Quick Sands: A Theo Ramage Thriller (Book 1)

by Edward J. McFadden III

  The guy came forward, rolling a toothpick around in his mouth. He looked back over his shoulder at Piranha, and said, “This the guy that busted up Chiclet?”

  “Yup,” Piranha said.

  “He don’t look like much. Kind of wimpy looking, no?”

  Piranha shrugged, but said nothing.

  “So, we got a problem here, Mr. Ramage.”

  “We do?” Ramage said. “Seems to me you’re the one with the problems. I’m just a driver trying to get his truck and trees back. You wouldn’t happen to know anything about that, would you?”

  “Look. I know you know who I am, so let’s just cut the shit, OK?”

  “Sure thing, Sandman,” Ramage said. “Or do you prefer Carl Sr.?”

  “I don’t think I like your tone,” Carl Sr. said.

  “I don’t think I give a shit.”

  “Oh, a tough guy. This how he acted with you?” the Sandman said.

  “Yup,” Carl Jr. said.

  “What’s with all the anger? Don’t you want to get out of here?” said the Sandman.

  Ramage said nothing.

  “So you’re a stone cold killer, huh? Your file is pretty detailed. Can’t say I blame you though, and who gives a shit they didn’t punish you. Those guys were scum and didn’t deserve to live. Right, son?”

  “Yup.”

  Carl Sr. said, “Ramage, we’re the same, you and me.”

  “Screw you,” Ramage said. “There’s nothing about us that’s the same.”

  “Oh, come on now. Is that nice? Why you gonna make me hurt you? You know I got no problem hurting people, right? Like your girl, Anna? I try and be a nice guy, but shit, you’re making it hard, Mr. Ramage.” Carl Sr. stepped forward until he was a foot away from the birdcage. “What? You’ve never bent the rules when you thought it was right? Justified by ‘doing the right thing.’ That’s your mantra, I bet. Guys like you always have a credo.”

  “Piss off,” Ramage said.

  “So, Theo, my son tells me he gave you some good advice. Says he told you to call your insurance company and forget you ever met him. That true?”

  Ramage said nothing.

  “Cause, kids can be full of shit sometimes.” Carl Sr. turned and looked at his son.

  A twisted scowl spread across Piranha’s face.

  “Ramage, do you know how the ass ended up in that rest stop?” Carl Sr. said.

  Ramage stayed silent.

  “Dad, you really think th—”

  “Shut it.” The Sandman didn’t yell or look upset, he simply dismissed his son as one might ignore an ant crawling across a sidewalk. “I sent my only son up north to do some routine business in Chicago. Stuff even Chiclet could handle. Remember what happened, son? It still fresh in your mind?”

  Carl Jr. nodded, but said nothing. His face was a shade of pink and his eyes blazed.

  “My number one guy—my son— pissed off my business partner so bad his men dumped him and Chiclet on the side of the road. I mean, who does that, am I right? Anyway, my son and his dumbass sidekick manage to get picked up by a trucker, but the guy was smarter than you, Ramage. When Chiclet and Carl Jr. tried to steal the guy’s truck, he shot my kid and dumped them both on the side of I-35. They had to walk eight miles to the rest stop.” The Sandman sighed and focused on a brown water stain on the dropped ceiling. “My son here is a good earner, hard worker, but he can be a hot head and I think his brain might still be developing.” He chuckled at his own joke.

  Ramage said, “Guppy? No.”

  “Screw you, Ramage.” Piranha stepped up next to his father, and said, “You want me to rough him up a bit?”

  “Naw, that’s alright, son. I understand. He’s been locked in the birdcage all day, no food or water. You’d be pissed-off too, am I right?”

  “Yup.”

  “Realizing your child is an asshole is the first step toward correcting the situation,” Ramage said. “I’d start with finding him a new sidekick. Kids are who their friends are. Oh, and maybe teach him not to run around with his dick hanging out, telling anyone who will listen he’s connected.”

  Piranha opened his mouth to say something, then closed it.

  The fridge compressor whined, the clock ticked, and outside a crow cawed.

  “You realize where you are, right?” Carl Sr. said.

  “He’s pretty stupid,” Piranha said. The man was sweating profusely, and he dabbed a handkerchief on his forehead regularly.

  Ramage said, “You’re calling me stupid? I bet you believe the Earth is flat.”

  Carl Sr. laughed. “Hey, that’s pretty funny. You believe the Earth is flat, son?”

  “No.” Piranha sounded pissed.

  “Let me refresh your memory as to your current situation,” the Sandman said. “Your alone, with no backup, locked in a cage, hundreds of miles from the nearest city. That sound like you’re in a position to be an asshole?”

  “Asshole status isn’t location or situation dependent. It’s a state of mind,” Ramage said. He chuckled. “Like you don’t know that.”

  “Enough foreplay, back to business. I’ll tell you where you are, Theo my friend. You’re nowhere. You know where nowhere is?”

  Ramage said nothing.

  “Nowhere is a place where I own the cops, the mayor, the congressman, and half the people who live here. You savvy? And I don’t like strangers messing with my business. It makes me nervous, and when I’m anxious I get violent. Ten years with the shrink to learn that. Makes sense though, am I right?”

  Ramage said nothing.

  “So, tell me what it is you think I’m doing that’s so bad? Fine, my dumbass son stole your truck. He was desperate. You saw the ass had been shot.”

  Piranha made a sigh-like sound as he struggled to control his anger. The guy was bright red, his eyes popping from their sockets.

  Ramage said nothing.

  “He’s got a temper, my boy, and sometimes it gets him in trouble. Right, Carl?”

  “Right.”

  “Damn right. So what’s your beef, Ramage?”

  “My beef is you’re up to something, and I’m gonna burn it down. All of it. Then I’m going to come find your little Guppy, and I’m going to beat him within an inch of his life, and anyone who gets in my way will be sorry.”

  “Whoa, you hear that, son?”

  Piranha nodded. “Can’t wait.”

  “Big man here is going to kick your ass. Theo—I can call you that, right?” He didn’t wait for Ramage to answer. “Theo, you don’t look like much, but that survival shit you took. They teach you to fight?”

  Ramage said nothing.

  “Yeah, they did, didn’t they?”

  Ramage said, “The way things are going it won’t matter what you are or aren’t doing. When you guys get out of your body casts you’ll think twice.”

  “Body casts. You here that, son?” the Sandman said.

  “Why do you steal sand? I know that’s not how you’re making dough? Why put yourself out there if you’re not getting much for it?” Ramage said.

  The Sandman smiled. “What, your girlfriend bitching about her sand? That what this is all about? Who the hell is gonna miss sand?”

  “She cares. And because she cares, I care,” Ramage said.

  “And I don’t. Enough nicey-nice.” The Sandman pulled a small nickel-plated Colt from his pocket and pointed it at Ramage. “I know what you’re thinking. What the hell is the big guy gonna do with the little pea shooter. Am I right? Thing is, when I put two in your gut and leave you here to die, well, let’s just say it’s not the size of the stick.”

  Ramage got to his feet and gripped the bars of the birdcage.

  “Yeah, that’s in the file. Your mommy named you Theodore after Roosevelt. Speak softly and carry a big stick.”

  Hearing Carl Sr. mention his mother blinded Ramage with rage, and he breathed in and out slowly, trying to master himself.

  “I see I’ve hit a nerve. We all love our mothers. Son, what about yo
u? You love your mother, right?”

  “She’s a bitch.”

  The Sandman lashed out with a rabbit punch that snapped Piranha’s head back. The man moaned and wiped blood from his nose with the back of his hand.

  “Carl! WTF? You don’t talk about your ma that way. Apologize. Now,” Carl Sr. said.

  Piranha looked around for someone to apologize to, then muttered, “Who… what… You call her that all the time. You know she don’t like me.”

  “Who does? She’s my wife, not my mother, asshole. Apologize before I hurt you, dipshit,” Carl Sr. said.

  Piranha looked at the floor and said, “Sorry.”

  The Sandman sighed and looked at his watch. “Look, I ain’t got much time. You gonna tell me what you know or am I going to let my little friend here do the talking?”

  Ramage smiled at the ‘little friend’ reference, but didn’t respond.

  Carl Sr. pointed the Colt at Ramage’s head. “You think I steal sand. I don’t. What else you got?”

  Ramage ran his options over in his mind. Truth was, all he had was conjecture, and very few facts. He didn’t want to let the Sandman know which threads were unraveling, but if he provoked the man, he might make a mistake. “I don’t know what, or how your stealing, but you are,” he said.

  “We’ve been over this. Haven’t we?”

  “Shut up. Not sand. The sand is a cover,” Ramage said.

  Carl Sr.’s eyes grew wide and he looked at his son and lifted an eyebrow. Ramage had gone too far. Given up too much, and now there was no reason to keep him alive.

  The Sandman turned to leave.

  “You know there were a bunch of witnesses at the diner, right? They saw the sheriff take me. If I disappear—”

  “Nobody saw anything. I can assure you,” the Sandman said. He looked back at Ramage over his shoulder. “A shame. Guy like you would’ve done well around here.”

  Ramage said nothing.

  “But your all about honor, revenge, and truth,” Carl Sr. said. “Vitam impendere vero.”

  Ramage’s stomach turned to ice.

  “You hungry? Can I get you… a meal?” Carl Sr. said. A smirk spread across his face and Piranha chuckled.

  “Last meal. Very funny. I don’t want anything from you assholes”

  “OK,” Carl Sr. said. “If that’s the way he wants it. Right, son?”

  “Yup.”

  Piranha opened the office door to leave and Ramage said, “When I get out of here you better be far away. Both of you. And if I find you’ve done anything to Anna, I’ll kill you both.” Ramage felt sick just saying the words.

  The Sandman and Piranha laughed and slammed the door behind them.

  Ramage cursed at himself. He’d given them too much. He should’ve kept his mouth shut. That had always been his problem, ever since he was a young boy. His mother used to tell him he was his own worst enemy, and it wasn’t until he got older that Ramage understood what she meant, and that she was right.

  The knife of sunlight leaking through the closed shade dimmed, then went out as the sun arced across the sky. His stomach growled, his ribs hurt, and Ramage’s mouth was so dry he was afraid his lips might crack. He ran fingers through his hair and rubbed his eyes. Despite doing nothing most of the day he was exhausted. The ride with Anna that morning seemed days ago. He lay with his back flat on the bench, staring up at the stained ceiling, his thoughts drifting. He tried to think of Joan, but Anna’s face filled his mind.

  There was a scuffling at the office door and Ramage sat up.

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Anna felt like a movie extra, standing with her arms at her sides, mouth hanging open. She watched, doing nothing, as the sheriff and his goons cuffed Ramage, led him from the diner, and folded him into the sheriff’s patrol car. She was helpless, and she heard the voice of her father chastising her in the back of her mind. What did she really know about Ramage? He’d told her a little about himself, but how did she know it wasn’t all bullshit? Because she did. She didn’t know how or why and didn’t really care. The guy was for real. What that meant was a bit more nebulous, and she had to put the fact that there were exactly three decent eligible bachelors in Ector County out of her mind.

  She trailed the commotion out into the parking lot and followed the sheriff and his lackeys in her pickup. Prairie Home was quiet, nobody walking the streets, no cars. She’d never felt more alone. Her stomach burned, the powerlessness eating at her. She called Gypsy, but got no answer.

  The sheriff stopped his cruiser at the only light in town, and behind him was the deputies green Chevy pickup, followed by the black Mustang GT. In the rear, puffing blue exhaust, was Anna in her white banged-up pickup. They were like a funeral procession trailing to the cemetery. Problem was, she didn’t know who had died.

  The sheriff pulled away, followed by the green pickup, but the Mustang didn’t move. The passenger side door opened, and Rolly Pepper stepped out into the unusual December heat. She’d seen him before. He was one of the Sandman’s top asshats.

  Rolly sauntered toward the pickup like he had all the time in the world. Ahead on 1st Avenue the cop car and its escort turned left into the Town Hall lot and disappeared. When Rolly got to Anna’s window he smiled, but she didn’t roll the window down. He smiled wider and stood there, content to wait her out.

  Anna sighed and buzzed the window down and inch. “Why are you blocking the road?”

  “Well, hey there, philly. Figured out I ain’t gonna hurt ya?”

  Anna said nothing. The guy reeked of cologne, and he looked like he wore black eyeliner. His dark suit was out of place, as if he had no idea where he was.

  “I can stand here all day,” Rolly said. “Probably make the boss happy. Or, we can go get a drink. What’cha say?”

  Anna was used to getting treated like a piece of meat. Prairie Home was in the backwaters of Texas, which wasn’t the most progressive state in the union. She’d grown a thick callus and developed an abundance of patience. “Maybe another time. I’ve got to get going.”

  “Where to?”

  “Look, I know your trying to be nice,” she lied. “But that’s none of your business.”

  “Ah, but it is,” he said. “I’m a deputy.” He smiled broadly, but the expression was anything but pleasant.

  Ants crawled up Anna’s back and ice settled in her stomach. “I’m going to the sheriff’s annex. That against the law?”

  “Today it is. Your friend will be fine. Let things play out and don’t get involved.”

  A surge of anger ran through her. “Piss off.” She dropped the pickup in gear, swerved around the Mustang, blew through the light, and sped off down 1st Avenue. In her rearview she saw Rolly jump back in the Mustang. She sped up, then braked hard as she turned into the Town Hall parking lot. She’d only have a couple of seconds before the goons arrived, but as she put her pickup in park she saw that wasn’t an issue.

  The sheriff and two deputies stood casually before the entrance to his office. Nobody moved when she got out of her pickup. Anna’s nerves jumped and spasmed, and she breathed deeply as she strode across the lot, trying to look confident, but feeling anything but. She hated confrontation. That’s how people manipulated her. Yell, argue, accuse, and she shutdown. But not today. Not now.

  “What the hell is going on? You can’t just rip people off the street for no reason,” Anna said. She planted her feet before the three men.

  The sheriff looked over his shoulder at his mates and smiled. “What do you know of it?”

  “Why has he been arrested?” She knew that was a stupid question as soon as it left her lips.

  “Well, you were there. I wanted to question him, and he attacked me.”

  “That’s not what happened, and you know it.”

  “Really? ‘Cause that’s what I saw, and what my men saw, and everyone in the diner,” the sheriff said. He smiled sarcastically because he figured he’d scored a point. “Look, he’ll be arraigned or released with
in twenty-four hours as is the law. He’ll be spending the night, that’s for damn sure, and if you don’t move along you’ll be joining him.”

  She considered this and decided that would be stupid. How could she help him from a cell? She said, “I’m going to go find Mayor Stein.”

  The sheriff laughed. “Good luck with that. You know where to find him?” he said.

  Anna spun on her heel without another word and strode back to her pickup, trying not to let her frustration show. She fired up the Ford, looped around the lot, and gave the sheriff the single finger salute as the truck bumped onto 1st Avenue.

  Mayor Stein was surely at Dudley’s, the dive across from the diner Ramage had asked about. She’d never been in the establishment—the owners frowned on female clientele with their clothes on—but she’d heard horror stories from Gypsy and Cecil. Gypsy had called it a wretched hive of scum and villainy, and she hadn’t picked up on the reference.

  She passed the traffic light, the hollowed storefronts of Prairie Home’s long dead past, when it was a boom town on the oil highway. Sand was sand, and oil was oil, and there would never be a major sand rush because the commodity was easily accessible.

  She parked on the street and looked at herself in the rearview. No makeup, old flannel shirt. Christ, she looked half a man. She got out, went to the unmarked brown door of Dudley’s and paused, breathing, building up courage. The brown wood structure was nondescript, one dirt covered window with a Castle Rock beer sign blinking red. She wished she had Ramage with her. She guessed this kind of thing was his bread and butter.

  She pushed open the door and went inside.

  The place smelled of stale beer, body odor, and that cheap sea breeze suntan oil-like perfume all strippers wore. Darkness and shadows filled the establishment, save for a single spotlight on a small stage, where a topless blonde wearing a white G-string gyrated lazily. Men sat in the smoky gloom, workers in dirty jeans and worn shirts. Some of them looked her way and sized her up as she made her way to the bar. To them a woman in a strip club meant one thing; she wanted sex.