Lucky Town

by Peter Vonder Haar

  And despite my gripes about this city’s traffic, that scenario isn’t as far-fetched as it sounds. Houston may be the quintessential sprawling metropolis, but this was still Texas. A half-hour’s drive would put you in rural territory that could just as easily have been plopped down in the middle of Kansas.

  It wasn’t until the dollar stores, discount furniture stores, and shady vape shops started giving way to more generic strip malls and higher-end vape shops that I bothered to speak.

  “Whose idea was it for Mom to move way the hell out here, again?”

  Charlie sighed. “It was a joint decision. Just because you don’t remember giving your approval doesn’t mean it didn’t happen.”

  I turned the Audi’s air-conditioning down from Charlie’s preferred setting of “absolute zero” to “Shackleton Ice Shelf.” “I’m not saying it didn’t, just that it’s weird I don’t remember the conversation.”

  “You were in and out of the hospital a lot. Even for you.”

  “Yeah, but I wasn’t in a coma or anything.”

  Charlie raised an eyebrow.

  “Not for very long, anyway,” I said.

  “Mom needed to be someplace where people could look in on her,” she said.

  I replied, “You and I were a mile and a half away.”

  She said, “Don lives in Spring, Mike and Kayla live in The Woodlands, and Kayla’s a stay-at-home mom besides. And you and I don’t exactly keep normal hours.”

  It’s true I was just as likely to be staking out a house as home in bed on any given evening. Some of this was starting to come back.

  “And the old house was two stories,” I said. “She was starting to have trouble getting up and down the stairs.”

  She nodded. “Now you’re remembering. And even then, Mom wanted to try and tough it out. But ultimately she couldn’t handle the taxes.”

  “Yeah,” I said. “We could have walled off the top floor,” I began.

  “Or made it into a museum devoted to your medical injuries,” Charlie said. “And she was still going to get priced out of there.”

  Fun fact: Texas has no state income tax, so the bulk of everything — school, infrastructure, hospitals — is paid for by property taxes. There’s a 10% cap on the increase your homestead can be appraised for every year, but when developers are moving into your 90-year-old neighborhood and tearing down two-bedroom bungalows to build 4,000-square-foot McMansions, it adds up.

  The end result — whether in Mom’s old neighborhood, or in Oak Forest to the north, or in Museum Park and the Third Ward further south — was the same: the steady driving out of those unable to afford a new luxury home, or the attendant taxes that come from owning a house in proximity to them.

  Which is what happened to our Mom. Even with Dad’s pension and her own military benefits it was only a matter of time.

  Exit and entrance ramps for the various transit centers are spaced along Houston’s HOV lanes, and it’s generally a good idea to use caution when navigating them. So of course, as we slowed down on the approach to one of these exits, which would deposit us in the main lanes of the freeway, someone in a Ford pickup who’d been riding Charlie’s ass for the last mile or so actually honked. I started rolling my window down.

  “Don’t,” Charlie warned, and hit the window lock button on her Master Control Panel. Or whatever it was called.

  “What?”

  “Don’t flip the guy off,” she said. “This is Texas, for Christ’s sake. The guy probably has three pistols under the driver’s seat alone.”

  I looked at her. “You’re telling me Roy took your only means of personal protection?”

  Charlie snorted. “Of course not, but I’m not getting into a rolling gunfight while speeding down a cement cattle run.”

  “You had me worried for a minute.”

  She said, “You know, for someone who’s already been shot, you’re in a big hurry to make another bullet’s acquaintance.”

  Fuming silently at being foiled by a child lock, I sat back, noting with satisfaction she’d slowed somewhat. Through the passenger side side-view mirror, I could see the pickup driver gesticulating angrily.

  “What’s the minimum speed on the freeway?” she asked innocently.

  “You’re worse than I am,” I said. “Your passive-aggressive deceleration is going to piss this guy off worse than me flipping him the bird.”

  “We make a good team.”

  This being a one-lane HOV lane, the guy behind us had no way to get around, and we continued up the road, basking in the satisfaction of having annoyed some asshole for a bit.

  I watched the northbound traffic alongside us. It was moving at a pretty good clip, all things considered. What looked like a red Ferrari was keeping pace with us, and I idly hoped his brief voyage at highway speeds helped overcome the immense frustration the guy otherwise must have felt owning a high-performance sports car in this city.

  “Do you think Mike’s okay?” Charlie asked.

  “I … don’t know,” I said after a pause. I wasn’t expecting that.

  Charlie checked the mirror for a second and said, “I want to believe he’s all right, and if anyone can get out of a jam, it’s him, but …”

  “But it’s been three days,” I finished. “Three days and no word. Have you been able to look at that code he left yet?”

  She shook her head. “I had it on my to-do list this morning but was rudely interrupted.”

  The HOV lane came to an end just south of the Woodlands proper, and Charlie eased the Audi out into regular traffic. Fortunately, we were still moving close to posted speeds.

  “We have to assume it’s something he’d know you could crack,” I said. “He had to believe you’d be the one to get into his email, right?”

  “Yeah,” Charlie said. “It just doesn’t look like any other key I’ve seen before.”

  I thought about that. “Mike wasn’t a crypto guy, was he?”

  “As in, into codebreaking? In the Corps? Not that I was ever aware of.”

  “Then it has to be something simpler that only you — and maybe I — would be aware of.”

  “That makes sense. I —” Charlie started. She looked up suddenly at the rearview mirror and said, “Oh shit.”

  “What?” I said, starting to turn around. “Is it that asshole in the pickup again?”

  But all she said was, “Hold on!” and before I had time to face all the way forward, she jerked the wheel to the right. I lurched in the opposite direction with the force of the turn and felt a sickening crump in the Audi’s rear left corner and we began to spin.

  I grabbed the oh shit handle above my door and clenched it so hard I was afraid it would break off. Charlie was trying to steer into the spin while simultaneously avoiding dozens of surrounding cars in three lanes of traffic bordered by cement barriers. All I could do was hold on and curse under my breath.

  I saw a flash of red, then something slammed into the Audi on the passenger (my) side, slightly behind me. The force of that impact spun us in the opposite direction. Charlie and I were both using profanity my mother would’ve been very disappointed to hear when her car came to a sudden stop, the front end just a foot or so from a cement block. The intermittent sound of screeching tires came to us, but soon died away. I let go of the handle and looked at Charlie, who returned it. We both exhaled (I hadn’t even realized I’d been holding my breath) and started to laugh. The car was probably totaled, but we were alive.

  Then her airbags went off.

  Chapter TWENTY-ONE

  We were both able to get safely out of the car. Charlie had powder burns from the airbag on her face, and I’m sure I did too. I saw a handful of people emerging from their stopped vehicles, and I waved them off. I could see a number of others, still in their cars, on their phones. I hoped they were calling 911, but could just as easily imagine them irritably describing the latest traffic delay to their friend: “Yeah, I’m gonna be late. There’s an accident on 45 and nobody’
s moving. Idiot was probably texting and didn’t check his blind spot before changing lanes. Record The Bachelor for me.”

  Just another day on Houston’s freeways.

  “You okay?” Charlie asked.

  “I think so. You?”

  She felt cautiously along her torso and winced. “That last hit knocked me into the door; I think I might’ve dinged a couple ribs.”

  “How bad did you ‘ding’ them?”

  “Think I might’ve broken a couple of the sons of bitches,” she said, frowning.

  I walked her to the barrier separating the north and southbound shoulders and let her sit down. As I turned around, a meaty hand grabbed my upper arm.

  “Hey buddy! Are y’all all right?”

  I looked up and recognized the face of the pickup driver who’d been trying to sodomize the Audi ever since we passed Beltway 8. Ordinarily, when someone grabs my upper arm and calls me “buddy” I want to break off a foot in their ass. But when that same person is the redneck POS who just wrecked my sister’s car, almost killing us in the process, I decide to go straight to tearing out his larynx.

  I ripped my arm out of his grasp, but fortunately for him, Charlie saw or sensed the flat murder in my eyes and said, “Cy, don’t.”

  I’d pivoted my weight to my back foot and clenched my fist already, but I replied, “Why the hell not?”

  “Because he didn’t do it.”

  I looked again at the dude. He was 300 pounds if he was a kilogram, most of that in the gut straining over the waist of his jorts. He was wearing a gimme cap with a bald eagle on it and a T-shirt emblazoned with “TERRORIST HUNTING PERMIT” in block letters. The only thing missing from his ensemble was a dip tucked into his lip, though admittedly his beard was so massive it was impossible to tell.

  I found myself getting angry again, but for different reasons. Looking to Charlie I said, “Are you sure?”

  She held her side with a pained expression, her words coming out in strained bursts. “He was three car lengths back. When we got hit. It was a Ferrari. Red one.”

  I forgot about Cletus and went over to her. “Son of a bitch, I saw that car too. Are you sure? A Ferrari?”

  Charlie nodded. “Couldn’t believe it. Hundred-thousand-dollar candy-apple sports car, straight up our ass.”

  I couldn’t remember the driver. “I think the windows were tinted. Did you see who was driving?”

  She shook her head.

  “So y’all are gonna be okay?”

  I looked back at Cletus and — bless his heart — he actually looked worried. Two minutes ago he was probably ranting about “foreign-car-driving pinkos,” and now he was a concerned neighbor inquiring after our well-being. Heartwarming, really. Maybe if all Americans could get into near-fatal automobile collisions with each other, we might come together as a nation.

  “Hey, Cl … uh, man, I think we’re all right. What did you say your name was?”

  “Ray.” He extended the aforementioned ham hock and I shook it. His grip was sweaty, but that understandable considering we all just almost died. I was a little moist myself.

  “Thanks for checking, Ray,” I said. “Let me ask you: Did you see who was driving that Ferrari?”

  He shook his head. “Naw, man. That old boy ran up on you so fast I couldn’t believe it. He was like a greased pig out of a chute.”

  I’ve heard that expression before, and I suppose it speaks to my urban upbringing that I’ve never understood the context for applying grease to a pig. And now probably wasn’t the time to ask.

  “Don’t know about that other car, though.”

  Oh shit, I realized: the second impact. I looked past Ray and saw a white panel van, of the kind you see a dozen times a day on Houston roads. They usually carry day workers to a job laying carpet or painting or installing plumbing.

  I walked over and saw a man in the driver’s seat wearing white overalls and a T-shirt. There was no one else inside.

  “You okay?” I asked.

  He smiled and gave me a thumbs-up, then glanced over his shoulder. I followed his gaze and saw three similarly dressed dudes trotting across the access road. He looked back, noticed me watching them as well. He suddenly became nervous, until I grinned and gave a small shrug. He returned it. What are you gonna do?

  Qué pedes hacer, indeed. The other three guys were probably undocumented, and sticking around for questioning could easily earn them a one-way ticket back south of the border.

  The damage to the van was negligible. At least, I couldn’t tell which of the existing dents and scrapes were new or old. Insurance could sort it out. I gave the guy a thumb’s up and walked back to Charlie, who was on her phone.

  Sirens grew louder in the distance, and I saw a fire truck approaching from the south. A police car was heading in from the opposite direction, but both were having difficulty navigating through the ranks of stopped cars (on our side) and gawkers (on the other).

  Charlie hung up. “Called Mom.”

  “I figured. What’d she say?”

  “Wanted to make sure we were okay. I said we were.”

  I said, “Did you tell her about your ribs?”

  “I did not,” she replied. “You and I already know what’s going to happen. They’re going to take me, by ambulance, to a nearby hospital. I’ll get X-rays and be released with a compression wrap that mashes my boobs flat. Don’t say it.”

  I grinned. Twin brothers are the only males allowed to make jokes about a woman’s breasts, and even then, it’s an iffy thing.

  “Did she finally agree to call tonight off?” I asked instead.

  “Yeah. Still sounded pissed off about it.”

  “Well, you know, her ungrateful kids never come to visit her,” I said.

  Charlie chuckled, then hissed. “Shit, don’t make me laugh.” Then she nodded to the car. “Did the barbecue make it?”

  I checked the back seat. “You want the good news or the bad news?”

  “Bad.”

  “It didn’t make it.”

  She nodded, as this is barely a surprise considering what we just went through. “And the good?”

  I said, “Your upholstery has a wonderful hickory sauce shine.”

  Charlie rolled her eyes. “I hope my deductible covers this.”

  “You’re having a hell of a day.”

  “That’s just what Mom said. And she still doesn’t know about the dead guy.”

  My own phone vibrated in my pocket, and I checked the screen. Unknown caller.

  I showed it to Charlie. “Should I answer it?”

  “Could this day get any worse?” she said.

  I honestly didn’t know if that was an affirmative answer or not, so I went ahead and hit the Talk button. “This is Clarke.”

  “Cy Clarke?”

  Another accent. “Boris, if this is you, I’m really not in the mood.”

  “There is no Boris here, friend,” the voice replied with a chuckle. “And I don’t believe we’ve ever spoken, but I’m told you have been looking for me.”

  The sirens were getting louder and I was still coming down off an adrenaline surge, so it took a moment for that last part to filter through. When it did, I clicked the mute button.

  “Son of a bitch,” I said.

  “What is it?” Charlie asked.

  I said, “I think it’s Steranko.”

  Chapter TWENTY-TWO

  It wasn’t the time to ask how he got my number, but I knew that was going to bother me. Instead, I said, “I don’t know if I’d call it looking for you. I just had some questions and you seem like the best person to answer them.”

  “Why do you think that?” he asked.

  “Let’s just say we may have some overlapping interests.”

  There was a pause at the other end of the line. “Are you in some kind of trouble?”

  That was a weird question. Then I realized, he was hearing the various emergency vehicles, who were all converging on us. It must have sounded like, well,
a traffic accident.

  “Not really. We were just in an accident, so this isn’t really the best time to talk.”

  He said, “How unfortunate. How about tonight? Would that be better?”

  “What time?” I asked. “I have no idea how long this is going to take.”

  “How about ten o’clock?”

  I checked my watch. It wasn’t five yet. “That sounds doable.”

  “Excellent. I’m having a small get-together in Galveston. We can talk then.”

  What. “Galveston?” I asked.

  “Yes,” he said. “On my boat.”

  “Your boat.” I knew I should be arguing for a neutral site arrangement, but repeating him was the best I could do.

  He said, “My boat is called the Konev. It’s moored at the Galveston Yacht Club and Marina. Do you know it?”

  “I’ll find it.” The ambulance was pulling up. It had mercifully turned off its siren and I waved the EMTs over as I talked.

  That chuckle again. “I am looking forward to it.”

  I hung up. The fire truck was pulling up behind Charlie’s car. Between it and the ambulance, all the lanes of northbound 45 were now blocked. This was called “establishing a safe operating area,” as I recalled from my police days. It wouldn’t do to allow any injured parties to get run over by a guy playing Fruit Ninja while driving.

  And now two black-and-whites were arriving as well. Hope nobody was in a hurry to get to Olive Garden.

  I waved the EMTs over and pointed to where Charlie was sitting. “My sister thinks she might have broken some ribs.”

  Two of them broke off to attend to her. “How are you, sir?”

  “I’m fine.”

  He held a finger in front of my face. “Follow with your eyes, please.”

  I obliged him to assure him I wasn’t concussed.

  “Were you both wearing your seat belts?”

  “Yes,” I nodded, not adding that neither of us had a death wish.

  He seemed convinced of my relatively sound mind and went over to where the others were attending Charlie. My brief interlude of peace was short-lived, because right about then the police arrived.