by A. W. Gray
“Even if you don’t, I need your help,” I said. “Tell you the truth, I got all I wanted of playing lone wolf out at Muhammed’s place.”
“You must have done okay if you’re still alive,” he said.
“How ‘bout it, Bodie? Meet me at Bullrider Danceland.”
“Jesus Christ, what a name for a joint,” he said. “Okay, I’ll be there, but it’s gonna be a while. You behave yourself, Bannion. Shitkicker cowboys ain’t any more in love with guys that come nosing around than Muhammed Double-X is.”
9
Bullrider Danceland was country long before country was cool, and still was country ten years after country wasn’t cool anymore. During the hillbilly craze of the seventies, urban cowboys looking for the real thing had come to the Bullrider, and often had been carried out with their brand-new, quilted-on-the-shoulder western shirts ripped to shreds. Willie Nelson had played the Bullrider in the years before he himself was “in,” and during Nelson concerts the Bullrider had had the good sense to replace the longneck bottles with paper cups, and to hide the glass ashtrays and put molded tinfoil on the table.
The place is a corrugated steel building the size and shape of a double airplane hangar, a long stone’s throw from Harry Hines Boulevard on a two-lane stretch of Northwest Highway that slices through Trinity River bottom land. Marshy swamp surrounds the Bullrider and its gravel parking lot; a row of gnarled and twisted horror-movie trees hides the nightclub from view of highway passerbys. If you weren’t looking for the Bullrider, you’d never know it was there, and the people who frequent the joint like it that way.
I steered the ‘Vette off the highway across an elevated gravel road built six feet above the Trinity’s flood level. Tiny pieces of rock banged and pinged against the ‘Vette’s underbody; the probing headlight beams showed foot-high weeds on both sides of the road. A skunk moseyed across the road directly in my path. As I threw on the brakes, old Skunky purposefully turned his rump to me, raised his tail, and peered at me over his shoulder. I cringed and waited. Apparently deciding I wasn’t worth the effort, the skunk lowered his tail and waddled off into the underbrush. I continued on into the Bullrider’s parking lot, stopped between a GMC three-quarter-ton pickup with a gun rack and a Ford Bronco with a thick layer of dried mud on its wheels. I got out, patted the ‘Vette’s roof, and mentally crossed my fingers in the hope that the car would be in one piece when I returned. Then I crossed the lot and entered the dance hall.
The Bullrider was collecting a cover charge; directly in front of me was a low counter. Behind the counter sat a Dolly Parton blonde with a sprayed beehive hairdo, wearing a plaid shirt opened to the third button. As I handed her ten dollars, she gave my knit Polo shirt and brand-new tailored jeans a disapproving once-over, then counted out six bucks in change. I sidestepped a bearded cowboy at the entryway and moved on.
On a stage around a hundred yards in front of me, a country and western band was playing “Lost in the Fifties Tonight,” a Ronnie Millsap tune. The band consisted of a drummer, two bass guitarists—a tall, skinny drink of water in boots and Stetson who finger-strummed his guitar at hip level, and a short, fat, bald guy who carried his instrument up under his armpit and used a plastic pick to twang the strings—a lead guitar played by a youngster with shoulder-length hair billowing from underneath the brim of his hat, and a full-hipped, big-breasted girl in tight jeans and a bare-midriff halter who held a cymbal in each hand and wiggled her fanny in time to the music. The singer was a square-shouldered gent who stood in an Elvis Presley, hip-cocked stance and kept his lips pressed to the hand-held microphone. The big dance floor was elbow to elbow, men in Stetsons and women in boots and jeans or flowered square dance dresses. The tune was a slow one and the crowd was doing some belly-rubbing; couples held each other close and did box steps together. On the far side of the dance floor, one cowboy tried to cut in. The cowboy who was already dancing didn’t like that; he shook his head. The cutter-in yanked on the dancer’s elbow, and the two men squared off with fists balled. A bouncer, a huge guy carrying a flashlight, stepped in between the pair and said something. The cutter-in eyed the bouncer, thought it over, and melted into the crowd.
The bar was fifty yards to my left, past rows of long tables and a cluster of smaller tables for more intimate seating. Leggy waitresses in jeans carried round metal trays, taking orders and hustling back to the bar to get the orders filled. The nearest waitress to me was a lanky brunette who at the moment was standing behind one of the long tables while a cowboy leaned back in his folding chair and talked to her over his shoulder. I went over to her and said in her ear, “I’m looking for a girl named Candy, supposed to work here.”
She cut long-lashed eyes at me and shifted her tray from one arm to the other. “Who’s looking for her?” she said.
I showed her my version of a disarming grin. “Rick. Tell her Rick wants to see her. I’m a friend of a friend.”
The cowboy with whom she’d been talking eyed me, then said to her, “You know this guy?” He’d been drinking a lot; sober he could probably handle himself pretty well.
She leaned over and said to him, “Just a minute, Billy.” Then, to me: “Well, you’ve got Candy, sweetie. Me. What friend are you a friend of?” Her dark hair was cut short in a Dorothy Hamill style. She was wearing flats; her nose was on a level with the cleft in my chin, which would make her around five foot nine.
“Well, it’s ...” I began, then said, “listen, is there a place we can talk? Won’t take but just a minute.”
Now Billy rose unsteadily to his feet, moved between Candy and me, and put his nose about six inches from mine. “The lady’s busy, bud. Whyntcha take your tenderfoot ass away from here?” He eyed my clothes. He was a youngster, early twenties, with a broad chest and burly arms, about my height. He’d shaved clean as a whistle, and the strong scent of Old Spice Lime mixed with the smell of beer on his breath. Farmboy gone afunnin’ on Saturday night. He was a strong kid, but I thought I could probably take him even when he was stone sober. In his current condition it would be a lead-pipe cinch. There were three more cowboys seated at the table, and they were glaring at me. I showed the kid my we’re-old-buddies grin. “No trouble,” I said. “I’m just wanting to talk to her for a minute.”
Candy stepped around the youngster and faced him. “You behave, Billy. You wait, I’ll be right back.” Then to me, she said, “Come on with me. I got tables to wait on, you’ll have to hurry.” Billy flopped back into his chair. She led me to a table for two near the bar. Candy walked with a come-on, hip-swinging gait, and, following her, I decided that Billy would probably sit and wait until hell froze over. She sat down and put her tray on the table. I took a seat across from her.
The band launched into “I Don’t Think Hank Done It This Way,” a Waylon Jennings number backed by throbbing, loud guitars. I leaned over the table and practically shouted to Candy, “I’m wanting to talk to Catfish.”
Her full lips twisted violently. “I thought you said you were a friend of a friend. Get lost, asshole.” She got up and took a long step away from the table.
I got up and took her by the arm, none too gently. She’d thrown me a curve, and my mind was racing. Whatever it took, I had to find this guy. I said, “I was lying. He’s not really a friend, and he’s not going to like what happens when I find him.”
She looked down at my hand on her arm, then back up at me. I let go of her. She said, “You a cop?”
“No.”
“Too bad. I was hoping you were going to bust him. I got bruises from that bastard, mister.” She sat back down at the table.
I joined her once again and said, “So I made the wrong approach to you. The word I had he was your boyfriend.”
“Was. For about two weeks. I got plenty of getting the shit beat out of me when I was with my old man. I don’t need the same treatment from Mr. Donald Lund. That’s his name, Catfish. If he bothers me again I’m going to a lawyer I know and have him slapped with a restraining
order.”
This was working out better than I’d expected. As long as she was riled up, she’d talk to me without thinking over her answers. I said, “Yeah, well, you’re not alone. He broke my sister’s arm the other night, and me and Mr. Catfish got a score to settle.” I was pretty sure I was reading her right. In Candy’s circle of friends, scores were settled every day.
She didn’t bat an eye. “I’ll tell you something, mister. I’m all for you, but you’d better take a baseball bat. Or a gun. This is one bad sumbitch you’re talking about.”
“I can be one, too, when somebody messes with my sister. You know where to find him?”
“You’d better be,” she said. “If he ain’t moved, he lives at four-twenty Wycliff Place. Off Lemmon Avenue. I don’t know the apartment number, but it’s right in the breezeway by the pool. Last apartment on the left. Listen, I got work to do.” She glanced toward the bar. The bartender, a burly, bearded guy, was watching us through slitted eyes.
“Okay, I told you I only wanted a minute. And thanks.” I stood.
“You might not thank me after you see him. But like I said, I’m pulling for you. You don’t tell that s.o.b. who tole you where he lives, you hear?” Her big eyes became rounder, and slightly fearful. No, more than slightly; she was terrified of the guy.
“No way. No way would I.” I patted her arm and walked toward the exit. At the doorway I turned and looked over my shoulder. Candy was back on duty, going from table to table, taking orders. She stopped and threw me a good-bye wave. I went on through the lobby and out to the parking lot. The Dolly Parton clone showed me a bored yawn as I went by.
Outside, the moon was behind a cloud bank, and the cars in the parking lot were faint bulky outlines. It was hot, the still heat of an August night in Texas, the steamy humidity rising from the marshland surrounding the nightclub. I stood on the short wooden porch for a moment, my gaze traveling beyond the parking lot to the narrow road leading to the highway. I was wondering about Breaux. Damn, he should have been here by now. I took two steps down and felt warm asphalt through my shoes as I walked between an Isuzu Trooper II and a Chevrolet pickup, headed for the ‘Vette.
On my left a slurred male voice said, “Sum-bitch.” At the same instant something stout and wooden slammed into the side of my head.
I was lucky enough to see it coming, a dark shape moving among darker shapes in the corner of my eye, and instinct moved my head to one side. The little head jerk didn’t save me altogether, but instead of landing on the button, the blow glanced off my ear, painfully scraping my cheek. And instead of going down for the count, I went only to my knees.
The moon was suddenly out from behind the clouds, bathing the parking lot in muted light. The light illuminated the young cowboy Billy, the one Candy had been talking to when I’d interrupted. He staggered slightly, hefted the thick tree branch over his head, and brought it crashing down a second time. The booze played hell with his timing; I got my feet under me and sprang to one side and the branch thudded harmlessly on asphalt. It slipped from Billy’s grasp, bounced once, rolled over twice, and was still.
My backside was flattened against the front fender of the Isuzu. I extended a hand, palm out. “What do you think you’re doing, son? You got no problem with me.”
Billy clenched his hands into fists, his breathing ragged, and took a step in my direction.
A second, deeper voice, also slurred, said, “What he’s doin’ is, he’s gonna whip yore ass. Teach you to come ‘round here fuckin’ with these women.”
From behind the Chevy pickup stepped reinforcements, the three other cowboys who’d shared Billy’s table. Two were short and burly; the third was a couple of inches taller than I was and built like a whipsaw. All three were drunk, weaving in place. I was pretty sure I could handle Billy, but four on one was a different story. I wondered if I could outrun them, jump into the ‘Vette, and speed away. I doubted it.
I said, “I had business with the girl is all. Hell, I wasn’t butting into anything.”
The tallest of the three snickered. “We got business, too, bud. Our business is goin’ to be beatin’ the shit outta you, how ‘bout that?” The four men formed a semicircle around me. Visible beyond them, headlights came down the narrow road and into the parking lot.
One of the chunky cowboys grabbed the front of my shirt and yanked. I tried to swing at him, but somebody grabbed hold of my arm. An arm encircled my throat; my own hand came sharply up behind me in a hammerlock. Billy squared drunkenly off before me and spat in his palms. One of the cowboys said, “Knock his fuckin’ teeth loose, Billy.”
The headlights came down the row, bumping up and down. Breaux’s Jeep convertible, top down, appeared behind the lights and came to a screeching halt just feet from us. Bodie was behind the wheel. He raised his hand, and in it was the .45 he’d taken from Muhammed’s man Snakey out at Connie Swarm’s. Orange flame spurted upward as a roar split the night like artillery.
The three in front of me froze like a stop-action photo. The arm around my throat loosened its hold. I took a step to one side and rubbed my windpipe. Breaux was up on his running board with the .45 leveled at the cowpokes.
“Stand away from him,” Breaux said. “Get in, Bannion. Jesus Christ, I thought you was only going to talk to somebody.”
I left my buddies and climbed aboard the Jeep. Breaux was wearing a grimy T-shirt and his yellow hat was soiled. To me he was pretty as a picture. “Where you been?” I said.
Breaux kept the pistol trained on the cowboys as he slowly lowered himself behind the wheel. He dropped the .45 between us, threw the Jeep into gear, and we bounced away. “I told you I’d be awhile,” he said. “I told you not to get into any shit, too. Guess you don’t listen to nothing, Bannion.”
Breaux ran over the curb while parking the Jeep. The hood bounced up, then down. So did I, holding grimly onto the dashboard. Under the circumstances I’d had no choice but to leave the ‘Vette parked at Bullrider Danceland and ride with Breaux. But after a heart-stopping thirty-minute trip with Breaux cussing under his breath, grinding gears and weaving in and out of traffic, I wasn’t sure but what I’d have been better off to take the ‘Vette and chance the cowpokes catching up to me while I was getting the engine started.
Bodie turned the ignition off, and as the Jeep dieseled through a couple of vibrations before quieting, he said, “Jesus fucking Christ. Four-twenty Wycliff Place, here it is. You’re going through a helluva lot, not to mention dragging me through it with you. The fuck is going on?”
The two-story, red brick apartment was set far back from the street. There was a sidewalk leading to the building with a row of gaslights along the walk. Tiny flames wavered within the globes and formed small, moving shadows on the lawn. Beyond an ornate iron gate, blue-green lights wavered beneath the surface of the water in the pool. A diving board rattled and a body split the water with a small splash. Elm trees paraded down both sides of the street in neat rows, visible over the nose of the Jeep.
I yanked the handle upward and moved the door partway open with my shoulder. “Later, Bodie, okay? I’ll tell you everything later. For now just trust me.”
“I guess I trust you about as far as anybody else I know that the feds have got the heat on. Which ain’t too far.”
I’d already placed a foot on the curb and risen partway out of my seat. I flopped back down and faced Breaux. “The word’s out already, huh?” I said.
Bodie shrugged and slung his wrist over the top of the steering wheel, teenager style. “Yeah, it’s out some, to a few people. Plus I saw the broad on TV.”
“What broad?”
“You trying to shit me?” Breaux said. “The same broad which was wearing a bikini and wrapped around your body, though I can’t figure out why a broad looks like that would be wrapped around your body. Picture in our tank, up at El Reno. Remember? Who it turns out is Jack Brendy’s old lady. Who it turns out is now dead. So like I say, the fuck is going on?”
I
’d forgotten about the picture. Breaux had drooled over the photo of Donna and me at Las Colinas Country Club’s pool so much that I’d finally put it away. Later the picture had turned up missing after the hacks had shaken down our cell. Probably good for me. It had helped take her off my mind, not seeing her picture every day.
I said simply, “Yeah. It’s the same girl.”
“So that part’s none of my business,” Breaux said. “But what’s going on with the feds is plenty my business.”
I hesitated before deciding to tell him. Guys I’d met in jail and since jail didn’t know much about my life before. About my football career, of course—things like that make one sort of a celebrity in the joint—but about my private life, nothing. I’d always tried to keep it that way. I said to Breaux, “Donna Brendy and I came close to getting married once upon a time. I grew up with her brother. Corpus Christi, you ever been there?”
Breaux tilted his hat back with a forefinger. “I was a seaman twenty years. Sure, palm trees and some pretty good seafood joints. I worked in Corpus, on the seawall after the hurricane in what, sixty-eight?”
“Sixty-nine,” I said. “Hurricane Camille, only I was grown and gone to Dallas before then. Donna was still in high school. In fact, she had an uncle that died in Camille. She was Donna Morley then. Buddy’s her brother, the guy I grew up with. The last time I talked to him was just before Donna moved to Dallas. He asked me to find her a job. Back then Jack Brendy and I were sharing an apartment. Jack went about as bonkers over Donna as you did over her picture up in El Reno.”
There was a bright streetlamp across the way and, from my angle, Breaux’s profile was outlined in the glow like the head on a coin. “I don’t blame him,” he said. “You still ain’t telling me what I want to know, about the feds.”
“I’m coming to it,” I said. “Look, I had a lot of women in those days. I guess I looked at Donna as just another notch on my gun, or whatever you call it. I felt kind of guilty, her being my old buddy’s little sister, but ... Bodie, you never met a real horse’s ass until you met me back in those days. I let her go on thinking we were going to get married when all the time I knew damn well I wasn’t going through with it. The whole time I went out with Donna, Jack acted like he was her little puppy dog. It wasn’t thirty days after I split up with her that he walks in one day and announces that they’re getting married. Wanted to know if I had anything to say about it. At first I thought he was joking around.
