by Ben Rehder
“I’m doing okay. How are you? How’s deer season so far?”
“Pretty quiet, really. Some bad weather yesterday….” He saw no need to tell her about the woman he had arrested this morning. “How’s your mom doing?” It was a question he hated to ask, but it needed asking.
“That’s kind of why I’m calling. She’s not doing real well and she’s back in the hospital. Her white count is sky-high and she has another infection. This one seems much worse and I’m afraid-”
Her voice broke and Marlin knew she was on the verge of tears.
After a moment, she said, “I don’t think she has much longer, John.”
Marlin wished he could reach out and hold her, wipe her tears away. He wasn’t very good over the phone. “Becky, I’m so sorry. Margaret is a tough woman….” His voice trailed off because he didn’t know what else to say. Both of them knew Margaret’s illness was terminal. It was just a question of how long. “I wish I could be there for you,” he finally said.
“I know you do, and I appreciate it. That’s sweet. But I’m doing all right, really.” She gave a little laugh. “It’s just that when I talk to you, my emotions tend to get out of hand a little. I’m sorry.”
“You don’t need to apologize, Becky. You know I’m here to talk whenever you want. I just wish I could do more. Sometimes I feel like I’m letting you down.”
“Don’t say that, John. You could never let me down. If anything, it’s the other way around.”
Marlin assured her this wasn’t the case, even as a wave of melancholy washed over his heart. Sometimes, when he was upset, he felt that she was right, that she was letting him down. After all, she was the one who had left. Four months ago, when Becky had first learned of her mother’s illness, she had packed a few things and headed for Dallas. It was to be a temporary stay, just an extended visit to help her mother through the crisis. But when Becky had discovered the true condition of Margaret’s health, she had decided to remain with her until the end. Becky would come home on weekends and as the weeks went by, Marlin began to notice a change in her mood. She continued to be distraught about her mother-but professionally, she seemed to be elated.
She had taken a nursing position, a short-term contract, at a hospital in Dallas, one of the top facilities in the Southwest. It’s so exciting, John, he remembered her saying. This hospital is absolutely amazing. It’s making me remember why I became a nurse to begin with. Marlin had known that Becky hadn’t been happy with her job at Blanco County Hospital. It was a small, unimpressive facility, where the most challenging case might be a kid getting his tonsils removed, or an elderly person with the flu. The tougher cases went to Austin or San Antonio. Becky had considered returning to her old job in San Antonio, at the hospital where she was working when Marlin had met her. But it was more than an hour’s drive each way, a longer commute than she had wanted to make on a daily basis.
The last time Marlin and Becky talked, she’d told him the hospital had made her an offer. They wanted her on the permanent staff. The salary was outstanding, the benefits were excellent, and the career potential was enormous. She would be able to work on the kinds of cases she had always dreamed of. Have you accepted the offer? Marlin had asked. She hadn’t. She wanted time to think it over. Now, with this phone call, Marlin figured her thinking was done.
“How’s the job?” he asked, knowing he wouldn’t like the answer.
“It’s great,” she said and took a deep breath. “And I’ve decided to take the offer.”
Both of them were silent for a moment. Marlin wanted to tell her she was doing the wrong thing, that he loved her and wanted her back by his side. He even considered-as he had in the past-asking her to marry him. But that would never resolve the problem at hand: Becky was an independent, career-minded woman, and Blanco County simply didn’t hold anything for her.
Marlin said quietly, “I know it’s what you wanted, Becky. Good for you. I’m proud of you.”
But Becky was choking up again. “This just isn’t fair,” she said. “I can’t live in Blanco County…and you wouldn’t be happy anywhere else.”
And, of course, she was right. Marlin had considered asking for a transfer to the next available game-warden position anywhere near Dallas. But it was a fleeting thought. There was no way he could ever leave his hometown. His roots were too deep.
“So I guess that’s it, then,” Marlin said. No sense in dragging this out, he thought. It would only make it more painful.
“You know I would do it differently if I could. I love you very much, John.”
“I love you, too. Good luck with everything.”
“Thanks.”
“You take care of yourself. I’m sure I’ll see you again sometime….”
“I know you will, John. Oh, what are we saying? I’ve still got to come back down there and pick up the last of my things. I’ll try to do that in the next few weeks.”
“That sounds fine.” Marlin said. They each said a sad goodbye, and he cradled the phone. The house seemed so quiet and empty. Hell, it’s no big deal, Marlin thought. He had lived alone for years. It was nice to have a woman like Becky around, but he knew he’d be able to handle her leaving. Just had to get back in the groove of being single again.
He sat in the quiet house for a moment, and then his eye wandered to the bottle of Wild Turkey perched on top of the refrigerator. It had been weeks since he’d had a good stiff drink.
And right now he could use one.
Make people fear you.
Vinnie Mameli could remember his dad telling him that as if it were yesterday.
Actually, though, it was three years ago, when his father took Vinnie out to dinner one night, ordered linguini and clams for the both of them, then calmly revealed what he did for a living. Vinnie always suspected there was more to his dad than the concrete business. But for his dad to take him into his confidence-to lay all the cards on the table-was quite a rush for a seventeen-year-old already buzzing from too much wine. You’re a man now, Vinnie, Sal Mameli told him. And a man needs to know certain things to get by in this world.
On that night, and on many nights since, Sal had done his best to share his wisdom with the boy.
A bribe will almost always get the job done. And if a bribe don’t work, a threat will.
Surround yourself with people you can trust. But never completely trust anyone but yourself.
No matter how much you hated the guy, always go to his funeral.
And Vinnie’s favorite: Respect may work for the Pope, but not for you and me. Fear is better. Make people fear you.
And that’s exactly what Vinnie had in mind Monday night when he drove toward Emmett Slaton’s house, dressed head to toe in black. He would show the old douche bag that you don’t fuck around with the Mamelis. Before Vinnie was done, the old geezer would be begging to sell his business.
Vinnie spotted the entrance to Buckhorn Creek Ranch and slowly idled past. Two hundred yards farther down the road, he found another ranch entrance. He knew the place was a deer lease, not a residence, so nobody would be coming or going at this hour. He pulled into the entrance and killed the engine.
Five minutes later, Vinnie was positioned in a grove of cedar trees a hundred yards from Emmett Slaton’s front door. The porch light was on, and the interior lights said Slaton hadn’t gone to bed yet. Now it was a waiting game. Vinnie had no problem with that. He’d wait out here all night if it would make his dad happy. Vinnie was proud to be in charge of such an important mission, and equally proud that his dad had left the specifics up to him. Just do whatever you gotta do to get that bastard to make a deal. But watch your ass. We don’t need any heat on us. And let me know when you’re gonna pull somethin’, so’s I can have an alibi.
Vinnie was enjoying these thoughts when the front door of the home opened and Slaton’s Doberman pinscher trotted out. From his hiding spot, Vinnie caught a glimpse of Slaton before the door swung shut.
Vinnie had chosen his loca
tion carefully: The wind was in his face to prevent the dog from scenting him.
The dog pranced away from the house, found a small sapling, and took a long leak. Then, nose to the ground, he sniffed a path through the grass, coming in Vinnie’s direction.
When the dog was about thirty yards away, Vinnie opened a Ziploc bag, removed the contents, and tossed it toward the mutt. When the projectile hit the ground, the dog stopped abruptly and let out a small, surprised bark. Vinnie shrunk back into the trees.
Vinnie knew this was the moment of truth. In the next few minutes, his plan would either unfold smoothly-or it would fall to pieces.
Finally, after staring intently into the darkness, the dog cautiously approached the interesting object on the ground.
CHAPTER EIGHT
Billy Don said, “Bunion’s kind of a funny word. Don’t you think so, Red?”
The men were sitting at their regular bar stools in the Friendly Bar, drinking a couple of longnecks, listening to the jukebox, Merle Haggard singing about the big city. Moments ago, Billy Don had announced that his mother had had bunion surgery, and he was happily sharing the details with Red and anyone else who would listen.
Red’s concentration, however, was elsewhere. He was busy eyeballing Sylvia, the buxom barmaid, as she restocked the beer cooler. It was an event Red eagerly anticipated, because Sylvia tended to wear tight T-shirts without a bra, and the cold air from the cooler always perked things up around the nightclub.
“Watch out there, sugar. You’re liable to put somebody’s eye out,” Red said as Sylvia finished her task. She gave him a Go to hell look and walked down the bar to wait on another customer. Red guffawed loudly and took a long swig from his beer bottle. He loved the way Sylvia took his comments, without getting all pissed-off like some women might. He figured Sylvia secretly wanted to get in his pants, and he couldn’t blame her. Women loved a good sense of humor.
“Hey, Red, lookee there,” Billy Don said, nodding toward the entrance. Across the smoky room, Sal Mameli had removed his overcoat and was hanging it on a peg by the door. The rest of the regulars glanced over. It wasn’t often they were visited by a portly Italian dressed in a silk suit. Mameli turned and made his way through the tables to the bar, oblivious to the stares he was receiving from the locals. He plopped down on the barstool next to Red.
“’Evening, boys,” Sal said as he waved a hundred-dollar bill at Sylvia and called out, “Scotch and soda.”
Billy Don had slipped his boots off and was studying his own feet for podiatric abnormalities. So Red alone returned the Italian’s greeting-without much enthusiasm. There was something about this guy that made him uneasy. Mameli reminded Red of one of the characters in The Godfather-what was his name? Clementine? Chlamydia? Something like that. Red was tempted to turn his back on Mameli, simply ignore him, but for some reason that didn’t seem like a wise thing to do.
Mameli tapped the wristwatch on his arm. “You got the time? Dis piece of shit quit working on me.”
Red said, “Clock on the wall right over there.”
“Yeah, right. Ten-thirty.”
Sylvia brought his drink and Sal said, “Dis is the good stuff, right-not the crap from the lower shelves?” She nodded and he slid the c-note across the bar. He half turned his head to Red and said, “So how’s business? Slaton been keeping youse busy?”
“Can’t complain,” Red said. “But sometimes I still do.” A favorite line of his.
Sylvia returned with Mameli’s change and he left five bucks on the bar. “Dat’s for you, doll.”
She smiled and tucked the bill in her jeans. Sal gave her an appreciative leer. Turning back to Red, he said, “What’s the old man cutting-three, maybe four hundred acres a week?”
“Probably more like five or six,” Red said, pulling numbers out of the air. “And me and Billy Don is his chief operators.”
“Whazzat?” Billy Don asked, snapping to attention like a dog who just heard a doorbell.
“Never mind.”
Billy Don leaned forward to catch Mameli’s eye. “You got any idea why they call it the ‘BrushBuster 3000’?” he slurred. “What the hell is that ‘3000’ all about?”
Mameli scratched his head. “Horsepower? I don’t know nuttin’ ’bout engines.”
Billy Don was crestfallen. If a man who actually owned a couple of BrushBusters couldn’t answer the question, nobody could. He turned his attention back to a large callus on his left heel.
“You guys still considering my offer?” Sal asked.
Red gave him an ambiguous head-bob gesture, not wanting to commit to anything. “Mr. Slaton takes care of us real good.”
Sal patted him on the back. “I’m sure he does. Hey, looks like youse guys is runnin’ on empty. Lemme get the next round.” He signaled Sylvia for two more longnecks and another scotch.
Red watched the wad of bills come out from Sal’s pocket again. It was a roll a couple of inches thick, mostly hundreds. Well, maybe this guy ain’t so bad after all, Red thought.
The dog was damn tough, Vinnie had to give him that. It took nearly an hour for the Doberman to quit twitching and moaning and finally take a last gasping breath. Quietly, Vinnie ventured into the clearing and dragged the carcass back into the trees.
He stopped for a breather and…he heard a noise. Through the branches, he saw Emmett Slaton emerge from his house.
“Patton!” Slaton shined a weak flashlight in Vinnie’s direction. “Patton! Gawdammit dog, git in here.”
Vinnie huddled up close to a large cedar. His hand instinctively went to the.38 in his jacket pocket.
“Patton, you old bastard, come to Papa.” Slaton was gingerly stepping through the high native grasses now, coming toward the cedar grove.
Damn! Vinnie had worried that something like this might happen. He knew it could end up sloppy, unprofessional… and his dad would be mad as hell. But it had been a chance he was willing to take, because the plan had so much potential.
Slaton was about fifty yards away now, and Vinnie could see he was wearing a robe and houseshoes. The old man started whistling and clapping his hands. Vinnie had to grin. Your dog can’t hear you now, old man.
The beam from the flashlight swept across Vinnie’s face and he felt as obvious as a deer in the headlights. But Slaton kept coming.
“Patton! Dammit, I’m losing my patience!”
Slaton was fifteen yards away now… then ten. Vinnie switched off the safety on the gun. He noticed he was breathing rapidly now; way too loud, he thought, sure that Slaton would hear him.
No, ol’ Sal was all right, Red figured, after the Italian had bought yet another round-the fifth, for anyone who was counting. For a Yankee, the man knew how to have a good time.
Sylvia brought Sal change for a hundred again. Red wondered why Sal always used the big bills instead of the change from earlier rounds.
Sal, evidently feeling the liquor, held up a bill and said, “Hey, Sylvia. Fifty bucks if you show us your tits.”
Ears perked up all around the bar.
Sylvia, drying a glass, casually said, “Add a zero to that and you got a deal.”
Men hooted and hollered, and Sal looked around at the regulars. “All right, anyone willing to kick in some cash?”
No hands went up.
“How ’bout you, Red? Wanna see her twins?” Sal grinned at his drinking companion.
“Hell, like my daddy always said: If you’ve seen one, you’ve seen ’em both.” The crowd roared.
After the laughter subsided and it became apparent there wasn’t going to be a floor show, Sal said, “Geez, what time is it? Twelve-thirty already? I gotta go.” He slurped down the fresh scotch. He laid another hundred on the bar in front of Sylvia. “Get these guys another round, will ya. And the change is for you, sweetheart.”
Sylvia nodded and winked.
At twelve forty-five, Maria Consuelo Garcia Rodriguez was awakened by the sound of a garage door creaking as it trundled upward along i
ts tracks. Seconds later, she heard the slamming of a car door and then the groaning of the garage door coming back down. Maria’s small one-bedroom cottage was behind the garage, which was attached to the end of the Mamelis’ house.
She knew her boss had left a few hours ago, and she assumed it was him returning. His wife, Angela, had already drunk herself into a stupor and gone to bed, a little earlier than usual. Maria knew this was not good. She was afraid she was due for another one of Mr. Mameli’s late-night “visits.” The thought of it-of his sweaty, flabby body lying on top of her-sent a shudder down her spine. She pulled the covers tightly around her, as if that might help ward off his clumsy advances.
She heard the familiar clicking of his Italian shoes on the concrete driveway, receding toward the house. Tonight, it seemed, she was in luck, and he would not be visiting her. Or maybe he wanted to check on his wife first, to make sure he would not be caught.
Lying there in the dark, feeling empty and lonely and far from home, Maria could not help but remember the first time Mr. Mameli had approached her. Mrs. Mameli was away on a shopping trip, and Mr. Mameli had asked Maria if she would fix a hem in his pants. Si, she said, happy to help. Then he’d proceeded to take them off right in front of her. Maria blushed and turned away, only to feel his thick hands on her shoulders, then reaching around her to cup her breasts. Maria had resisted, she had pleaded and begged, but Mr. Mameli would not listen.
She pulled away from him, and then she saw a side of him she had never before seen. He grabbed her firmly by the wrists, hard enough to leave a bruise, and told her she had better do what he asked or he would turn her in to the INS. I’ll send you back to your little mud hut in Guatemala, he had said. Maria wanted to pretend that she didn’t understand, but it was too late. The fear already showed in her face. So, with bile in her throat, Maria had given in.
Thinking back on it, Maria began to shake. Her cat, Tuco, jumped up into the bed and nestled beside her, as if to comfort her. Tuco was a beautiful black cat, a stray she had taken in last spring. She glanced over at the corner of the room, where Pablo, her bird, was sleeping in his covered cage. Pablo was also a foundling; one she had nursed back to health after she had discovered him, only a few days old, with a broken wing, in the garden. He was a healthy bird now, black like Tuco, handsome, with a long beak and bright eyes. His wing, however, had not mended properly and he could not fly.
