by Steve Brewer
Inside, McLeod’s was crammed wall-to-wall with hunters preparing for deer season. Hundreds of pistols, deer rifles, and shotguns were on display, and Red headed straight for the handgun counter.
He elbowed himself between two burly men, who gave him hard looks he didn’t catch, then caught the eye of the old guy working the counter.
“Can I help you this evening?”
“Yeah, I’d like to take a look at that Anaconda,” Red said, pointing.
“That’s a fine choice, one of Colt’s finest products,” the old guy said as he placed the revolver on the counter. “You hunt with a handgun?”
Red picked it up and gave a low, approving whistle, liking the way the weapon felt in his hand. Solid, but not too heavy. “I’m thinking about using one this year. What kind of range can this handle?”
“With open sights, about fifty yards. But you put a scope on that baby and you can make shots up to about a hundred yards. It all depends on the ammo—and the hunter. You look like a guy who can handle a pistol.”
Red passed the gun to Billy Don. “What do you think, Billy Don? We could sure drop one in its tracks with that, couldn’t we?”
“Damnation, Red. This sucker’s huge. You gonna haul that cannon around on your hip?”
“Or I could just keep it in the truck.”
“But we already got the two-seventy. What do you need a revolver for?”
“A man can’t have too many guns, you oughtta know that.” Red smiled at the salesman, who nodded back.
The old guy said, “Fill your Brady forms out and you can pick it up in plenty of time for opening day.”
Red paused. “Brady forms?”
“You know, the five-day waiting period and all.”
“I can’t take it tonight?”
The man shrugged his shoulders. “Nothing I can do. Gotta wait five days before you can take possession, courtesy of Mrs. Sarah Brady. Federal law.”
“Well, shit,” Red said, cradling the gun again. “Just like the guv’mint to go and fuck up something as American as buying a gun.”
After a few seconds, the old guy leaned forward and said quietly, “On the other hand, there is no waiting period when you buy from a private individual—and I happen to have a pretty good selection of handguns myself….”
Red perked up immediately.
They sat in the cavernous, smoke-filled room, listening to the driving beat of “Panama” by Van Halen. Red ordered another round of beer each time a new stripper came onstage. They were on their ninth or tenth dancer now; Red had lost track.
“What time did that geezer say to come back?” Billy Don yelled over the music.
“Ten o’clock. Hell, a few hours is a lot less than five days,” Red replied.
“Than what?”
Red cupped his hands. “Five days!”
“I thought you said ten o’clock.”
It was no use shouting.
“I still don’t see why you want a handgun,” Billy Don hollered. “You already manage to get yourself in plenty of trouble with a rifle.”
Red wasn’t ready to tell Billy Don what was brewing in his head, how he’d feel better having a little protection, so he ignored him and watched the redhead onstage. She was dancing just a few feet in front of him, giving him a big smile. For good reason, too. He and Billy Don had been handing out ten-dollar bills like a Hare Krishna hands out fliers. The way you do it, Red had told Billy Don earlier, is to kinda slide your hand along their thigh when you’re putting the ten-spot in their G-string. Get a nice feel. Another trick, sometimes they put their hands on your shoulders when you’re putting the money in. You do it just right, you can lean back a little and they fall right into you. You play like you’re catching them, but you grab yourself a big handful of tit. Hell, they don’t mind, long as you keep the money coming.
After a few more dancers and a few more beers, Red thought Billy Don was in the right frame of mind. He could tell by the way Billy Don was hollering out occasional random sounds and clapping way off-beat to the music. So when a slow, quiet song came on, Red leaned in close and said, “How would you like to double the cash you got in your pocket?”
Billy Don looked at him with wet eyes that wouldn’t quite focus properly. “Wat’you got in mind, pardner?”
“I been thinking about Roy Swank and that deer. And man, something just ain’t right. I know them trophy deers are valuable, but twenty thousand bucks in cash? There’s got to be more to it than that.” Red took a long swig of beer and let that thought rattle around in Billy Don’s head.
Billy Don had his eyes glued on the young lady on stage—a platinum-blonde, about five-nine, 34D. Jesus, those high heels did wonders for a girl’s legs. Not to mention a red garter belt and stockings. But he was listening to Red at the same time. “What do you think’s so special with that buck?” he asked.
“That don’t really matter. All I know’s that Swank wants to hold on to him.”
“Yeah, well, he’s got him.”
“Use your noggin, big man. What if that deer was to disappear again? I ‘magine Swank’d come right back to us to find it again. For the same price.”
Billy Don hollered out at the dancer as she bent over backward and looked between her legs at him. Red shook his head. Man, this guy was dense as an oak stump. So Red waited until the song was over and the dancer left the stage. Then he leaned in again and said, “Let me spell it out for ya: We go over to Swank’s place, grab the deer, and take off with it.”
Billy Don turned and looked at him. Slowly a smile creased his face.
Red continued. “Best part is, hell, I don’t know if that’s even a crime. Can a man really own a deer?”
“You really think he’d pay us again?”
“I don’t see why not. We did a hell of a job the first time.”
Billy Don took a long pull from his beer and pondered it for a few minutes. Then he said, “When do you wanna do it?”
“Well, Billy Don, my daddy always told me…there’s no time like the present.”
Red would look back on that night for many years to come and wish he’d done things a little differently.
For starters, he probably would have approached Swank’s house a little more discreetly. They knew the deer was in the five-acre pen near the house—and rounding it up would be easy, as tame as it was—but to just go marching right up there at three in the morning was a bad idea.
He probably wouldn’t have had so much to drink, and he definitely wouldn’t have brought that bottle of Jack Daniel’s along with him.
There was also the matter of Billy Don’s singing. Bellowing a Hank Williams tune while you’re sneaking up on someone wasn’t something James Bond did on a regular basis.
And, oh yeah, he would have left the tit dancer in the truck. Sure, Crystal was a nice girl and all…a really nice girl…but what does a stripper know about stealing a deer? She was gorgeous and lean, with that nasty-girl look to her. And she could suck the hide off an alligator—she had proved that in the truck on the way over here for a hundred bucks each—but she wasn’t exactly the animal-kidnapper type.
Red couldn’t remember all of the crucial events very clearly. Too much booze, and it all happened so quickly. One minute they were approaching the pen, Red right on Crystal’s behind in those tight leather pants. The next minute they were standing in the middle of a blinding spotlight. A Meskin-sounding voice yelled at them. Then a shot rang out and Billy Don fell like a sack of potatoes. Yeah, a sack that could hold every potato in Idaho.
14
WEDNESDAY MORNING AT seven A.M., John Marlin sat down with Blanco County deputy Bobby Garza at Big Joe’s in Johnson City. The men saw each other often, both being law enforcement officers, and they socialized on an occasional basis. Each had a deep respect for the other, due to their mutual commitment to the law—and their contempt for Sheriff Herbert Mackey. Marlin knew that Garza was someone he could speak to in absolute confidence, and that was why he had arranged
this meeting.
After shaking hands, they walked to a table in the back, away from the few other early-bird customers, where they could talk freely. They made small talk until the waitress brought coffee, and then Marlin dove right in.
He started at the beginning, telling Garza about Buck’s strange behavior in the pasture after Trey Sweeney got shot. He mentioned that Sheriff Mackey wanted to shoot the deer, but a call from Roy Swank stopped him. He said that Buck had disappeared from Colby’s barn. And now, apparently, Swank had Buck again—but he wanted to give him back. Then he told him about the trip out to Thomas Stovall’s place, and the white powder the wounded deer had left behind. Marlin made a point of just stating the facts, without any of his own opinions, to see if Garza arrived at the same conclusion.
The deputy didn’t say a word during the entire tale, just sat nodding his head and listening intently. When Marlin finished, Garza remained quiet for a moment, and then the questions began.
“Did you find the wounded deer?”
“No, he ran back onto Swank’s place, and I thought it would be better to talk to you before I did anything.”
“What did you do with the white powder?” Garza asked.
“I’ve got it all in an evidence bag in my glove compartment.”
“Did you take photos of it on the ground?”
Marlin shook his head. He was kicking himself for the oversight, but he was a game warden, for Christ’s sake, not a DEA agent. Marlin said, “I know I probably should have called Mackey instead of you, but…”
Garza shook his head and said, “No, you did the right thing. We both know he’s pretty good buddies with Roy Swank. But the question is, is he tied up in all this?”
“For discussion’s sake, Bobby, what do you think ‘all this’ is?”
Garza leaned closer and spoke quietly. “Sounds like we got some deer running around with contraband in ‘em over at the Circle S. And we know Swank brings deer in from Mexico all the time. So that, to me, looks like a pretty good argument for drug smuggling.”
Marlin smiled. That was one of the reasons he liked Garza: He was a straight shooter, with no bullshit, no what-ifs or maybes.
“Man, I’m glad you said that. I was worried you’d think I’m crazy.”
“It does sound a little crazy…until you think about all the people who swallow condoms full of drugs and try to smuggle ‘em that way. If it can be done with people, why not animals? So the first thing we need to do is test that powder and see what happens.”
“And it if comes back dirty, what then?”
Garza paused for a moment. “To be honest, I really don’t know, at this point. Let’s just take this one step at a time. If we see any indication that Mackey is involved, we’ll have to go around him. That may mean bringing in the DEA.”
The thought of working with the feds made Marlin a little nervous, but there wasn’t a way to avoid it. What if the powder tested positive, but then they couldn’t find anything at Swank’s place? He and Garza would look like fools, and Swank could even file a lawsuit. The men were discussing these possibilities as they left the restaurant and walked around to the back parking lot to Marlin’s cruiser.
But even before Marlin unlocked his truck door, he could see, through the window, that his glove compartment was open. The powder was gone.
The mistake Thomas Stovall had made the night before was going to the Happy Trails Saloon, drinking a few too many beers, and then opening his mouth about the events on his property that morning.
“What the hell did Marlin think it was?” one of the regulars had asked.
“He wouldn’t say,” Stovall replied, “but it was obvious he thought it was cocaine, or heroin, or some such shit.”
“What’d he do with it?”
“He scooped it into a baggie and put it in his truck.”
The men were stunned. Could Swank be a dealer? Nobody really knew him too well, and they sure didn’t like him. If he was dealing, what could be more strange than loading up a whitetail with drugs? Many of the men got downright peeved, saying that kind of behavior would be a crime against nature. They were angry. They were indignant. They were thrilled to have such a wild saga unfolding in their quiet little community.
The men were so wrapped up by Stovall’s story, nobody paid any attention to the stranger sitting quietly at the bar, watching basketball on ESPN. Even though he did look an awful lot like Antonio Banderas.
Oscar was furious with himself for letting things get this chaotic. He prided himself on many things—his looks, his intelligence, his fine sense of style, and yes, his ability to run a smooth ship. But now things were messier than an old jar of hair gel. Oscar had four basic rules for doing business: Number one, only work with people you trust. Two, make sure they trust you. Three, if things get sloppy, fuck them before they fuck you. And four….Damn! He could never remember that one. Something about guns or cops or something.
Another thing—Oscar didn’t know the gringos who were tied up in the house right now, but these weren’t the kind of men he was used to dealing with. Such impertinence. Such drunkenness. Such stupidity. Whereas Oscar’s henchmen in Colombia kept their mouths shut and their eyes open, these men seemed to operate in reverse. Last night, they had claimed to be employees of Roy Swank. But could these idiots possibly be the same two men who had reclaimed the deer for Swank? Those men would have to have had bravado and courage. But these men were simpering buffoons. He would have to question Swank at length this morning.
Swank himself was nearly as incompetent. How could a man sleep peacefully while intruders were parading across his compound? Did he not hear the dogs barking, the shotgun blast? Perhaps he was spoiled by his years working with the government. Could it be that lobbyists typically operate outside the law, with little concern about getting caught? If so, they had far more power and clout than Oscar ever imagined. But it was far more likely that Oscar had made the one mistake that spelled certain death in Colombia: getting involved with amateurs.
Oscar was concerned, but no, not nervous. He had no plans to let this situation get away from him. If it was necessary, there would be a long line of corpses on the floor of the Swank mansion by this evening, while he was slipping back to Colombia, free and untraceable. It would be a major setback, having to completely abandon the operation. But that was sometimes the cost of doing business.
He waited patiently by the pool, enjoying a full breakfast. When Swank joined him, Oscar would know then what to do. Swank’s words would reveal himself for what he was: a pro or an amateur. And amateurs always wound up dead.
At nine A.M. on Wednesday, November 3, Bobby Garza and three other deputies raided the secluded home of Charles W. Walznick. Actually, calling it a home was charitable. The only building on the forty-acre property was a sixteen-by-sixteen shack with running water, but no phone or electricity. Garza had seen barns that were more inviting. The property was located on an unpaved dead-end county road that Garza couldn’t remember traveling for at least ten years. Looked like Willie Combes had been telling the truth, Garza thought, because this place was perfect for a pot farm.
Two days earlier, Garza had logged on to the Sheriff’s Department computer and learned some interesting things about Charles Walznick: Twenty-eight years old, college dropout. Twelve arrests since the age of eighteen, three convictions. No violent crimes, just forgery, burglary, and—what appeared to be Mr. Walznick’s favorite pastime—possession of marijuana. He had been arrested seven times for holding weed. But he had always had good legal representation, so he had never done state time, just a few months in county facilities. None of the incidents had taken place in Blanco County. Walznick was an Austin native and had purchased the forty acres about three years ago.
The question foremost in Garza’s mind was where Walznick had gotten the money to buy the place. Garza could find no records of Walznick ever holding a job, filing a tax return, or even having a Social Security number. This was the kind of guy for whom
the phrase “no visible means of support” was coined.
Walznick himself was not an impressive figure. When the deputies burst through the flimsy door of the shack, Walznick was asleep on a cot wearing ragged blue jeans and no shirt. He weighed about 135 and stood five-seven. He had stringy blond hair, three or four days’ stubble. Garza quickly realized that he really didn’t need all the manpower for this scrawny punk. He could have come out here alone—without a firearm, for that matter. Walznick was just a meek little guy with a case of arrested adolescence—an adult in a prolonged high-school party phase—not a hardened criminal. The only problem, Walznick had been growing a healthy crop of marijuana every year on his acreage. According to Willie Combes.
Walznick didn’t look surprised when Garza and his men came barging in. At first, Garza figured he was stoned. But then he realized Walznick had been expecting something like this to happen.
After one of the deputies frisked Walznick and the other men searched the sparse shack for weapons, Garza sent all three of them out to search the property. He remained in the shack with Walznick, who sat dejectedly on the filthy cot.
Garza said, “I get the feeling you know exactly why we’re here.”
“Yeah, I been waiting on you, man,” Walznick said somberly. “I heard that Willie got busted so I knew the heat was gonna come down.”
“Okay, so tell me what’s going on.”
“Sir, I can’t tell you anything until I talk to my lawyer.” Polite, but reluctant.
This punk was no different than Willie Combes, just a few years older, with a little more experience with the law under his belt. Garza had prepared himself for this.
“Charles, you can get a lawyer if you want. And with your history, I can see why you want one. You’re very likely looking at state time and the forfeiture of your acreage and cabin.” He gestured out the door. “Unless I’m an idiot, I expect my men to find marijuana growing in plots on the back side of your property. Maybe not a huge amount…I don’t think you’re a major dealer or anything. I think you grow just enough to get by. Sell some to your friends, and your friends’ friends. Maybe sell a few keys to other dealers once in a while. But that’s not the biggest of your problems, Charles. It looks like Willie’s friend Michael died from smoking your weed.
