Hawke's Target

by Reavis Z. Wortham

  Willy slipped both hands into the pockets of his overalls. “This place is a goddamn gold mine. We need to open one ourselves.”

  “This is called a legitimate business, and it takes work, seven days a week, and you probably don’t want that.”

  “Don’t matter none. I’s just popping off.” Willy burped, full of fried fish. Tanner had barely touched his two fillets, instead listlessly dipping his fries into a puddle of catsup from time to time. Not wanting to waste the food, Willy had eaten his, too. He glanced upward at the heavy clouds. “Bottom’s about to fall out.”

  Instead of getting into Tanner’s sedan, they leaned against the front bumper. Both loaded their bottom lips with Copenhagen and spat. The wintergreen flavor rose in the damp night air. No one noticed, assuming they were just two more people waiting for a table. The moist night air held the scent of fried food, grease, cigar smoke, and the damp loam from the woods surrounding the restaurant.

  June bugs buzzed through the darkness, throwing themselves with soft crunchy thuds against everything and anything solid. As they waited, Tanner became more and more nervous. His hands twitched of their own accord with the enormity of what they were about to do. “If they come out and we miss them, and they leave in the morning, then everything’ll be all right.”

  “Except we’ll have to tell the old man what happened, and I ain’t fixin’ to do that just because you’re acting like a little ol’ titty-baby.” Willy leaned over and spat. “There ain’t no way I’m gonna get Boone sicced on my ass.” He straightened. “Here they come. Get ready.”

  “Get ready for what? You don’t think we’re gonna do it here, do you? Look, I changed my mind, let’s get away from all these people . . .”

  Willy watched the unsuspecting men thread their way through the crowd and toward their car parked near the rear of the building. Unlike the other customers, they wore slacks, light shirts, and sport jackets, obviously not locals. One was Asian, the other could have been a move-in from Brooklyn.

  Lit only by a string of patio lights under the restaurant’s eaves, and some spillover from the lights on the back of the wooden building, the men were easy to spot moving down the uneven row. To Tanner, the scene took on an unreal tone in reflected light from windshields, chrome, and in many cases, freshly washed and waxed paint jobs.

  Around the corner, a woman laughed, her voice light and full of life.

  Deep in conversation, the agents didn’t notice the men leaning against the Taurus the next row over. Willy snapped his fingers softly. “Hot dayum, do I have an idea that’s gonna save your sissy ass.”

  “What’s that?”

  “Come with me and do the same thing I do.”

  “Here? Now? With all these people around?” Tanner hesitated, wanting to simply get in the car and drive away, but when Willy glanced back over his shoulder to see if he was following, Tanner fell back into the lifelong pattern of doing what he was told.

  The agents’ Chevrolet was parked only ten feet from the tall pines. The restaurant’s lights spilled only a few feet into the woods before the trunks absorbed the glow and dissolved into darkness. Willy caught up to the men, who finally noticed they weren’t alone.

  The shortest of the two, the agent with Asian features, glanced up from the cell phone that glowed in his hand. Logy from full stomachs, the strangers had no idea they were in danger until Willy came up behind the muscular driver with Italian features who was fumbling in his pocket for the keys.

  Willy stopped only steps behind the two strangers, just before they split up to get in. The driver’s eyes went flat at the sight of the .38 in Willy’s hand, pointed at his middle.

  The second agent squinted as his eyes slowly adjusted from the bright screen on his phone to the two locals beside them. “Hey, be careful with that thing.”

  Willy kept the pistol low and out of sight. “You boys be cool and keep your hands where we can see ’em.”

  The agents froze, eyes flicking back and forth between Willy and Tanner. Sensing the younger man was more easily addressed, the one with Asian eyes turned his attention to Tanner. “What’s this?”

  The sight of Tanner’s dark blue Colt Python ended further discussion. Tanner was sure the man could see he was terrified. “Keep your hands where we can see them.” He glanced over his shoulder to make sure no one was watching.

  Willy quickly circled the driver. “I know you boys have guns. Take ’em out and put ’em on the ground right now. Do it slow and use your fingertips.”

  “What makes you think we have guns?”

  “Hell, this is Texas. Everybody has a gun. Do what we say, give us your billfolds, and we’re gone. Fast and simple.”

  The driver with the high and tight haircut raised an eyebrow. “Robbery. Fine then. You can have what you want.” Their eyes met across the top of the car, but they removed their weapons with the tips of their fingers. As one they bent down and laid the weapons on the gravel lot.

  Willy nodded, keeping his voice low. “Yep, we’re gonna get what we want all right, but we’re not doing it here. See them woods right there? We’re fixin’ to talk in ’em where people cain’t see. Y’all turn around and we’ll follow. Keep them hands down at your sides, and when we get inside the trees, you’ll give us your money and keys and we’ll be gone.”

  The agents exchanged glances and nodded as one. High and Tight turned toward the trees behind the restaurant. “Fine then. Let’s get this over with.”

  Tanner again risked a glance across the tops of the parked cars and toward the highway. No one was paying them any attention. The man with Asian eyes joined the other man, who led the way into the woods with Willy behind.

  Nerves jangling like fire alarm bells, Tanner followed slightly to the side, with the Python held low against his leg. Their footsteps were silent on the thick carpet of pine needles. With his suddenly heightened senses, Tanner felt the scent of the trees was stronger than ever before. The smell mixed with damp vegetation and the cloying, sickish sweet odor of a dead animal rotting nearby made his stomach roll, and he swallowed several times to keep from puking.

  They entered the woods defined by the lights, and mere steps later, all four were engulfed in the gloom. The straight trunks lining the open parking lot threw long shadows that merged into darkness that grew impenetrable a hundred yards later.

  Willy stopped where there was still enough light to see. “All right. That’s far enough.”

  High and Tight stopped and turned toward the pair of silhouettes. “What now?”

  Tanner spoke, startled that his voice was hoarse and cracked. “Names.”

  The Asian frowned. “Names? I thought this was robbery. I’m Ricky Kwan, and he’s Tom Fontana.”

  “What are you two doing here?” Tanner’s voice squeaked high from nerves. He cleared his throat. “Who are you with?”

  “The railroad.” Fontana spread his hands. “We’re railroad agents. What is this?”

  “Don’t matter what they say.” Willy interrupted.

  Tanner held up his free hand. “Hang on a sec. Do you two know who we are?”

  Fontana snorted. “Why would we know the names of common thieves like you two?”

  “Then why are you here?”

  Kwan tilted his head. “Why are you interested in that? I thought you just wanted our money.”

  Tanner shifted from foot to foot. “There’s something else going on here. I don’t understand.”

  Fontana spread his hands. “Look, we don’t know what you guys have going, but like he said, we’re railroad agents, looking into a shipment of Saltillo tiles coming up from Mexico that don’t match up with the weight of the manifest.”

  “That don’t make no sense.” Willy was getting impatient. “You’re investigating tiles that don’t weigh the same as you expect? That’s bullshit.”

  “No, really, it was red-flagged by customs.” Fontana’s tone became almost conversational. “The train car we’re investigating is supposed to contain
tiles made down in Monterrey. They’ve been shipping to a warehouse in Shreveport, and the weight doesn’t match up with the order.

  “That kind of thing rings our alarm bells, so the guys down on the border think there’s something fishy with the shipment, that maybe the Mexicans are cutting corners on production and shipping subpar tiles. We’ve been taking turns with another team of agents staked out to see if anyone comes around the car.”

  “That’s bullshit.” Tanner frowned. He was never good at thinking fast on his feet, and all this talk about weight and tiles was confusing. The only thing he understood was the family business and the fact that they were in over their heads. “You think there’s drugs in there. Maybe cocaine?”

  The agents exchanged glances. “We hadn’t thought of that.”

  Tanner’s head spun even more. The Wadlers were experts in shipping, and they’d never used such a method to move drugs. He wondered if this was some kind of double-cross between Daddy Frank and a competitor. “Then why would you be here if it’s in a warehouse across the line?”

  Kwan licked his lips. “It’s on a siding right now, just outside of town. Been there for four days. Look, guys, we don’t know what’s going on with you, but right now we don’t care what you’re doing, if it doesn’t have anything to do with the railroad.”

  “This is bullshit.” Willy stepped forward. “Tanner. Get it done.”

  Tanner hesitated. The veins in his forehead pulsed. His scalp tightened. He felt his own eyes widen. “Wait. Let me think.” Was the old man testing him? Nothing rang true, and his head spun. He had no business dealing with these men. Tanner never aspired to be anything more than a simple cog in the family business. This whole thing was beyond his experience and desire.

  Behind Willy and Tanner, an older couple walked to their car parked near the agents’ sedan, gravel crunching under their shoes. Willy angled himself to see both their victims and the parking lot. “Tanner, their story’s bullshit.”

  “No, it’s not.” Tanner lowered the Python. “People can’t make stuff up like this, not this quick. It has to be true.”

  Kwan drew a deep breath. “You’re right. We’re leaving in the morning. The boxcar is scheduled to be picked up at seven. Then we’re gone with it.”

  Tanner saw a way out. “Let ’em go. Like I said, we can say we missed ’em.”

  “No.” Willy thumb-cocked the pistol.

  Fontana’s eyes widened. “Hey, wait. What is this? Please believe us.”

  “I do.” Tanner stepped back, hearing car doors slam behind them. Laughter floated on air that smelled of fried food. “We’re letting you go. You, Chinaman. If you’re railroad agents, you have handcuffs. I want to see you take yours out with two fingers. Use your left hand.”

  “Do it slow.” Willy swung the muzzle of his pistol back and forth.

  Tanner watched Kwan slowly take a pair of cuffs from behind his belt. Then Tanner flicked his pistol toward Fontana. “You, too. Then y’all put ’em on one wrist.”

  “Here, you do it.” Kwan pitched his cuffs toward Tanner. They floated toward him, the steel glittering in the light.

  A pistol appeared in Fontana’s hand. Willy pulled the trigger. The muzzle flash was like a flashbulb. Trees absorbed part of the flat report. Fontana grunted and folded, dropping onto a carpet of pine needles like an abandoned puppet.

  Tanner started at the suddenness of the shot. “Oh.”

  A semiautomatic appeared in Kwan’s hand as fast as a magician flicks his fingers and a card appears. Willy swung his revolver and shot again, catching Kwan in the left side of his chest. The second flash stopped the action like a strobe.

  The wounded man shrieked and twisted. His compact semiautomatic pistol fired twice as he staggered back. One of the rounds whined off a tree behind Tanner with a low wobbling sound.

  Two more shots hammered the still woods, and then a following string of muzzle flashes startled Tanner and froze the moments, bathing the woods in brief, stark light. It was a full second before he realized they’d come from his pistol.

  Kwan fell onto the carpet of pine needles and stilled. Willy fired twice more into Fontana’s body. Anchor shots.

  Heart pounding, Tanner glanced over his shoulder like a high school student at a schoolyard dustup, looking for the principal to arrive. He was startled when Willy grabbed his arm and pulled. “Come with me!”

  Numb, he allowed himself to be pulled through pines, running parallel to the back of the restaurant and matching Willy’s stride through the trees. Aided by the light from the restaurant, they stayed in the woods. Tanner stayed close to Willy, who slipped effortlessly around the thick trunks as if he were following a trail. Moving like deer, they stayed out of sight and pushed through the thin understory brush to the opposite side of the restaurant.

  Willy paused just beyond the circle of light and studied the parking lot. “It’s clear.” He noticed the Python still in Tanner’s hand. “Hide that!”

  The stunned young man looked down, surprised to see it in his hand. He tucked it under his shirt, into the small of his back. It was uncomfortably hot against his spine.

  Unintelligible shouts from several people reached them. After a moment, more shouts from different voices joined in. Tanner forced himself to breathe slowly as they stepped into the clearing and threaded their way through the cars and trucks to re-emerge in front of the restaurant.

  This time the thick odor of fried food was almost too much for Tanner’s already rolling stomach, and he gagged. Much of the crowd had surged toward the commotion originating from the dark trees. Willy shoved him forward and they emerged from the darkness to join the remaining crowd of confused customers milling in place.

  Gasps and questions filled the air.

  “What was that?”

  “Somebody’s shot.”

  “I think it’s a fight.”

  “There’s been a killin’.”

  Ignoring the inane questions, Tanner and Willy stopped beside a group of customers who stayed far away from potential drama or danger. Tanner was sure the people around him could see the hot pistol under his shirt and would start pointing fingers at him at any moment, screaming, “Murderer!”

  The Swamp’s manager pushed through the front door. “I had Henry call the sheriff’s department. They’re on the way.”

  A heavy woman waved her thick arm. “Chuck, they say there’s two people dead over yonder.”

  “What happened?”

  “I didn’t see it.”

  The manager, named Chuck, turned to the crowd. “What happ’ned?” He recognized a face in the crowd. “J.T., you know?”

  The redheaded farmer shook his head.

  “Anybody know what’s going on out here?”

  The question was addressed to no one in particular, but for some reason that Tanner couldn’t control, he pointed and answered. “I heard somebody say they heard shootin’ back over there.” He held the finger out much too long and realized he was standing there like a statue. He lowered his arm, refusing to look at those around him, and examined his fingers as if expecting to see gunpowder residue. “I don’t know anything else.”

  The manager ducked around the edge of the building. “What’s going on out here?”

  Willy cleared his throat and turned to Tanner. “You ready to go?”

  The simple question snapped Tanner back into the real world. “If you are.”

  Their conversation, common to the area, was so mundane no one even gave them a thought. Feeling as if he were carrying fifty-pound feed sacks on his shoulders, Tanner walked to his unremarkable Ford and joined the flow of customers who wanted nothing to do with backwoods shootings or the police who would soon arrive with questions for everyone.

  Chapter 20

  The morning sun made its way through the back window of Mike Dillman’s GMC pickup as they shot down the highway thirty minutes west of Waco. Boone rode shotgun.

  Mike was far from comfortable around the strange, hairless ma
n who’d been virtually silent since they left. A man of few words, Boone slept until the sun came up.

  They were entering the arid central part of the state covered in scrub, sage, and mesquite that had taken over much of the ranchland on either side of the highway. Long shadows from live oak trees stretched across rocky creeks. Growing without impediment, the oaks spread their limbs wide, sometimes so far that their weight caused them to touch the ground.

  Mike’s nerves were getting the best of him, and he decided to initiate a conversation to break the silence. “I hate this part of the country.”

  Head bowed over a book, Boone didn’t reply.

  Mike pointed “There’s a turkey. Did you see it?”

  Boone finally looked up from the book in his lap. “No.”

  “Yeah, a big gobbler. Wonder what he was doing out in this wind. Game usually settles in when it’s blowing this hard ’cause the limbs are moving and they can’t see or hear anything that’s trying to eat ’em.”

  “I wouldn’t know.”

  Mike glanced up at the gray morning sky. Irritable because he had no business driving to Comanche, he was also on edge with Boone in the truck because he felt he could have handled this himself.

  For the first time since he’d known Boone, the strange man offered an interesting comment. “I used to live out here.”

  Startled by the revelations, Mike cut his eyes toward Boone’s shaved head and that spiderweb tattoo that creeped everyone out. “Never expected you to be from this part of the country.”

  “My parents lived just out of Waco when I was ten.” Boone closed the book he’d been reading, using his finger to mark his place in The Art of War. “They were Branch Davidians, followers of David Koresh. Some claim he was Jesus Christ, the Messiah who’d returned, but Preacher Holmes says that’s not true.” He looked at Mike. “Hallelujah.”

  Mike shivered at the joyless interjection. He couldn’t tell if Boone was being sarcastic or was in the throes of the message. “I’ve never heard you talk this much.”