by Ben Rehder
“I got news for ya, sugar. He ain’t sleepin’, he’s passed out.”
“Well, we gotta be quiet, you hear?”
More giggling followed, finally replaced by a lustful moaning. Peabody chanced a cautious peek over a bale of hay and saw two figures-the man in overalls and a brunette in a long nightshirt-kissing passionately. Peabody watched as the man clumsily fondled the woman’s breasts through her nightshirt.
The woman pulled free, gave a coy smile, then tugged the shirt over her head. Well. She was quite naked now, and Peabody couldn’t help admiring the woman’s sturdy physique. She had the solid build of a Midwestern girl. Large hips, ample bosom.
Ogling the woman with all the subtlety of a dog eyeing a pork chop, the man let his overalls fall to his feet. “Come to Daddy,” he said.
Peabody almost chuckled out loud. Surely the woman would be offended by such a crass come-on. The woman responded by jumping into the man’s arms, her legs wrapped around his torso.
My lord, what type of woman is this? Peabody wondered. She had no more couth than a common… a common… He lost his train of thought for a moment.
The man shuffled toward a wall, the woman slid into place, and now they were coupling with remarkable vigor.
Peabody noticed that his own breathing had become rapid and shallow. Well, that was understandable. He was on the run and these people could possibly catch him. That’s what accounted for the changes in his respiratory patterns. It certainly wasn’t due to the tawdry scene unfolding before him. He was of too high a moral fiber to be seduced by the sight of two rednecks copulating like barnyard animals.
Peabody decided it was beneath his dignity to watch the whole sordid affair, so he quietly eased back and settled into the hay. A few grunts later, an idea struck him. These frolicking fornicators could be his ticket to freedom!
He peeked at the couple again, and it appeared they would be at it for quite some time. The woman’s eyes were closed and the man was facing the wall. Perfect. Ever so stealthily, Peabody made his way to the ladder and began a painstakingly slow descent. This was the vulnerable point. If the woman opened her eyes now, she would scream in terror and all would be lost. But she continued with her moaning, calling out, “Bubba, oh, Bubba.”
Peabody reached the ground, tiptoed over to her nightshirt, scooped it up, and scampered back up the ladder. The handcuffs rattled against the ladder a few times, but that was irrelevant at this point. He already had what he needed, and besides, the couple was still oblivious to his presence.
After ten more minutes, the couple finally reached a grunting, squealing crescendo. Peabody had decided letting them finish was merely the polite thing to do; he certainly had no voyeuristic interest in the event. The man-named Bubba, apparently-sagged forehead-first against the wall as the woman lowered her feet and stood on her own. She glanced over Bubba’s shoulder and said, “Where’s my nightgown?”
Bubba, in his postcoital bliss, didn’t reply.
The woman smacked him on the arm and asked him again.
“Right up here,” Peabody called.
He had never seen two people so startled. The man quickly tugged his overalls back up his torso while the woman cowered behind him. “Who the hell are you?” Bubba growled, glaring up at Peabody.
“There’s no time for that,” Peabody replied. “I’m afraid I’m in need of some assistance.”
They both gaped at him for a moment with all the intelligence of sheep suffering from heatstroke. Finally, Bubba said, “Mister, are you plumb out of your mind? What the hell are you doing hidin’ up in that loft?”
Peabody summoned his patience. “As I said, I’m in need of a favor.” He raised his arms so they could see the handcuffs. “Once you’ve helped me out of my current difficulties, I’ll gladly return the nightshirt.”
Bubba stared at Peabody as if he had just landed a spaceship on Main Street. “What the hell? You kidding me? Throw that goddamn nightgown down here or I’ll whup your ass for ya.”
Typical, Peabody thought. He had noticed these Texans were quite bossy. Always ordering you around like an old schoolmaster. “Sir, I’m afraid you’ve miscalculated your leverage in this situation. Now, if you’ll just-”
But Bubba wasn’t listening anymore, he was moving toward the ladder, muttering obscenities along way.
Before Bubba’s feet hit the first rung, Peabody called out, “Frank! Hey, Frank!”
Bubba froze. “Shut the hell up, will ya! Goddamn, you tryin’ to get us all kilt?”
Peabody smiled. “No, actually, I had something quite different in mind. But it will require some sort of cutting implement.”
Five minutes later, Bubba returned with a pair of ratchet-action bolt cutters, scavenged from the cuckolded Frank’s toolshed. Peabody instructed the woman to climb up to the loft with the tool. Bubba started to object, but by then all the fight had gone out of him. He was nervously looking over his shoulder, just wishing to bring the ordeal to an end.
The woman did as she was told, bashfully climbing the ladder stark naked while trying to maintain some semblance of dignity. She failed miserably.
While Peabody attempted to conceal his perusal of her body, she pumped the handles of the bolt cutter and snipped the linked chain between the two handcuffs. “Thank you. You are quite kind,” Peabody said. Regardless of the circumstances, it was only proper to extend his courtesies.
After Peabody reminded Bubba that Frank was still within earshot, the woman climbed back down the ladder. Peabody followed.
Just as his feet touched the ground, there was a loud crack-the slamming of a screen door-followed by: “Sally Ann? You out here?”
Sally Ann grabbed the nightshirt out of Peabody’s hand and pulled it over her head. Bubba peeked out the door. “Oh, shit! Frank’s headed this way! He’s got a shotgun!”
Peabody had not counted on this development, and was struck with panic. There was only the one door, and Frank was rapidly approaching it. Certain death was closing in, but for some inane reason, Peabody had only one thought: What would D’Artagnan do in such a situation? An idea took root. The obvious solution squatted near the doorway. That bizarre vehicle, the Honda. Yes, D’Artagnan would ride that modern-day steed to freedom.
Peabody raced over to it, hopped on, and spotted a set of keys dangling in the ignition. Bubba and Sally Ann retreated to the rear of the stable.
The door of the stable swung open, and there stood a mountain of a man. The shotgun in his hand looked like a child’s toy. Small mammals could have gotten lost in his beard. With his brow furrowed, Frank surveyed the stable. When he saw Sally Ann, his eyes seemed to glow with fire. “Sally Ann? Bubba? Either of you care to tell me what the hell’s going on out here?” He glared at Peabody. “Who the hell is this guy?”
Before the two dimwits could respond, Peabody said, “I’m Jay Gatsby, with the Agriculture Department, here to inspect your barn.”
Frank appeared momentarily perplexed. But suspicion quickly clouded his face once again. “And what exactly are you doing in my stable with my wife?”
“I’m sorry, that’s out of my jurisdiction,” Peabody responded. “However, I will need to take this vehicle for a test drive.” With that, he turned the key. Amazingly, the vehicle jumped to life.
“Now hold it right there!” Frank shouted over the engine noise. “You ain’t going nowhere!”
Peabody spoke loudly. “Just a quick trip around the property, sir. Bear with me. You are aware that the ozone output on these vehicles can’t exceed ‘E equals MC squared,’ aren’t you?”
“I… I don’t… what the hell are you talkin’ about?” Frank frowned and took a step forward. Peabody noticed that the man’s finger was tightening around the trigger of the shotgun.
“Don’t thank me, sir,” Peabody yelled back. “Just your tax dollars at work!” Peabody started pulling on various levers, stomping on various pedals…and the vehicle shot forward-directly at the wall of the stable.
&
nbsp; With Frank shouting angrily, Peabody braced for the impact, then busted cleanly through dry cedar siding, and ducked low as the shotgun roared behind him.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
“How far back you wanna go?” Jose Sanchez asked over his shoulder. Sanchez was the branch manager of First County Bank in Johnson City. Marlin was standing behind Sanchez’s chair, both men eyeing the computer on the manager’s desk.
“I’m not sure,” Marlin said. “How about a year?”
“No problem. Why don’t we go back two, just to be sure?”
Marlin nodded. He had spent half an hour on the phone this morning, calling employees of various banks in Blanco County. It appeared that Bert Gammel did all of his banking at First County. It wasn’t much, though-only a single checking account. No savings account or CDs or any other type of deposit account.
The banker brought up Gammel’s most recent bank statement. There was remarkably little activity, mostly small checks written to pay utilities, plus a small mortgage note written to a bank in Austin. There were only two deposits, identical amounts transferred electronically from a county account.
“That’s his paycheck,” Sanchez said, anticipating Marlin’s question. “Direct deposit, twice a month.”
“Not much of a balance, really.”
The banker quickly navigated through several months of statements, none showing anything out of the ordinary.
“Can you tell me specifically what you’re looking for?” Sanchez asked.
“Just any large deposit, probably in cash, in the last year or so.” Marlin thought about the Ford Explorer Gammel had purchased with cash. A call to Kyle Parker, the owner of the car lot, had revealed that Gammel had purchased the car nine months ago. “Especially in the springtime,” Marlin added.
But the statements showed nothing. According to the paper trail, nothing unusual had happened to Gammel’s financial condition in the past two years. Just the same deposits made by the county like clockwork, the same checks written monthly to the same creditors.
Marlin was disappointed, but not really surprised, since Gammel seemed to have an affinity for carrying cash. He thanked Sanchez for his time and went outside to his truck. Next stop: a meeting with Maynard Clements, the county employee who worked most closely with Bert Gammel.
Red figured he could get used to this vice president stuff real quick. Here it was ten o’clock-a time when he’d normally be working his ass off in the brush-but instead, he was back at the Dairy Queen enjoying a couple of breakfast tacos.
He’d already spoken to most of the men on the work crews and told them what’s what: that Slaton was gone and Red was ramrodding this operation now. Most of them hadn’t even batted an eye. Of course, the majority of them were illegals and couldn’t speak good English, so Red wasn’t sure they had understood. But the important thing was, they were off doing the work while Red and Billy Don were sitting in air-conditioned comfort.
Last night, Red had told Billy Don everything the Austin lawyer had said. But he hadn’t sprung the Big Idea on Billy Don yet-the major brainstorm that Red had had while lying in bed. With Billy Don, you had to take things kind of slow or the big man would flip out. He wasn’t a big-picture kind of guy like Red was. You had to work up to important stuff one step at a time. Hell, half the battle was just getting the man’s attention, getting him to focus for even just a few minutes. It was like he had that attention-defecate disorder or something.
“I used to work here, ya know,” Red said. “Back when I was a kid.”
Billy Don nodded, unhearing, as he peeled back the foil from his fourth taco. The man could demolish a taco in two bites.
“I was the cook,” Red continued. “Man, I only earned a couple bucks an hour, but I bet I ate twenty bucks’ worth of food during every shift.”
That caught Billy Don’s attention, pulling his eyes from his taco for a second. “What, you just grabbed whatever you wanted?”
“Hell, yeah. A burger or two, a big order of onion rings, maybe a couple of corny dogs. And that was just the appetizer.”
Billy Don searched Red’s face for a lie. “Shee-yit.”
“The God’s truth. Hell, the owner was never around. He always left his twin daughters in charge.” Red let out a whistle. “Good-lookin’, too. I wonder whatever happened to those two. I used to call one Beltbuster and the other Hungerbuster.” Red chuckled. Yep, those were the times.
Billy Don didn’t respond.
“Don’t you get it?” Red said. “That’s what the hamburgers are called.”
Billy Don glanced at the menu above the serving counter. “What’d they call you? DQ Dude?” Billy Don grinned, chunks of sausage caught between his teeth.
“Har-de-har-har,” Red said. He watched an elderly couple trudge out the door to a waiting RV. Snowbirds, probably-Yankees carrying their tired asses down to the warm Rio Grande Valley for the winter.
Red waited until Billy Don had a mouthful of taco before he said, “Listen, we need to talk a little more ’bout that lawyer what called last night. See, there’s somethin’ that’s gotta happen before the company is all mine.”
“Like what?”
“Well,” Red looked around the room, checking for eavesdroppers, “they gotta find the body,” he whispered.
A confused expression crossed Billy Don’s face and he set his taco down on a napkin.
“Relax, it’s no big deal,” Red said. “They just need to make sure Mr. Slaton ain’t still alive. That lawyer would look like a reg’lar moron if he signed the company over to me and then Slaton showed up again, wouldn’t he? On the other hand, it’s a real pisser if you think about it. For instance, what if they don’t never find the body? That’s entirely possible, you know. Then where would we be? This thing could drag out for years-buncha lawsuits and torts and expositions. Now, that’s something we’d all love to avoid, wouldn’t we?”
Billy Don belched, loosing a torrent of noxious air in Red’s direction. “What do you mean, ‘we’? You got a mouse in your pocket? I don’t see how this affects me none.”
Red could tell from Billy Don’s tone that the giant man was pouting a little. Hell, Red couldn’t blame him. If the positions were reversed-with Billy Don owning the company-Red would fully expect Billy Don to share a little of his good fortune. More important, Red knew he would need Billy Don at his side in the days to come.
“Aw, now, you don’t think I’m forgettin’ about my best buddy, do ya?”
Billy Don stuck his bottom lip out a little but didn’t reply.
“Well, hell, Billy Don, I was gettin’ to that.” Red stood up beside the booth and cleared his throat. “Ladies and gentleman, may I have your attention, please?”
There were only three other occupied tables in the restaurant: two sets of gray hairs and a trio of young punks who were likely skipping school. Red waved his arms with an elaborate flourish. “I’m pleased to present to you the new office management supervisor of Slaton Brush Removal, Incorporated.” The retirees were happy to provide an arthritic round of applause. One of the schoolkids simply muttered, “Dorks.”
Red could see that Billy Don was trying to stifle a grin, but it broke through anyway. “Come on, Red, sit down. You’re ’barrasin’ me.”
Red sat back down and patted Billy Don on the shoulder. “Congratulations, big man. You deserve it. Now, for your first official act as office management supervisor…”
Billy Don had already gone back to his food.
“… you’re gonna help me look for Mr. Slaton’s body.”
Billy Don stopped assaulting his taco.
“And,” Red said, “I got a pretty good idea how we’re gonna go about it.”
Sitting in his sedan near the sheriff’s office, far enough away to be discreet, Smedley Poindexter munched a king-sized bag of potato chips and pondered recent events in Blanco County. The hostage situation had made the Austin newscast last night. Smedley had done a little checking into it, and had then stumbled up
on a new missing-persons case: a rancher named Emmett Slaton. That was enough to put him back into his car early this morning, heading for Blanco County.
On the surface, there was no indication that Salvatore Mameli had had anything to do with the standoff or the disappearance of Slaton. But Smedley had to wonder. Too often, things seemed to “just happen” in the vicinity of guys like Mameli.
Smedley was proud to be a federal deputy marshal, but there were times when he felt somewhat guilty being involved with the witness protection program. Of course, some participants in the program were simply that: witnesses. Good people who were willing to stand up and do what’s right, even though it meant placing themselves at risk.
But plenty of people in the program were criminals-evil, brutal, coldhearted men like Mameli-who had turned on their own kind and had no choice but to go underground.
And what does the federal government decide to do with men like that? Give them total immunity for their crimes, then relocate them to peaceful, suburban neighborhoods. So all of a sudden, the Joneses-a nice hard-working family with cute kids, a Labrador retriever, and a barbecue grill in the backyard-have a murderer or drug dealer living next door. Worse yet, they have no idea who they’re dealing with, and Smedley can’t even warn them.
This wouldn’t be so bad if the program worked the way it was supposed to. But too often, the recently relocated scumbag continues living the way he always has. He sets up shop, earning a living the only way he knows how. Smedley often wondered: Was the attorney general’s office putting a dent into organized crime, or were they really just helping the mob set up branch offices around the country instead?
He’d discussed this with a couple of fellow marshals on one occasion. One of them was that asshole Todd. Todd listened to what Smedley had to say, then said, “God, quit your worrying. Go eat a Twinkie or something.” He threw his arm in the air and made that familiar elephant-trumpeting sound. Everybody laughed, and Smedley even tried to join in.
