by Mark Pryor
I left Magnolia Grill at eight, with a to-go coffee and the waitress’s phone number. Depending on how things went, I might have time for her on the weekend. Something quiet at my place. She was a one-weekender at most, this one. I didn’t mind the girth in the least; it was the cheesy Southern accent. If it turned out to be real, then she wouldn’t even last a weekend.
I drove a slow loop to work, turned right onto South Congress, right again onto Oltorf, and then left on South First. The restaurant was all of two minutes from work but in the wrong direction for my new friend to be able to latch onto me, which he did as I passed the McDonalds where South Congress met US-290.
Technology lets you do wonderful things these days. In this case, track Travis Lee White on my cell phone to McDonalds and then drive slowly in front of him as he waited to turn onto Congress. A little luck with the timing, but that’s fine with me. And once in position, there was no way he could miss me, the window of my white Land Rover down and music blaring, the hood of my car close to the bumper of the vehicle in front so White couldn’t nudge his way in. That was bound to annoy him, which was very much my desire.
He had to wait for the car behind me to go, but then he bullied himself into the slow-moving line of traffic, earning himself an outraged honk from someone. I toyed with the idea of letting him know that I was aware of him being there, but decided to wait. We shuffled along for a mile, me signaling way in advance of the right turn onto Long Bow Lane. He turned right behind me, and I slowed so he’d know I’d spotted him, that large figure stuffed into a little red car, an angry man on the verge of getting his revenge.
I slowed a little more, just to irritate him, then stepped on the gas and roared the hundred yards to the parking lot in front of Gardner Betts. He obviously had no idea who I was or where I worked, because he bumped into the lot right behind me, our tires squealing. As the front of my car pointed toward the entrance, I flashed my lights as if I were afraid, knowing Deputy Trejo would be facing this way.
Trejo was out of the door a moment later, just as my car was diving into its parking spot. I leapt out and stared at the red Civic, which had stopped directly behind my car to block me in. Travis White glared through the window for a moment, anger and triumph on his face as he reached for the door handle. But Trejo was at the bottom of the steps and must have entered White’s field of vision—a tough-looking deputy with his hand on his gun, about the last thing an ex-con needed in his life. White looked back at me with hatred, and with another squeal of tires he took off, that little engine screaming as he flew out of the parking lot onto Long Bow, and away.
Trejo was panting when he got to me. “What was that about? That him?”
“He followed me,” I said. “He must have. I didn’t see him until I turned into the parking lot—he just appeared out of nowhere.”
He reached for the radio mic on his shoulder. “I’ll call it in.”
“Wait,” I said.
He paused. “What? We need to hurry.”
“But what are you calling in? I hate to be the one to say this, but he’s not broken any laws.”
Trejo looked at me. “He threatened you yesterday.”
“Not enough,” I said. “I don’t think it meets the elements of terroristic threat, and he’s not done enough to arrest for stalking.”
“Yet.”
“True, but until he does, there’s not much we can do. I guess I’ll write another statement, and you can supplement your report.” I shrugged. “We can start there.”
He nodded. “Let’s get inside, though, just in case he comes back. And I got a partial plate, maybe we can do something with that.”
“Just a partial?” I joked gently. “What kind of cop are you?”
“Yeah, I know.” He looked sheepish. “But honestly, when I saw you flashing your lights, I thought the guy was about to shoot you or something. I kept my eyes on him for any kind of movement; I was way more worried about that than getting his plate.”
“Well, I’m grateful, so no worries.” I patted him on the shoulder as we made our way up the stairs to the entrance. “You reacted quickly, Mike, I’m impressed. I appreciate it, very much, looking out for me like that.”
He held the door for me and smiled. “Just doing my job, Counselor.”
◯
When I first got to Maidstone Hall Preparatory School at the age of ten, there was a lot I didn’t understand, but there were a few hurdles I didn’t have to clear that others did. For example, a lot of kids found themselves surprised and upset that their parents would leave them alone at a school in the Scottish Highlands for weeks on end, with zero communication. Those kids had to persuade themselves it had nothing to do with how much they were loved or wanted at home. For so many in the upper echelons of English high society, tradition and a well-named school mattered more than seeing your own son or daughter grow up at home. That’s easier for an adult to understand than a child.
Not an issue for me. When I watched my mum and dad drive away from Maidstone the first time, I knew why I was there. I knew that they loved me in the sense that they had to, biologically. I was also aware that family tradition meant I had to do my time at a character-building prep school, followed by a slightly closer-to-home boarding school until I was eighteen. But as I well knew, tradition was the rationalization, not the reason: a steady buildup of incidents around the family farm that had no good explanations—dead animals, broken equipment, small fires. . . . Those kinds of incidents.
The adjustment for me wasn’t to the living conditions; I was used to the countryside and liked the remoteness of the place, especially the stress and loneliness it put on my classmates. I enjoyed those things, and could use them. No, the problem I had was with the idiotic conventions of the school, the customs that had been in place for a hundred years that made no sense to a boy for whom mere tradition was as idiotic as the prayers we said every morning.
For example, mischief was expected; after all, we were ninety or so kids living on top of each other. Nevertheless, there was this code of honesty such that whenever someone played a prank or broke something, caused a fight or stole someone else’s candy, and they were confronted with it, they owned up. Without hesitation. That’s right, the offender was expected not just to incriminate himself when questioned, but to confess immediately. I couldn’t believe my eyes the first few times I saw it; it made no sense that you’d mess with someone or steal something, and then throw yourself to the wolves the first time someone in authority looked at you suspiciously.
To begin with I struggled over how to handle this. I didn’t want to make myself an outcast by eschewing the tradition that would brand me as dishonest and a coward. Yet, nor did I have any desire to take responsibility, or do penance for, my misdeeds. But then I figured it out: all I had to do was pull my little pranks with someone by my side. Then, when the time came for reckoning, I’d make myself scarce until my friend had raised his hand in a mea culpa. That way the masters would get their justice, my friend would be the honorable schoolboy by taking his punishment (and mine), and he could also feel noble at not turning me in. No point in both of us getting in trouble, eh?
After I ran away, right before my twelfth birthday, this became even less of a problem since the boys and teachers all felt the need to treat me with kid gloves. All except that one, Matthew MacIntosh, the oversized bully who hadn’t gotten the memo about my untouchability.
He was a tall kid, soft in the middle, with thick red lips and dark wavy hair. I thought he looked like an ugly, fat girl, but I knew better than to say anything like that. I was athletic, slim and fast, and I could’ve eluded him in the open, but our simmering distaste for each other came to a head one winter Thursday in the main hall.
Another one of those stupid traditions I didn’t get: at six thirty on weekdays, after the evening meal, we had thirty minutes of free time before reporting to our classrooms for prep. For those minutes the entire teaching staff would withdraw from the main hall and boys would “rag.” I
never knew if there were rules to this, because I never took part. I had no desire to wrestle with my classmates, particularly since the older boys tended to select the younger ones to pin in the dusty corners.
My usual plan was to step past the huffing and writhing mounds of schoolboys on my way to the table-tennis room, where I’d either play or pretend to watch those playing. Kids would occasionally ask me to rag, and I’d always tell them, “Next time” or say that I had a table-tennis match waiting. Matthew MacIntosh was particularly pushy, and particularly unhappy at taking no for an answer.
He was also very unhappy indeed at my newfound celebrity status.
“Hey, farm boy.” He stopped me at the entrance to the hall just as the first tussles were breaking out. “How about it?”
“How about what?”
“You know. Rag.”
I eyed the tumbling forms on the ground. “Seems a little gay to me.”
“Bull. You’re just scared.”
“Of being gay?”
He pushed my shoulder. “Come on. Five minutes. If you cry, I’ll stop.”
“You ever seen me cry, MacIntosh?”
He sneered. “Not yet.”
I leaned in, and his eyes widened with surprise. “I’m going to say this one time, Mac. I don’t want to rag you. Not now, not ever. And if you try to make me, if you put your fat, sweaty hands on me ever again, I will make sure it’s you crying on the floor, and everyone in the school will know about it.”
I could see him gathering himself. I’d bet that no one had spoken to him like that in years, including his overindulgent parents. The cogs were spinning inside that thick skull, making it clear that he had a decision to make. And that he had two clear choices. His eyes slid left and right to see if anyone was watching, if anyone was close enough to have overheard my threat, close enough to watch him give in to it. His problem was that the answer was unclear, he simply couldn’t be sure, and that made up his mind for him. He was all in.
His face reddened, and he pushed my shoulder with his right hand again. “You don’t threaten me, you little pip-squeak.”
“Mac, I’m just saying . . .”
“We’re gonna rag right here and now,” he growled, confident again.
I stepped into him again and felt his hot breath in my face. I put my nose against his and said, “No, we’re not.” He couldn’t see my right hand balled up, had no idea it was headed straight for his gut, but his eyes widened the second it landed. I left my fist in there as he doubled over and sank to his knees, slack jaw gasping for breath. Ragging was wrestling, nothing more. No kicking, punching, or even pinching; just good clean wrestling.
Only, as usual, I didn’t fight clean, wasn’t playing by the rules, something Mac would’ve known if he’d paid any attention to me other than wanting to bring me down a notch.
He puffed and panted on his knees, then started to straighten up. I put my left arm onto his shoulder as if I were engaging him, playing his stupid game, and then I hit him again in the same place and he doubled over again, his forehead bouncing off the floor as he gasped for air. I rolled him onto his side so I could see the tears in his eyes, and then I leaned over and whispered in his ear.
“Everyone’s watching you cry, Mac. I told you to leave me alone, and now everyone’s watching you cry. If you come within three feet of me from now until I leave school, I will tell people that not only did you cry when we ragged, but that I’m pretty sure I smelled piss coming out of you.”
“You bloody . . .” he stammered, but his voice cracked and he couldn’t finish his sentence, maybe didn’t dare to.
He crawled away from me and collapsed in a corner with both arms across his gut. I left him sitting against the wall, his puffy face frowning at anyone who dared look at him too long, one arm casually brushing away the tears with his sleeve when he thought no one was watching.
An early lesson for me, that incident. Two lessons, really. First, it pays to ignore the rules of the game sometimes, when those rules are stupid and liable to get you hurt. Second, if you’re going to ignore the rules, then it pays to strike first, and strike hard.
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
I was pretty sure Travis White would recognize my car while I was out and about in Austin, and quite possibly keep an eye out for it. I considered leasing something more invisible, but quite frankly I enjoyed the thrill of maybe running into the guy before I meant to. As careful as I was being, I had to allow myself a little risk taking here and there.
My next step, on Saturday morning, was to go to the Georgetown Gun Show, a three-week-long display of deadly firepower at a conference center just north of Austin. It was like Ikea for weaponry. I’d been the previous year and been blown away, pun intended, by the range and number of weapons available for purchase. The prices were a little higher than I paid at the GT Distributors in town, a place that only sold firearms to law enforcement and at a discount, but a gun show had one major advantage: I could buy anything I wanted, and as long as I used cash there’d be no record.
But then on the drive up I-35 I started thinking about security cameras.
I often did this—flipping between reckless self-endangerment and excessive self-preservation. While it was true the gun couldn’t be traced to me after a cash transaction, I wasn’t sure if a serial number or something let the gun be traced to the dealer who sold it. In which case, there was an outside chance they look at security footage and somehow put me at the place where it was sold. And spot my white Land Rover.
I pulled over at a Torchy’s Tacos and went inside. I ordered the Brushfire, my favorite, and a bowl of their refried black beans. I was almost through my early lunch when I pulled out my phone and called for an Uber ride. I followed the driver’s progress up the freeway, stopping and starting with the traffic on that bitch of a highway, and was waiting when he pulled up in his Chevy Malibu.
He wound the window down. “Hi. You call for an Uber?”
“Sure did,” I said.
“Your name?”
“Dominic.”
“OK, cool, hop in.” Once I was in the front seat, he checked his mirror and pulled away. “Sorry, sometimes people pretend to be the person who called so they can get a free ride. I’ve taken to asking the person their name to confirm I have the right guy. Three or four times I’ve ended up giving some jackass a free ride just to avoid trouble. I’m Max, by the way.”
“Nice to meet you, Max. You can’t trust anyone these days, can you?”
“Too right. So, cool accent, where from?”
“Have a guess,” I said.
“I’m thinking Australia.”
“You ever been there?”
“No, always wanted to go,” he said, his head bobbing enthusiastically.
“I’m from Sydney, born in the shadow of the Opera House.”
“Oh, cool. They have a famous opera house, then?”
“That’s why I mentioned it.”
He turned a little red and I smiled. “Yeah, sorry. Americans aren’t great with foreign geography.”
“Or incredibly famous landmarks,” I needled him. “But no worries, mate, no reason you should know.”
“I’m a computer sciences student,” he said, unasked, as he nudged the car into traffic on I-35. “Oh, we’re going to the Georgetown Convention Center, right?”
“We are.”
“What’s going on there today?”
I wanted to lie, to keep messing with him, but he’d see for himself soon enough. “A gun show.”
“Never been to one of those.”
“Me neither,” I said. “I’m at a loose end today, and I’m kind of fascinated by American gun culture, so I thought I’d take a look.”
“You don’t have many guns in Australia?”
“The Aboriginals are allowed to carry them, but no one else.”
“Oh, man, really? You don’t have any Second Amendment or anything?”
“Nah, we don’t have any amendments.”
&nb
sp; “That must be weird.”
No weirder than this conversation, I thought. “Yeah. Very.”
We made it to the convention center without too much more idiocy, apart from the “G’day mate,” he threw me as I got out.
Inside I recognized the familiar competing smells of gun oil and body odor. I drifted through the main hall, trying to avoid pockets of the latter in favor of the former. I stopped in front of stalls and chatted with the sellers, listening to their excitement about this weapon or that.
I think it’s a true statement that the vast majority of English people, heck the vast majority of non-Americans, completely fail to understand or appreciate the gun culture in Texas and beyond. But I get it completely, and utterly love it.
That should make sense, too, because a gun is a lot like me. It’s attractive and dangerous, thrilling and scary. A gun can go off by accident and cause no harm, or the ultimate harm. A gun doesn’t care who it kills, or why; and a miss is the same as a kill, which is no different to a gun than a wounding. A cop and a criminal can use the same weapon for entirely opposite reasons, and the gun will work just the same for both.
Well, maybe there are a few differences: I care who tries to use me, and I care when I miss.
Once I was satisfied there were no cameras in the place, I made my purchase in cash and returned to the entrance of the center. I pulled up my Uber app and set my pickup location, relieved when Sandy in a minivan started my way. I didn’t want another ride with that irritation called Max—if traffic was heavy and he was chatty again, my new gun might get a workout before I wanted it to.
Luckily, Sandy was the quiet type with no interest in talking to me about Australia, guns, or anything else. She and her thick glasses were focused entirely on the road, and for that I was grateful.
Once I was back in my car, I called Brian.
◯
BRIAN
My phone rang just as I’d settled on the couch to watch a movie with Connie. It was Dominic.
“Hey man,” he said. “You at home?”
“Yep, sure am. What’s up?”
