The man working the pump wasn’t the old Mexican from before and he wasn’t Scott Macready. He could have been Macready’s distant cousin though. Same slant of the cowboy hat. Same insolent body language. Same Texan drawl. He uncapped the gas tank and slid the nozzle home. He clicked the trigger on auto and left it to fill up while he examined the broken window and dented bodywork.
Grant made a that’s-the-way-it-goes gesture.
“Loose chippings and potholes. It’s dangerous out there.”
“This is Texas, mister. It’s dangerous everywhere.”
“Can’t argue with that.”
The dog was still guarding the compound. Wrecked cars were still piled high beyond the wire fence. The pair of army jeeps was still parked in front of the workshop doors. The dog barked as if it remembered Grant. Its stumpy tail wagged hard enough to bring up dust. Foam dripped from its jaws, and Grant vowed to keep his distance no matter how friendly old Pedro looked.
The pump jockey poked a finger into one of the bullet holes in the bodywork. “Looks like you hit more than potholes.”
Grant nodded.
“A statistical anomaly.”
“A what?”
“More people die on the roads than are killed by gunshot. The anomaly is that I nearly got two in one.”
The pump jockey didn’t look any the wiser. Grant gave up.
“Target practice. Too near the road.”
The cowboy nodded his understanding.
“Yeah. Them road signs are mighty tempting.”
Grant indicated the welcome to absolution sign across the road.
“Seems like it.”
The gas pump continued to hum, the display clocking up the quantity and price with a little ding for every cycle. Fumes shimmered around the filler cap in the heat. The most dangerous time when filling up. Ninety percent of gas station fires were started by fume ignition, not the petrol itself. Not like Rambo dropping his Zippo in a spreading pool of gasoline. Grant backed away from the smell and glanced towards the diner.
Sarah Hellstrom was looking out of the window.
That was the other decision Grant had been mulling over. He supposed there had never been any doubt which way that one would go. Filling up the hearse might have been the polite thing to do, but the gas station being next to the diner was the real motive.
Grant nodded at Sarah.
Sarah didn’t nod back.
A finger of doubt stroked the back of Grant’s neck. He watched her turn away from the window and disappear into the shadows. The pump continued to ding, ding, ding, the cycle slowing as the tank reached capacity. The trigger clicked off and the pump stopped. The cowboy followed Grant’s gaze and his eyes slitted into a sly little smile. A secret smile that Grant wasn’t supposed to see. Grant ignored the implication. In a town this small there would always be gossip and innuendo. Let them think what they wanted.
The pump jockey wiped his hands on a greasy cloth. “You paying cash?”
“Yes.”
Grant took the money wallet out of his back pocket and followed the cowboy to the office. He noted the amount on the pump display and began to count banknotes from the wallet. The office door creaked as he went through. Another fly zapped itself on the electronic bug catcher above the door. The old Mexican was sitting behind the counter. He rang in the amount and the till drawer opened. He wouldn’t meet Grant’s eyes. The first sign that things weren’t right. The second, Grant corrected himself. The first was Sarah turning away without acknowledging him.
The pump jockey stood with his back against the door. The Mexican moved to the back of the office. The fly died a slow and painful death. Grant’s eyes flicked around the hot interior. Front door—blocked. Door in the rear—partly open. Two men in the room—the Mexican and the cowboy. Grant discounted the Mexican. He was an employee but not hired muscle. The pump jockey was no hard man either. That left the partly open door at the rear.
The pump jockey stuffed the rag in his back pocket. “I hear you’re all kinds of accident prone.”
Grant looked at the cowboy but half turned towards the rear door. Peripheral vision gave him good sightlines to both.
“You reckon?”
The cowboy moved away from the front door. The Mexican sat behind the counter and almost disappeared. The rear door moved slightly, and a gentle breeze wafted dust across the floor. The view through the opening was sand and scrub and the parched landscape behind the service station.
Grant relaxed his hands. Took half a step towards the pump jockey. The nearest threat. “How d’you work that out?”
The desert wind picked up and slammed the back door shut. The noise was loud in the confined space of Sixto’s. Grant tensed, ready for action. Nobody came through the door. Nobody yanked it open to come charging in.
The cowboy smirked.
“Potholes and target practice. And spilled coffee lids.”
Now Grant understood what the sly little smile had been all about. Towards the window of Gilda’s Grill. The threat wasn’t coming from the rear door to the office. Before he finished the thought, Grant was out of the front door and crossing the forecourt.
twenty
The diner was hot even though the sun was almost down. The full-length windows meant the sun had been blazing across the vinyl booths for most of the day. The smell of coffee and hot plastic filled the room. Hunter Athey was right. Sarah Hellstrom should invest in air conditioning.
Grant came through the door at a measured pace. Years as a cop and a soldier told him never to go barging through a door in a conflict situation, especially if you don’t know the enemy’s strength or position. Grant didn’t know either of them, so he entered the diner with hooded eyes and flexed muscles.
Sarah was alone behind the counter.
The rest of the diner was empty.
Grant felt relieved but didn’t relax. He’d learned over the years to trust his instincts, and his instincts told him something was wrong. His first priority was to check on Sarah. She turned to face him as he crossed towards the counter. The espresso machine was gleaming, its chrome boiler shiny enough to see your face in. Sarah folded the tea towel she’d been using and glanced through the window.
“I see you’re still having trouble with other people’s cars.”
The words were light but there was tension in her voice.
Grant went with the flow. “Back roads and hillbillies. Dangerous combination.”
“We don’t have hillbillies in Texas.”
“And you don’t have moss either.”
Sarah nodded but didn’t smile. “Too dry for moss. No hills for hillbillies.”
“I didn’t want to sound racist.”
“Saying it like it is isn’t racist.”
“Okay, then. Couple of Mexicans took exception to me stepping in on a friend of theirs.”
“What did he do?”
“Burned his wife on a stove. Bruised her arms.”
Sarah shuddered. She resisted touching the bruises under her sleeve. “That just makes him a man, then. Not a Mexican.”
There was bite in her tone. A complete change to when she’d loaned him the car. He didn’t have her down as a man hater even though she had plenty of reason to be judgmental. Grant changed the subject.
“Coffee machine working today?”
Meaning was she going to serve him or make an excuse? She didn’t make an excuse. Without asking what he wanted, she began to make a latte. Expert hands worked the steam pipes and the coffee grounds. The milk frothed and the coffee poured, leaving a brown swirl across the top of his cream. She didn’t put a lid on his paper cup.
Grant sat on a stool at the counter and slid the money across.
Sarah didn’t argue, ringing it into the cash register.
An uneasy silence developed. Grant looked at t
he woman who’d mopped his spillage but didn’t press her to speak. This town had a way of crushing people’s spirits. He just didn’t think Sarah Hellstrom was the crushable type. That was easy for Grant to think. He was a stranger in town. Whatever happened, he would be moving on like a rolling stone gathering no moss. Sarah would have to live here after he’d gone. She’d already rejected his suggestion that America had plenty of room for her elsewhere.
His eyes watched Sarah but they saw a lot more. The gleaming chrome boiler behind her reflected everything. A convex mirror on the rest of the diner. He sensed movement even before he saw it. The utility room door opened to his right. The front door opened to his left. Two men, one through each door. They walked tall and moved slow. Measured steps on either side of Grant.
The cowboy from the hotel sat on the stool to Grant’s right. The man who’d been sitting out front of the hotel with him stood behind him, arms folded across his chest, standing guard. Grant sipped his coffee and put the cup back on the counter. Steam drifted like smoke from a burning cigarette.
Nobody spoke.
Sarah held her breath.
Grant let his out in a long, steady exhale.
The cowboy swung his stool to face Grant. “You’re in my seat.”
Grant looked at the cowboy while keeping half an eye on the other fella. “Is this like me being in your room at the hotel?”
“Just like that.”
“You block booked this seat as well?”
“It’s my favorite.”
The different route to getting a job with Macready. Opportunity knocked. Grant wasn’t ready to take it yet. He moved to the next stool and slid his coffee along the counter. The cowboy moved onto the vacant stool and shuffled his backside to get comfortable. It didn’t work. He looked at Grant’s stool instead.
“This ain’t comfy anymore. I think I like that one.”
Grant could see the pattern developing. The bullies’ rulebook on playground intimidation. He let his shoulders sag as if deflated but used the chrome boiler to keep an eye on the big fella behind him. Grant stood and picked up his coffee. Followed the playbook he’d seen in numerous movies.
“Why don’t you tell me where to sit?”
The cowboy switched seats again but didn’t speak. After a suitable pause, Grant sat on his original stool. He took a sip of his coffee and put the cup down on the counter, tempting the cowboy to make the next move. The bully couldn’t resist. As obvious as the movie this scene came from.
“You forgot your sugar.”
He picked up the sugar dispenser and turned it upside down. The nozzle poured a steady stream into Grant’s cup and just kept pouring. When the coffee had turned to hot, runny sludge, he put the sugar back on the counter. The cowboy smirked. The backup man nodded his approval. Grant looked at his latte, then pushed it across the counter.
“Was that your favorite film growing up?”
The question caught the cowboy by surprise.
“Huh?”
“Bad Day at Black Rock.”
“Never heard of it.”
“Spencer Tracy as a one-armed man coming to town. Lee Marvin as a cowboy trying to goad him.”
The cowboy thought he’d try being smart.
“The one-armed man that killed Harrison Ford’s wife?”
Grant shook his head.
“Different movie. No. Lee Marvin does all that ‘you’re in my room’ stuff at the hotel. And Ernest Borgnine does the pushing at the diner.”
He turned towards the cowboy.
“Only with ketchup instead of sugar. Same thing, though—messing with Tracy’s food. Chili, not coffee. But much the same. You must have seen it on TV because you’re playing it word for word.”
The cowboy let a faint smile play across his lips. “Oh yeah. I think I might have seen it now.”
Grant didn’t need the boiler to see. He could watch both men from his position swivelled around on the stool. The bodyguard still had both arms folded across his chest. Good for intimidation but not very clever if you needed to move fast. The part-time deputy was leaning on the counter, aiming for threatening but just proving his lack of knowledge about angles and levers. Like leaning back in his chair at the hotel. Looks cool. Completely impractical.
Grant kept his voice friendly but his eyes turned hard. “You remember how that turned out?”
The smile went from the cowboy’s face. In the split second before it happened he obviously did remember how Spencer Tracy had beaten Ernest Borgnine senseless using one arm and leverage. He tried to stand up too late. Grant snatched his cup and threw the sludge into the cowboy’s face. Still hot enough to sting, but it was the shock factor Grant was looking for.
The cowboy brought both hands up to his face.
The bodyguard tried to unfold his arms.
Grant leaned back on his stool and used the leverage to swing one leg upwards, aiming the kick between the big fella’s legs. The wind left him in a gush and he doubled over, grabbing his balls. Grant sidestepped from his stool and used the big man’s forward momentum to grab his head and slam it down onto the stool. Blood and snot exploded from his nose, and he went down hard.
The cowboy’s eyes were gummed shut. Grant bent one arm so that the elbow protruded, then slammed the pointed end into the cowboy’s face. He went backwards over his stool and landed upside down. It was only loose-limbed shock that saved him from breaking his neck. Grant stamped on his balls for good measure, giving both men the same thing to worry about.
Thirty seconds. Two men down. Both disabled for as long as it would take for their wedding tackle to stop aching. They lay moaning on the floor. Grant leaned down and grabbed the cowboy by the hair.
“And you know the funny thing? Tracy’s character was called Macready.”
He let the head go. It banged on the stool’s footrest. “So. Take me to your leader.”
It couldn’t have gone better. Apart from the look of surprise and disgust on Sarah Hellstrom’s face. That wasn’t something Grant had planned for. He tried to ignore her as he began reviving the fallen cowboy.
twenty-one
A blazing sunset colored the end of Grant’s second day in Absolution. Scattered clouds along the horizon became torn shreds of golden fire. The sky turned from powder blue to burnt umber, and stars began to blink on the edge of night high up in the darkening stratosphere. The bleached white walls of Macready’s compound were painted red by the dying sun as Grant pulled the hearse up to the gates.
The cowboy looked shamefaced in the passenger seat. The other fella had been left at Sixto’s. Grant didn’t need both of them to prove his point. He sounded the horn, then waited. Thirty seconds later, the gates swung open and Grant drove into the courtyard. The hacienda looked even more like the Alamo in the evening light. Flickering torches burned from brackets on the walls. More for effect than for light, Grant reckoned. Macready seemed to like playing with the Western image.
There was a lot of activity in front of the garages and barrack block. Men packing equipment into canvas bags and strip-cleaning their weapons on blankets spread across the porch. Mercenaries. The ex-military types he’d seen on his last visit. Grant parked the hearse on the opposite side of the courtyard.
Smoke drifted across the patio. At first Grant thought the torches were burning oil, but then he caught a whiff of cooked meat. The barbecue pit was going full tilt. Three men in cooks’ whites were turning steaks on the grill and working a rotisserie loaded with skewered birds. Hot fat flared and spat. Portable heaters battled the cool night air, and patio lights illuminated the table where Grant had sat with Macready. Several more tables had been set up around the barbecue pit. Waiters brought out beer coolers and bottles of wine. Heavy candles flickered on the tables. Again, more for effect than illumination.
Macready stood in the doorway to the hacienda.
&
nbsp; Grant nudged the cowboy to get out of the hearse, then he did the same. They walked side by side up the patio steps. Macready barked an instruction to one of the waiters, then turned his attention to Grant. The cowboy was limping slightly to avoid crushing his swollen balls. Macready threw him a hard glance and jerked his head in dismissal. The cowboy went inside, leaving the two men to talk. Macready leaned against the doorframe and folded his arms.
“I guess you’re not passing through after all.”
Grant stood in front of him. “I found a reason to stick around.”
Macready smiled. “And it’s a good reason. She’s a beauty, ain’t she?”
“When she’s not marked up.”
“That is a regret of mine. Scott don’t know much about restraint.”
“Just so you know. He touches her again, it’ll be me not showing restraint.”
“That’s between you and him. Me? I’m only interested in business.”
Grant stepped aside to let a waitress pass. “Party planning? That your business, is it?”
Macready unfolded his arms and pushed off from the doorframe. He walked across to the table and surveyed the preparations. The barbecue pit was spitting fire. The extra tables were set. The only things missing were the guests and the food. Grant followed Macready. The cooked meat made his mouth water. He couldn’t help licking his lips. Macready noticed.
“No. I just like to treat my men right. Before going into action. You’d be welcome to join us. If you were one of my men.”
Grant wondered what action he was sending his men into. The mercenaries who were busy preparing for battle. He’d worked with soldiers of fortune before during his army days. He didn’t like them. A professional soldier had pride in his regiment and unit. Mercenaries only respected the money. Still, beggars couldn’t be choosers when trying to find out what Macready was up to.
“As opposed to being one of your cats.”
“Cats or employees. If they do their job, they’ve nothing to fear.”
“And what job’s that?”
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