the Escalade, Sam’s addled brain plodding through the outlines of a speech to Bob Ryan. Knowing he had to convince Ryan that he and Jimmy weren’t at fault and weren’t attempting a scam—or at the very least divert Ryan’s attention for a while—Sam rehearsed in his head, being careful to leave out the sarcasm. You wanted to keep Ryan calm.

Who really was at fault, Bob? I’d say it was the moron who fastened on the license plates with plastic garbage bag ties. If not for that significant oversight, everything would have gone along just fine. Jimmy and I had this under control—that much is perfectly clear.

Ryan might want the both of them dead, but as long as Jimmy was still around, Sam believed there was a play or two remaining. As the Escalade rumbled along towards the freeway, Sam sent a text message to Jimmy telling the little bastard what hotel they were staying at. When he finished he began worrying if Jimmy’s phone battery was charged.

Oh, the complications of modern life.

Walking down the lush residential streets of Port Aransas chewing an energy bar and racing indecisively through the numerous escape scenarios his mind was kicking out, Jimmy felt his phone vibrate and took it from his pocket, saw Sam Arndt displayed on the screen. Dude was a bookie and a high-end hustler but had pretty much always treated Jimmy right. At least Sam always gave him a chance to recoup his losses. And if he didn’t recoup, Sam was patient on the payback. Or was that just what a smart money man did? Jimmy couldn’t decide, only knew his loyalty to Arndt was stretching thin. A shrink would say he was conflicted. Well, fuck if he was going to let the goofy sonofabitch Arndt totally ruin his day. The weed had his head up and the sun was warming his bones and as long as he was here, he might as well get in some ray time on the beach, maybe stroll down to that Billy’s Bar and check out the situation.

Jimmy shut off his phone, returned it to the pocket of his jams and continued strolling along, passing by shrimp-and-seafood outlets, shark-tooth emporiums, flounder restaurants and a Whataburger drive-in, before he finally saw the beach. And then—holy shit, talk about the hand of fate reaching out and grabbing you by the balls—there was the cute babe in the gold Minnesota Gophers’ shirt coming out of a convenience store.

Another omen?

But wait now, there was a redhead coming out of the store with Gopher Girl, babe with hair the color of nearly ripe strawberries. Little older than Gopher girl but just as delightful. Fine haughty rack stretching for the sun under an expensive-looking yellow top.

Jimmy’s first urge was to go right up and say something to Gopher Girl, ask her how she liked her breakfast at the Sand Dollar Cafe. But the redhead was there so he had to slow himself down and observe. He watched the two of them talking like old friends, beach bags over their shoulders, laughing as they walked toward the beige Toyota. From his position about thirty yards away Jimmy watched the redhead point towards a mint, robin’s-egg-blue Ford pickup glinting in the sun at the back of the convenience store parking lot.

Well, if that ain’t something else, Jimmy thought. Universe seems to be cooking up a gumbo for all of us. The redhead was pointing at the truck he’d stolen—correction, borrowed—and now the chick was getting into it.

Watching the ladies driving in tandem toward the beach, Jimmy straightened his sunglasses, things sliding down his nose from sweat, pulled off his shirt and went sauntering after them.

Lying on a multi-colored chaise in his red swim trunks, six-pack cooler and four empty Bud cans in the sand at his side, newly purchased aviator Ray Bans shielding his pale-blues from the glare, Dan Henning watched the line of his shore-casting rig stretching and drifting over the surf, the long cork handle inside a rod holder jammed in the sand down near his son. Danny was close to the gulf and the hole he was digging kept filling up with salty water, keeping the kid busy with his shovel, pail and dump truck. Building up a soggy pile of sand next to the hole, Danny seemed happy without much effort from Dad, who, nevertheless, was maintaining a watchful eye in case the boy encountered a jellyfish or some other stinging creature in his excavations.

Friday afternoon and Mustang Island was starting to fill up, same as nearly every weekend when the weather was decent. You had your Mex’s from Corpus with their beat-up trucks and vans and loud music, vying for space with stoned white kids, and, this time of year, flocks of pasty-skinned tourists driving their rental cars on the beach for the sheer novelty of it.

This was the part of the day that always signaled Henning it was time to leave the beach. A stomach full of beer requesting something more substantial and the sun making his Polish skin smell like barbecued pork, Poles not known for their deep tans. Dan’s original family name was Hovaskerich, changed to Henning by his father in honor of a Cowboys’ linebacker from the early sixties. Back in the day when the Hovaskerich family landed on U.S. soil, most immigrants wanted to sound American, and they changed their names accordingly. But now you had a bunch of numbnuts obsessed with trivial shit like preserving their heritage, which seemed to Henning like putting lipstick on a hog. But he also figured his own name change had probably saved him from a lot of ribbing at work. True that. He’d never discussed his “Polack” heritage with anyone in the patrol.

Henning reminded himself that concerns about the jibes of his fellow troopers would soon be a thing of the past. Couple weeks and he’d be out of there for good. So why didn’t he feel as great as he thought he should? Was it guilt over stealing the money? Hell no on that count. So much dirty cash was trucked through here by the druggies and gun smugglers, there was a running joke among the troopers: Southwest Texas was the financial capitol of the world. And there was hardly a goddamn day went by you didn’t hear about some Wall Street muckety-muck getting caught with his hand in the golden cookie jar, so no, Henning couldn’t care less about who was losing the revenue, long as he was the one gaining it.

So it had to be the family situation bothering him. Just when he’d convince himself of the need to escape the demands of married life and fatherhood, contradictory thoughts would slide in and crank up the second-guessing.

Indecision.

A sign of weakness?

That’s what you heard. And part of him leaned in that direction. But Henning preferred to think of it as an indicator of heightened awareness and increased knowledge of all the possible choices, which, of course, made it harder to select just one.

Raising his torso, yawning and looking up and down the long strip of sand, Dan saw a Toyota just like Cyn’s rolling along the beach in his direction, an old Ford truck with perfect light blue paint close behind it. And sure as hell, it was Cynthia’s Camry. He could see a redhead behind the wheel of the truck. Seemed they were both coming this way.

Surprised by the pleasant feeling that came over him when he saw Cynthia, Henning tried to push his elation back down and find the anger again, not quite ready to let it go. But then Cyn was stepping out looking great and Danny was running up the sand yelling Mommy, Mommy and Dan quit fighting his feelings, thinking it might still be love. If he even believed in that shit anymore, time having a way of wearing off the good parts of a marriage.

The blue pickup stopped next to Cyn’s Toyota and a redhead got out looking real fine herself. When Danny jumped into Cyn’s arms Henning laid back and grinned, thinking things were sliding back into their proper places.

Strolling down the beach following tire tracks, Jimmy was still pondering the implications of his sightings. Sweet cakes in the sand, indeed. But more pressing, the weed high was fading and his hunger was rising. He peeled the wrapper off another energy bar and decided to follow the sandy trail a while longer, see if he could catch up with the two fine ladies.

After nearly a mile of sweaty trudging Jimmy was sorely reminded of his lack of fitness, chiding himself and putting “Get in shape” at the top of his need-to-do list. Then changing the list’s heading to Things to start tomorrow, he picked an empty spot of sand and put down the cheap aqua-blue beach towel from the discount beach ware outlet. He’d follow the tire tracks later if he felt like it.

He began applying more of the knock-off Hawaiian tanning oil. Stuff was nearly as thick as shortening, and, although it had the familiar smells of coconut oil and cocoa butter just like the real thing, this stuff also had a lingering odor like fuel oil or something worse, Jimmy speculating the Mexican company making the shit could be grinding up the bodies of cartel victims and tossing them in the vats.

An efficient use of resources.

Would that be an example of vertical or horizontal business integration? Jimmy wondered, his junior college economics course popping up in his head like the tab on a cash register.

A short time later, stretched out in the hot sun, his muscles loosening, pores opening to allow the toxins unrestricted access to the atmosphere, Jimmy pulled out his phone and retrieved the voicemail. While he was listening to Sam’s repeated impassioned pleas to “Be here for me,” the phone dinged the arrival of a text message, unusual in that it was also from Sam. Jimmy thinking it might be the first time Sam ever texted anyone, douchebag being totally old school.