Look, our machines are paying off!
Down the street, a giant neon cowboy named Vegas Vic loomed over the Pioneer Club. Wearing a Stetson and a red scarf, he repeatedly waved at the tourists below and blew enormous puffs of smoke from a torpedo-size cigarette.
Anthony squinted upward and simultaneously blew his own lungful of smoke into the still night air. Minutes later, he lit another from the butt, ground out the cherry with his heel, and left the car to walk past the noisy casinos. Men in rolled shirtsleeves strolled arm in arm with well-dressed women. Cars cruised Fremont Street, some looking to be seen, others gazing in wonder at the sinful city sprouting like a neon flower in the dry desert sand.
A shiny 1967 Cadillac passed slowly. Anthony recognized the driver as another one of Best’s men. He saw Anthony, tapped the horn with the heel of his hand, and waved. Anthony waved back with the realization that his association with the Family was over.
Surprisingly, the revelation was calming. His stomach unclenched and he stopped on the sidewalk to take another deep breath. Leaving the Family was the most dangerous thing he could imagine. No one leaves, yet Anthony felt free and light as if he’d quit a mind-numbing job on an assembly line.
He was officially unemployed.
And on the run.
Without any particular destination in mind, he dropped into the Silver Palace, and then the Las Vegas Club, staying in each for only a few minutes before returning to the bright, scorching night. Dawn finally broke over the town.
Restless, he needed to make himself scarce. By noon Best would know that Anthony had only fulfilled half his assignment, and that was as bad as not doing it at all.
In his car once again, Anthony left the lights behind and drove to the dusty outskirts of town. He checked into Desert Villa Motel under a false name, paying for two days. He hung the plastic Do Not Disturb sign on the knob and locked the door.
Thirteen hours later, he awoke feeling fully rested for the first time in his life. A great weight was off his shoulders. Anthony stepped into the shower, singing as if he didn’t have a care in the world. The sun was sinking when he walked across the small parking lot and into the detached coffee shop smelling of fried foods and onions. He slipped into a red vinyl booth and picked up a newspaper abandoned by a previous customer.
The Gangland Hit headline screamed for attention. The story below covered the murder of the Cuban casino owners with suspicious ties to Fidel Castro, and listed the bodyguards as “houseguests.” It also revealed the children’s safety.
To Anthony, the story confirmed that he was on the run.
It was dark when he paid the check, settled his fedora, and pushed through the glass doors. Free of his obligation to Best, he stepped lightly in his polished shoes on the searing concrete. Anthony drove south to the Strip, past the Stardust, Sahara, and the Flamingo, until his subconscious brought him to his favorite watering hole at the new Sands Tower.
Just one drink, and then I’m outta here.
He passed the Texaco station, parked near the marquee advertising Jack Carter’s appearance, and walked through the noisy casino until he reached the smoky club. An empty stool invited him to sit at the rounded corner of the mahogany bar. He ordered a Glenlivet.
A happy patron dropped a nickel into the jukebox and Glenn Miller spun to life. The music made Anthony feel even better, because he hated that rock ’n’ roll crap they played on the radio.
He lit a Lucky and caught the cool gaze of a good-looking blonde in the back corner booth. Anthony scanned the bar for familiar faces. His gaze passed over her once again and she made no effort to act disinterested. He said hello to his drink, draining half of it in one long swallow.
Impressed with her self-confidence, he waved the bartender over. “Send that blonde over there another of whatever it is she’s having.”
The experienced bartender delivered it, leaned in and spoke for a moment. She waved a hand, inviting Anthony to join her.
He slid into the booth and gave her his best crooked grin. “My name is Anthony, and I’m going to marry you someday.”
The blonde shrugged, sipped at the fresh martini, and examined her new acquaintance as he pitched his hat onto the table. “Sure. Right now?”
His dark, slicked-back hair and olive complexion were nothing new in their booming city. “Nah, I gotta finish this drink first, and then I need to tell the Boss that I don’t work for him no more.” He knew that statement was bogus, but it felt good all the same. When the drink was gone, he planned to be on the road, possibly to Los Angeles, or maybe Florida.
She ran her soft, green eyes over his dark suit, and the coat cut to hide the automatic under his left arm. She liked the snap-brim fedora he’d worn tilted to one side when he came in, even though men’s hats went out of style not long after Kennedy took office. “Your boss won’t let you quit.”
“How do you know that?”
“Because the capo doesn’t turn loose too easily.”
His smile slipped. “Oh, you know the Business?”
“I lived in Boston for a long time.” She took another tiny sip. “Before that, New York.”
“I’ll work it out with the Boss. Then we’ll get a little house with a picket fence in a country town and raise a dozen kids.”
Her eyes crinkled in a way that made his knees weak, like some mug had busted him in the jaw, which happened with startling regularity in his younger years. Anthony was missing a back tooth to prove it.
She winked over her glass. “How about half a dozen kids to start, until we see how this goes?”
“Oh, already argumentative, huh? Think you’re a tough dame?”
“Tough enough to handle you.”
“Okay. I’ll buy that. What about you? Job? Married? Kids? Boyfriend?”
“No, no, no, and no.”
“That makes it easier. We’re a match made in Heaven.” A second Scotch arrived. Ceiling fans barely stirred the stale air full of cigarette smoke and spilled beer. The jukebox switched to Rosemary Clooney’s clear voice. A dim shout went up through the closed doors separating the bar from the casino. Someone won at the roulette table.
She raised an eyebrow. “Now, you need to fess up.”
He swallowed half the pour. “I’ll be out of a job. Not married, no kids, and no girlfriend, or boyfriend either, for that matter. You have a name?”
She displayed a bright grin and extended her slim hand over the table. “Samantha, Samantha Chesterfield. Call me Sam.”
“Anthony Agrioli.” He smiled, her hand cool in his. “Your name sounds familiar.”
“Oh, you mean Sam, like in ‘Bewitched’?”
“Never heard of it. It was a weak joke about Chesterfield cigarettes. All right, Sam, they have a pretty good restaurant here. Let me buy you a steak and we’ll get to know each other a little better before the wedding.”
Her laugh was musical as Anthony paid for their drinks and led her to a quiet table in the back of the restaurant.
Chapter Four
The Spit and Whittle Club members on the front porch of Neal Box’s northeast Texas country store laughed at Constable Ned Parker’s story of his grandson Top and the rotting cow.
Ned shook his bald head. “I swear, it’s a wonder he ain’t in the hospital all the time. I’m too old to be raising kids. He’s wearing me to a frazzle.”
Ty Cobb Wilson leaned back in his chair with the front legs resting on the toes of his scuffed shoes and funneled a handful of peanuts into his half-full bottle of Coke. His brother, Jimmy Foxx, peeled an apple with a razor sharp pocketknife, the dark red peel dangling in one long spiral above the dusty boards at his feet.
The Wilson boys, who didn’t seem to do anything but run the woods year round weren’t bad, but they had a sixth sense about trouble and always showed up whenever someone was hurt or killed.
“We were worse than that, Mr. Ned, and I imagine it was the same when you was a shirttail kid yourself.”
“You’re probably right.” Imitating Ty Cobb, Ned also leaned his cane-bottom chair back against the store on two legs. Barely nailed to the wall, the tin Prince Albert sign above his head rattled softly.
“Speaking of outlaws…” Mike Parsons jerked his chin toward the highway, where Pepper and Top were pedaling hard for the store.
Pepper waved as they coasted to a stop in the bottle cap-covered parking lot. “Hi, Grandpa.”
“What are y’all doing up here?”
“Miss Becky sent us after some sugar. She’s making teacakes, and ran out.”
Ned jerked a thumb toward the door. “Go on in and tell Neal to put it on my account.” He felt bad, because she told him she needed sugar the day before. His wife didn’t drive, so he’d intended to pick up a sack, but he’d forgotten.
“Top, tell your grandma I’ll be by later for a couple of them teacakes,” Mike said. He farmed a few acres in the river bottoms. “She makes the best teacakes I ever et.”
“She should.” Ned gave a gentle swipe toward Pepper’s blue-jeaned rear as she trotted up the steps and through the porch. “She’s been at it a long time.”
Top waited outside. “Somebody’s calling you on the radio, Grandpa.”
Ned thumped the chair’s front legs down on the wooden porch to better hear the Motorola in his new, second-hand red Plymouth Fury. He upgraded to a new radio that wouldn’t fade in and out of service when things got bad. Halfway annoyed that the youngster’s ears were sharper than his, Ned cocked his head. The tinny voice coming from his dash was clearer now that he was paying attention. “Mr. Ned?”
The old constable didn’t have a call number. When anyone in the Chisum dispatch office needed him, they simply asked by name and if Ned was near the radio, he answered. If he didn’t, someone called his house.
He sighed and grunted off the chair. Most of the radio calls came from Cody Parker, Ned’s informally adopted nephew, who’d been elected to the position of Precinct 3 constable in Center Springs. He was a dark-haired young man cut from aged oak and hard enough to bend a sharp sixteen-gauge nail if someone was to try and drive one in him.
Some calls came from Deputy John Washington, the almost mythical Lamar County lawman in charge of the “colored” section of Chisum, Texas. The giant of a man moved light as a bird a-flying.
The rest of the calls came from Martha, who handled dispatch for the Lamar County Sheriff’s office, or from Judge O.C. Rains, when he was in one of his moods. It was in one of those moods that O.C. reappointed Ned as constable after a short retirement, doubling the position for the first time in Lamar County history, and annoying Sheriff Donald Griffin to no end.
He reached through the open window, plucked the microphone off the bracket, and keyed the handset. “Go ahead.”
“Mr. Ned, this is Deputy Colton Stern? I’m up here at the lake where they’re building this overlook on the far east side of the dam? Well, I have somebody who saw me and ran off in the woods?”
“Say he did? All right. I’ll be there directly.”
“I called for some more help?”
Ned wondered if everything the man said was a question.
“Mr. Ned? You there? That feller took off down toward the creek bottoms like a shot? I ’spect he was up to no good.”
Without responding, Ned sighed and hung the handset back on the bracket, wishing he could go back to his seat on the porch with Parsons, Floyd Cass, Isaac Reader, and the Wilson brothers. The conversation had already turned to the upcoming quail season, which Ned dearly loved. Top was sitting on the bottom porch step, soaking up the stories. Holding the one-pound bag of sugar, Pepper leaned against a support post.
“Top, you kids hurry on back to the house. Miss Becky’ll be fit to be tied if she has to wait much longer.” It would also get him out of the doghouse with her, he hoped.
“Yessir.” They pushed off when Ned opened the door and dropped heavily onto the cloth seat, wondering how the car could have already accumulated so much dust. Starting the engine, he shifted into gear and spun out on the bottle-cap parking lot toward the “lake.”
Much of the land due to be underwater when they finished the Lake Lamar Dam was good farmland, five miles north of Center Springs. Ned raised crops on much of it for thirty years, and it bothered him to know that it would soon be owned by fish and the Corps of Engineers.
Ned didn’t much like the idea of a new lake anyways. He was deathly afraid of water, and knew that within a year or two, someone would drown and he’d be pulling bodies out. He’d already convinced himself that at some point, it would likely be a family member.
He broke out of the trees on the two-lane blacktop leading from Center Springs. To the right, three large oaks on the hill marked the site of the first house he and Miss Becky had shared right after they married.
It was gone now, suffering the same fate as a dozen other homes and farms disappearing under unstoppable progress. In the devastated creek bottom below, the lake was taking shape as the Corps of Engineers and contractors dredged a huge hole in the rich dirt of the Sanders Creek bottoms. Bulldozers worked seven days a week, along with dinosaur-like draglines, knocking down every tree in a one by two-mile area that looked to have been destroyed by artillery.
Dozens of brush piles burned in the once thickly forested bottomlands. Other stacks of enormous trees waited for a match. Smoke hung low in the huge pit that looked to Ned like the inside of Hell. The smell filled the car as he passed, making him wish for cold weather. Wood smoke on a north wind always recalled his childhood days that probably weren’t as pleasant as he remembered.
The finished dam rose to block the flow of upstream water. It would eventually choke off the lower section of Sanders Creek that flowed a mile from Ned’s house. Broken granite served as riprap to prevent erosion on the lake side. The floodgates were still open, allowing the wounded creek a limited amount of time to run as it had done for centuries.
At the high point on the far side, two dump trucks sat beside three highway patrol cars in front of the unfinished visitor pullout. Ned drove slowly across the new dam, because the twenty-degree bend was high above the creek on the north side.
Ned pulled over to the shoulder and got out. Two local pickups passed, telling him that the new two-lane road between Center Springs and Powderly was already familiar and would soon be heavily used by those who didn’t want to drive the extra five miles through Arthur City. He set his hat and nodded at the three officers waiting for him. “Howdy, boys.”
Deputy Colton Stern wasn’t one for pleasantries when he had something on his mind. “Mr. Ned? That feller wasn’t but about eighteen, but when I slowed down to talk to him, he took off like a scared rabbit.”
Ned would have preferred to visit for a minute or two before working his way around to the subject of their conversation. In his many years as constable, few things required immediate attention, and folks often found it to be rude behavior to talk business right off the bat.
To Ned, Colton’s habit of ending most of his sentences with a questioning lilt annoyed him worse than houseflies annoyed his childhood friend Judge O.C. Rains. “What’d he look like?”
“Like a high school kid? But I’ve never seen him.”
“You don’t live around here, do you Colton?”
“Nossir?”
“Then I ain’t surprised you ain’t seen him.” Removing his Stetson, he rubbed a rough hand over his bald head in exasperation. When his head was covered, a fringe of brown and gray hair gave the impression of a full head of hair. “How ’bout you boys?”
Neither of the deputies offered anything new, having only arrived moments before.
“I called for more help?” Colton waved an arm toward the thick timber opposite the lake. “It’ll take
a dozen men to sweep these woods.”
“Won’t do no good. What makes you think we need to root him out?”
“Well, he ran off, didn’t he? He was up to something.”
“That’s what you say, but we might want to hold off calling in the army for a little while.”
“I didn’t call the army? I called the sheriff’s office and asked for help. By the army, do you mean that I should have called the Corps of Engineers? You may be right, with all these unexploded bombs around here? It could be dangerous for a search party to go in after him.”
Much of the upstream bottomland was used for artillery practice for the soldiers at Camp Maxey during World War II. Signs were popping up all around the new construction and planned campgrounds, warning of unexploded artillery shells they expected to float up when the lake filled. In the two decades after the war ended, thousands of live shells had been found and detonated in the surrounding countryside.
One of Ned’s own nephews had lost a leg to one of the shells when he and two others were working under contract for the army to collect the “duds” in a wagon. A mortar shell slipped through Harvey’s hands and landed on the wheel’s steel rim. He was lucky the detonation took the wheel, a mule, and only one of Harvey’s legs.
Ned rubbed the back of his neck for a moment, unconsciously feeling the deep crevices burned there by countless hours of riding a tractor in the sun. “I wish you’d-a let me have a few minutes before you did that.”
Contacting the sheriff’s department guaranteed a visit from Sheriff Griffin, a man Ned despised. Griffin grated on his nerves because he always thought he was the sharpest knife in the drawer, and usually underestimated those around him.
Ned shifted his weight and winced at a sharp pain in the side of his protruding belly, a frequent reminder of the bullet that had almost taken his life only months before down in Mexico, right at the start of summer.
“Why don’t y’all give me a little while and let me see what I find out.”
“We’re going to make a sweep here in a minute, as soon as we round up enough men to form a search party?” Colton nodded toward the deputies. “Maybe we can track him pretty quick.”
Vengeance is Mine Page 3
