Second Chances

by George Lee Miller

  Crowley left the door closed and me locked inside while Rocky led Les toward the opposite side of his pickup. I could hear some sharp exchanges but couldn’t make out what they were saying. Rocky was doing most of the taking. Les’s chubby cheeks were getting redder and redder. Finally, the two walked back toward the cruiser.

  “Let him out,” Zeller said. “Turn him loose.”

  “But…” Crowley started to protest.

  “Get out of here, Fischer,” Les said. “This is my town now. I don’t care if you’re a private dick. I don’t need help solvin’ crime around here. You got that?”

  Crowley opened the door and took the cuffs off.

  “Sure, anything you say, Lester,” I said. “Have a nice day.”

  Les took a step toward me, his right fist clenched. If he could get momentum and put even half his weight behind a punch, he could take out a good-sized bull. His trouble was, he was slow and telegraphed his move like the trailer for a blockbuster movie.

  “Drop it, Les,” Rocky said.

  Les’s forward motion stopped. His eyes said he wanted to hit me. He thought he had what it took to take me out. Maybe he did. We wouldn’t find out today.

  “Good choice, Les. I’ll take my pocketknife,” I said.

  He held my gaze for a full minute before he spoke. “Watch your step, Nick,” he finally said and walked to the station door.

  Crowley handed me my knife and followed his boss inside.

  Rocky waited until they were gone before he spoke. “You’re still the same cocky bastard. Les was itching to take a swing at you.”

  I followed him to his pickup.

  “Why’d you stop him?”

  “’Cause he was lookin’ for an excuse to lock you up. You almost gave him one.”

  We got in and he cranked the engine.

  “What’d you tell him to get him to let me go?”

  Rocky chuckled. “I called Mike. Told him I would suspend Owen for drinking.”

  “Your linebackers said you bought them the beer.”

  “Those little bastards’ll pay for that. Didn’t I ask you not to harass my star quarterback?”

  “Come on, Rocky. I can’t do that. A girl’s missin’. Another one’s dead. Owen Bauer is involved. I don’t give a shit about your football season.”

  Rocky turned off the engine, irritated. “Goddamnit!”

  “Owen’s not just involved in some silly prank. He’s dealing drugs, Rocky. His supplier works for Mike. He and Lori took Maya to the party. I’m not the bad guy in all this.”

  His top lip closed over his buckteeth. “You’re right, you son of a bitch. I don’t know what I was thinkin’. I guess I was too caught up in my season to see it.” He slammed his open palm on the steering wheel. “Sheeit!” He looked out the window at the row of oak trees lining the parking lot. “We would have had a hell of a year.” He shook his head as if he’d just lost his mother.

  “It’s just football, Rocky.”

  He laughed. “You’ve been away a long time.”

  “Do you know of any reason Mike would hire a gangster as a security guard?”

  “None whatsoever.”

  My phone rang. I hit accept.

  “Hello, jailbird,” Kelly said.

  “Come and get me, darlin’. I’m at the station.”

  “Am I breaking you out?”

  “They let me go. Something to do with my being German.”

  She laughed. “In this town, it wouldn’t surprise me.”

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Kelly picked me up and we drove back to the ranch house. I told her about my conversation with Rocky and how he convinced Officer Zeller to let me go.

  “Why do you think Bauer hired a guy like Russell Stevens?” she asked.

  “That’s what I asked Rocky. He didn’t know. Mike’s a businessman and a shrewd operator. He’s donated a lot of time and money to local events over the years. I don’t know why he would jeopardize all of that to go into business with a gangster.”

  “Maybe the Dragon made him an offer he couldn’t refuse.”

  “Blackmail?”

  “It would explain a lot.”

  “Yeah, but for what?”

  There was a light on in the house when I got out to open the front gate, and I remembered that Helen was still in residence. So much for getting a good night’s sleep. I drove past the pond and saw two vehicles instead of one. Beside Helen’s white Chevy Tahoe was a black Suburban with Bauer Farms stenciled on the door.

  “Looks like your mom’s got company,” Kelly said.

  “What the hell is Mike Bauer doing here?” I parked by the barn, and Kelly and I got out. The temperature had dropped into the high sixties. The wind had shifted to the north. A dark line of clouds obscured the harvest moon. A norther was coming.

  As we walked toward the porch, I heard laughter from inside. My muscles tensed. Kelly took my hand.

  “Take it easy,” she said. “Maybe he came to talk about Owen.”

  “At least he saved us a trip to Bauer Farms.”

  Mike and Helen were seated at the kitchen table when we walked inside. Helen stood, obviously surprised. There were empty dinner plates showing the remains of spaghetti and red sauce and an empty bottle of Bauer’s reserva wine between them.

  “Entertaining guests?” I asked Helen.

  “Nick, come on in. Have a glass of wine. I brought an extra bottle,” Mike said.

  “I didn’t think you’d be back tonight, Nicky,” Helen said.

  “Where else would I go? It’s my damn house.”

  Mike finished his glass of wine and stood up. “Now, Nick. Your mother and I were just having a little dinner.”

  They looked like two teens caught in the high school janitor’s closet after school. The two of them were on some kind of date.

  “I-I wanted to talk to her about the property,” Mike stuttered.

  “Helen has nothing to do with my family ranch,” I said.

  “I was looking out for your interests,” she said. “Mike has made a very generous offer that I think we should consider.”

  “There is no we,” I said. “What I do with this ranch is none of your business.”

  “Nicky, don’t get all worked up,” she said.

  Kelly sat in the chair by the window wearing a neutral expression and nodding like a family counseling therapist.

  “Helen might have a legitimate claim to the ranch. I’ve been checking the county records,” Mike said. His cheeks were flushed from the wine.

  “Helen has no rights to the Fischer family ranch. If she ever had any, she gave them up twenty years ago. And what the hell were you doing digging into the county records?”

  “Nicky, he was just—”

  I cut her off before she could finish and turned to Mike. “You were trying to come up with a way around me to get your hands on the ranch.”

  “Now, it’s not like that.”

  “Skip the crap, Mike. I’ll let you know my answer right now. The Fischer ranch is not for sale. Not now. Not ever. Not at any price. It stays in the family.”

  “We don’t have to make a decision tonight,” Helen said.

  I turned to Helen. “You have worn out your welcome. I asked you to leave nicely. Now I’m making it official. You’re out.”

  Her eyes brimmed with tears. “You don’t have to be cruel.” She wiped her eyes with the back of her hand. “I thought we could have this conversation in private.” She glanced at Kelly for support.

  “We did have this conversation in private, several times. It didn’t do any good.”

  “I only want what’s best for you,” she said.

  “Bullshit. If you wanna stay in Fredericksburg, I can’t stop you. But I want you gone. Now. Tonight. In the next five minutes. Get your stuff and go.” I pointed up the stairs.

  Helen slowly backed away from me and retreated up the stairs.

  “You
didn’t have to do that,” Mike said.

  “You stay out of this. We still have unfinished business. Russell Stevens is into a lot more shit than you know, or maybe you do know and you’re not talking. Somehow he’s behind Maya Chavez’s disappearance and Lori’s death.”

  “That’s preposterous. You can’t prove any of that.” His wine-flushed cheeks turned a shade redder.

  “Russell Stevens is on your payroll. If you’re protecting him, that makes you an accessory to murder and kidnapping.”

  “How could he be involved? Those are ridiculous charges,” Mike said. A tiny bead of sweat broke out on his forehead.

  “If anything happens to Maya, Russell’s a dead man. And if I find out you have closer ties to Russell than you’re letting on, I will bury you right beside him.”

  “Now wait just a goddamn minute! You can’t threaten me.”

  “What’s he got on you?” I asked.

  “Russell Stevens is legitimate. He works for me. There’s nothing illegal going on,” Mike insisted.

  “He’s got a record. You gonna tell me you didn’t know that?”

  Mike let out a deep breath and seemed to get himself under control. “You can’t hold that against him.”

  Helen dragged her suitcase to the top of the stairs. “Can I come back for my other things later, Nicky?” she asked sweetly.

  “Fine. I’ll put everything by the front gate,” I said.

  “Oh, be serious!” she huffed.

  “They said your last deployment made you a little crazy,” Mike said. “That when you got home you were never quite right in the head.” A trace of a smile formed under his beard.

  I stepped to within a few inches of Mike’s face. “Then you better not be hiding anything from me, Mike, ’cause I might just go psycho on your ass. I wanna find Maya, before your friend the Dragon ties a rope around her neck.”

  His smile disappeared.

  Helen stomped down the stairs with her suitcase in her hand. “I hope he listens to you,” she said to Kelly.

  Kelly tactfully kept her mouth shut.

  Helen hesitated at the door, waiting for a nod or a gesture of reconciliation—a sign that I would change my mind. I didn’t give her one.

  Mike picked up Helen’s suitcase, and the two walked out the front door.

  “Tell Russell to produce Maya, alive, and we can make a deal,” I called after him.

  “You’ll hear from my lawyer,” he hollered from the porch.

  Kelly put her arm around me. We listened to both vehicles start and the tires crunch on the gravel driveway.

  She wrapped her arms around me. “I do think you should give her another chance. Maybe not right now, but after we get Maya back. I think that’s all she wants, not part of the ranch.”

  “You don’t know her like I do.” My muscles were tense. The bullet wound in my chest throbbed.

  Kelly felt the tension and began to rub my shoulders. “How close is the nearest neighbor?” she asked.

  “The house is a mile away, but the owner lives in Dallas. He only comes in the summer.”

  “So, we can make as much noise as we want?”

  “That’s right. If Comanches attack, we’re screwed. But if you scream with pleasure, no one will hear you but me.”

  She pulled my T-shirt over my head and let me undo her buttons. I slipped off her shirt and draped it over the back of the kitchen chair.

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  By the time we reached the top of the stairs, the amorous moment had dissipated, like sugar melting in hot coffee, only without the sweet aftertaste. We both tried to go through the mechanical motions of lovemaking, but every time she pressed against me the pain in my chest interfered. If that wasn’t enough, when my primal instincts should have been taking over, all I could think of was Maya. Is she safe, or is she dead in a dumpster? What can I do to bring her home safely?

  We finally gave up. Kelly put on one of my T-shirts and wrapped herself in a quilt. I started to explain, but she put a finger to my lips and said goodnight. The north wind had picked up. The cold front was in full swing, dropping the temperature inside and out twenty degrees.

  At some point, I drifted off to sleep. When my phone rang, it sounded muffled and distant. I searched the cold wooden floor first, then followed the noise downstairs and into the front room. I found the phone where I’d left it in my jeans pocket on the floor and checked the caller ID. Skeeter.

  “Talk to me,” I said.

  “I found Maya.”

  “Where?” I suddenly woke up.

  “West side flophouse. I followed one of the bouncers. He had two of the dancers from the strip club when he left. They didn’t look happy to be going anywhere. It’s an old two-story house. He took the two girls upstairs. That’s where I saw Maya.”

  “Is Russell there?” I asked.

  “Didn’t see him.”

  “How many people in the house?”

  “Looks like four thugs. Three downstairs and one upstairs. The one upstairs is a customer, if you know what I mean.”

  “I hear you. Stay on the house. I’ll be there in an hour.” I hung up and struggled into my jeans. I heard Kelly’s footsteps on the stairs.

  “Everything all right?” she called to me in the dark. I saw her naked silhouette draped in my loose-fitting T-shirt. She held her SIG Sauer pistol at the ready position, pointed down and tucked close to her chest.

  “That was Skeeter,” I said.

  “And?” she asked, lowering her weapon.

  “He found Maya.”

  “Is she safe?” she asked.

  “She’s alive.”

  “Thank god,” she said and relaxed. “It’s freezing in here.”

  “The norther finally made it.” I found my socks and shirt. “We have to go.”

  “Let me change the bandage on your chest first,” she said.

  “No time.”

  “At least put on a clean T-shirt,” she said. “You’ve got to take care of that wound or it will never get better.”

  “Okay, you’re right.” I followed her upstairs to the bathroom.

  “I can see how this goes. While you’re on a case, I’m always gonna have to take a backseat.”

  I couldn’t argue with her. It was true. Maybe it was hardwired into my system. Maybe I didn’t want anyone to get too close. Kelly applied a fresh bandage on my chest. Right now, I didn’t want to worry about anything but getting Maya home safe.

  •••

  By the time we hit the edge of San Antonio, traffic was already starting to pick up. It was four a.m. Monday morning, and the area military bases were open for business by four thirty. Skeeter had sent the address to my phone. It wasn’t completely unfamiliar territory. The house was located on the west side near Lucky’s gym.

  I took the Vance Jackson Road exit off Interstate 10 and cut over to Zarzamora Street. The plan was to meet Skeeter at the gas station a block from the flophouse, then work out the details. The street was lined with car repair shops and Hispanic markets. The only new business in the last twenty years seemed to be the Dollar General store.

  I found a taco truck open for business and pulled in to grab some breakfast. I didn’t want to break into a flophouse on an empty stomach.

  “You hungry?” I asked.

  Kelly studied the mobile food truck and the string of Christmas lights that illuminated three worn picnic benches and a collection of rusty metal chairs. There was one other customer standing by the open side of the van who looked like he’d partied most of the night away. I hoped he didn’t have far to go.

  “Too early for me,” she said.

  “Suit yourself.” I got out and smelled the grilled meat mixed with onions and freshly scorched flour tortillas. This was my kind of place. An older woman stood on a wooden box behind the grill, her face a roadmap for the many places she’d cooked early morning breakfasts. A younger man appeared by the window.

>   “Buenos días,” he said.

  “Tengo hambre,” I said. He smiled. I knew my accent was a little too white, but he understood.

  “Good,” he said. “How many?” The older woman was watching and listening.

  “Dos huevos y barbacoa,” I said.

  She checked with him for clarification. Evidently my Spanish wasn’t clear enough for her to understand. He repeated my order in a rapid-fire version that she immediately understood.

  “Bueno,” she said and laughed at my expense.

  While she cooked my breakfast, I called Skeeter. The status hadn’t changed. No one had been in or out in the last thirty minutes. I told him to meet me at the taco stand.

  Kelly got out to stretch her legs.

  By the time my tacos were done, Skeeter pulled in beside my pickup.

  “You’re takin’ your life in your hands eatin’ here,” he said.

  Kelly laughed. “That’s what I was thinking.”

  “Y’all don’t know what you’re missin’,” I said.

  “What have you got,” Kelly said, anxious to get to work.

  “It’s a two story with a front porch. Kind of like your place, but better maintained.”

  “Thanks a lot,” I said. I didn’t think my fixer-upper was in that bad of shape, but Skeeter was always encouraging me to get started with the fix and repair part.

  “You have a leak in the upstairs bathroom, and the kitchen sink is backed up,” he said.

  “I haven’t been home in a month.”

  “Can we talk about that later?” Kelly asked.

  I bit into my fresh breakfast taco. The barbacoa flavor mixed with grilled onions and cilantro were in perfect proportion. There were just enough jalapeños to make my tongue tingle and my eyes water.

  “This is what tacos are supposed to taste like,” I gushed.

  She rolled her eyes, turned to Skeeter. “What about the house? Is there a door upstairs?”

  “There’re steps leading to an upstairs deck off the back of the house,” Skeeter said. “I wouldn’t trust them, but they would probably hold you.”

  “That’s the plan then,” I said and pointed at Skeeter. “You take the front door. If anyone is awake, you detain them long enough for us to slip up the back stairs and get Maya.”