His penchant for outlandish behavior was how they’d come to give him the name Sancho in the first place. They’d been up at Sancho’s Broken Arrow on East Colfax, seeing Netwerk: Electric or Signal Path, or maybe some other trance jam band he couldn’t remember the name of anymore, when this wiry dude in patchwork pants and a T-shirt that said Fuck Y’all, I’m From Texas walked in the door. Soon as the guy laid eyes on Cooper and Davis and the other guys in their group, he’d walked straight up to them in such a way that Cooper assumed one of the other guys must know him. He stepped right up in the middle of the man stuck his hand out with at least a gram of white powder in his palm and said, “You boys want some of this here molly?” before taking a thick finger dip himself.
Though it turned out later that no one knew him, at that time Cooper had just shrugged and taken a few finger dips because, why not? And it was some of the best molly he’d ever eaten, as it turned out. Next thing he knew he was howling at the moon, eyes rolling so far back in his head he could about see what was behind him. And this stranger was right up in the middle of their crew, partying like he’d known them his whole life, whooping and hollering and dancing his ass off with his curly fro standing a foot above everyone else in the place.
When Cooper and Davis had gotten enough control of themselves to stumble over to the bar for another drink, Davis asked if Cooper remembered what the guy’s name was.
“I don’t know,” Cooper said. “But he walks around this place like he’s Sancho himself.”
That had made them both laugh so hard that the bartender wouldn’t serve them anymore. Ever since then everyone had called him Sancho. Even down in Austin, where Sancho moved again after a brief stint in Denver, people called him that. Cooper figured that Sancho probably liked it a lot better than the name his parents had given him back in Wimberley, Texas: Elroy Watts Jr.
Cooper shook off the memory, not wanting to let his mind delve too far into what happened to them down in Dumas. It had almost sent him and Davis both to prison on a state jail felony, and Josie had never let him forget about it afterward. Instead, he clicked the button and dialed Sancho’s number, was surprised when Sancho picked up after the second ring and said, “Talk to me,” while someone hammered away on a djembe in the background.
CHAPTER TWO
Texas Ranger Russ Kirkpatrick was just pouring his second cup of coffee at his desk in the Austin DPS headquarters when he got a call from Javier Perez, the Travis County Sheriff’s detective heading up the Weldon Robb investigation he’d been railroaded into taking on against his better judgment.
“Whadaya say, Javi?” he said as Perez’s voice came through the line. “Was just about to catch up with y’all, actually. Senator Robb has been up my ass about this thing again lately.”
“Yeah? Your ears must have been ringing. I’ve got something for you.”
“About Watts? I thought he was out of the country still. Shoot.”
“He’s back. You might find it hard to believe, but something came over the wiretap last night.”
“I thought that thing already expired?” Kirkpatrick took a sip of his coffee, burned his lip and had to blow on it.
“End of the month. Honestly, we haven’t been giving it much attention anyway. I’ll tell you this, Watts must have thought the tap expired, too.”
“So our man’s really back from Costa Rica or wherever he was hiding?”
“Oh, he’s back. You better get over here and give a listen. I think we’ve got something that will stick to him, if you stay on top of it.”
Kirkpatrick sat up straight. “Gotcha. I’ll head on over in an hour or so. Anything else I need to know before then?”
“Not really. Just that I get the impression Watts thinks we’ve lost interest in him.”
“What makes you say that?”
“Come on over and see for yourself. Play this one out right, I think Senator Robb might get some of that Texas justice he’s always shooting off about.”
“Sounds good,” Kirkpatrick said, already flipping through his notebook to be sure he didn’t have anything planned today. “I’ll see y’all in an hour. Thanks, Javi.”
Perez told him not to mention it and they hung up. Kirkpatrick took a few minutes to organize his desk and finish his coffee, then popped his head in the office to let his commanding officer know he’d be back later on.
He drove through La Mexicana and picked up an eight-pack of chorizo-bean-and-egg breakfast tacos on the way over. The Travis County Sheriff’s Department hadn’t been crazy about having Kirkpatrick forced into their world by a loudmouth state senator like Weldon Robb, especially with the warpath he was on. Even more so considering the grey line Robb had Kirkpatrick walking, thanks to a few favors he’d called in. Kirkpatrick always tried to ease the tension of dropping by with food or coffee. He knew for a fact there wasn’t an officer within fifty miles who didn’t appreciate homemade tortillas and the best damn chorizo sausage in the entire city, which was saying something.
He didn’t blame them for not wanting him around anyway. Inter-agency politics had always been a problem, no matter where he worked. So had people in power, using their influence to get their own private sense of justice. Even back in the MPs, during the Gulf War, it had been that way. You just couldn’t let someone come in and steal your thunder, at least not if you expected to have an upwardly mobile career trajectory.
But when a state senator’s grandson twists off on psychedelic drugs and hangs himself from a Live Oak using jumper cables, some discomfort among agencies is to be expected. Without a killer to blame for his grandson’s death, Senator Weldon Robb had jumped like a June bug on the idea of finding whoever manufactured the drug, so he could punish them instead. After throwing his weight around behind the scenes, he’d managed to finagle Kirkpatrick into a one-man task force whose entire life consisted of figuring out who had manufactured and sold the boy the drugs, so that the son of a bitch could be buried beneath the jailhouse.
Which had led Kirkpatrick by roundabout investigation to Elroy Watts. Sancho, as some people called him. Along with some help from Travis County, he’d dug about as deep into Sancho’s life as anyone could expect. Travis County deputies had hemmed him up and taken his car apart three different times, to no benefit. Tapped his phone, staked out his farm from an adjacent hilltop. Kirkpatrick always felt that Travis County Sheriff’s had come on too strong and spooked him, wasn’t surprised in the least when Watts took off one day six months ago for South America. They didn’t have much on him, but he wouldn’t have known that. Probably he just felt the heat and his lawyer daddy told him to get out of town until things cooled off.
Now he apparently thought things had cooled enough to come back. If there was one thing Kirkpatrick knew about guys like Elroy Watts, it was that they never stayed out of the game for long.
Kirkpatrick pulled up to the Travis County Sheriff’s office on Airport Boulevard and parked near the edge of the lot. He stepped out into the heat and put his beat-up beige Stetson on to shield his face from the scorching sunshine, then went inside. He flirted with Shirley, the dispatcher, for a minute, passed out a few tacos on his way back to Javi Perez’s desk. Perez looked up from whatever paperwork he was messing with when he heard Kirkpatrick’s boots coming down the hall.
“I can always tell it’s you coming by the rhythm of your boot steps,” Perez said as Kirkpatrick entered the office. “I see you brought a little something-something to ease the pain, too.”
Kirkpatrick smiled and set the tacos on the edge of Perez’s desk. “Figured a proud Mexican like you couldn’t resist them,” he said. He liked Perez, and they got along, despite all the departmental drama. The tacos were more of a bribe for the rest of the department to stay off his back, but he always kept a few for Perez anyway.
“Please, son. I’m as American as you or apple pie, minus that cheap cowboy getup. Third generation naturalized citizen.”
“I know it,” Kirkpatrick said. “’Cause you soun
d whiter than I do. Just giving you some grief.”
“Well while you’re giving, go ahead and pass me them tacos. And some verde sauce, yeah?”
Kirkpatrick nodded and passed a couple of tacos and a tiny plastic container of green salsa over to Perez. Perez wasted no time taking the first one down.
“So what’ve you got for me?” Kirkpatrick asked once Perez was wiping the corners of his mouth with a napkin. “I’m assuming he didn’t just turn himself in and come clean?”
Perez smiled. “If only they all would, sure would make the job less stressful. I gotta tell you, though. We got lucky as hell on this. For a guy mixed up in as much shit as Watts is, he sure ain’t practicing much caution anymore. Maybe he thinks he can’t be touched, I don’t know. But he put his foot in his mouth this time.”
“Well then, let’s stop beating around the bush and give a listen to what you’ve got.” Kirkpatrick hooked a thumb in his belt loop next to his Ranger’s star and leaned back in his chair, put a single boot up on the edge of the table. Perez looked at the boot but didn’t say anything, figuring Kirkpatrick didn’t mean anything by it, which he didn’t.
“It’s a Claim Two, but I already ran it up the flag pole to get it cleared. It still involves drug sales, so I don’t think it will be a problem.”
“Grayson isn’t likely to shut much down with Senator Robb breathing down all our necks, so it should be fine. What is it?”
“Weed deal. High grade shit, and a bunch of it. Listen for yourself.” Perez pressed play on the recorder and Kirkpatrick immediately recognized Elroy Watts’s voice, but not the other.
“Sanch?” said the unfamiliar voice, which also carried a Texas accent.
“Well I’ll be goddamned,” Watts said. “Wussup, Coop?” Kirkpatrick scribbled that name down, still listening intently, trying not to miss anything over the banging sound in the background, some sort of drum maybe.
“Hell, not much, man. Where you been?”
“Been down in Costa Rica the last six months macking on shorty senoritas and getting some serious beach time.”
“Six months, huh? That’s a whole truckload of beach time.”
“Yeah, I’m over it now. Anyhow, to what do I owe the pleasure? Y’all been seeing some shows while I been gone?”
“Some. We hit Oak Mountain and a couple others earlier this summer, did most of the southern leg of the tour. Red Rocks last weekend was about the best damn run of shows I’ve seen in four or five years. Still recovering from it.”
“I heard that, actually. What else is going on?”
“I…maybe I ought to call you back on your cell so we can speak freely? I don’t have your new number, why I called the house.”
“Haven’t had one in a while. Just got back two days ago, been dealing with the jet lag, maybe a little culture shock. Costa Rica and Texas is about as opposite as two places can be.”
“No doubt,” Coop said. “I don’t understand why you still live down there when the laws are easing up so much everywhere else.”
“It’s home. Besides, I don’t see how cheaper prices are good for me.”
“See there, I never wanted it to be home, got the hell out soon as I could.”
“I get it. But why don’t we get down to it, Coop. We can talk on this line just fine. I been dead to the world for six months, ain’t nobody checking up on me.”
“It can wait until later today if you want to go pick up a Cricket or something.”
“No can do. I got a couple ladies stopping out for a little pool party, don’t plan to step foot off the ranch today or tomorrow, if I can help it. Got an old buddy stopping up to play a little. Just got the pool back in working order, and I intend to make the most of it. I could call you back in a couple days when I make it into town though, if you’re really worried about it?”
There was a long pause, as if this “Coop” were thinking it over, deciding whether to wait on whatever news he had. Kirkpatrick figured no way they’d keep talking after that, was surprised when the voice said, “I guess we can talk around it now, and see what you think.”
“Attaboy. Shoot.”
“I don’t know if you heard, but Nelson got rolled up in Chi Town a couple days ago.”
“I didn’t, but that’s fucked up. What they get him with?”
“Enough is all I heard. Would’ve gotten him with a truckload more if they’d waited a few days, though.”
“I see. So what’s that got to do with me?”
“Well, they didn’t get him with a truckload more. Which means I’m sitting here stuck with a truckload, nowhere to send it. Know what I mean?”
“I do. But again, how does it concern me? After Dumas you told me you were done with The Great State of Texas as far as business was concerned.”
Kirkpatrick scribbled Dumas down and made a note to check the records up there.
“And I meant it.” Coop continued, “But just now I’m in a bit of a financial bind, and it would surely help me to get this thing off my chest.”
“What we talking?”
Kirkpatrick took his foot off the desk and leaned toward the recorder, thinking no way this kid spills the beans over the phone. The voice on the other end of the line hesitated, too, maybe sensing he wasn’t alone on the line, but needing to get it out anyway. Finally he answered.
“Thirty elbows of Bruce Banner. Fantastic quality, too, one of the best crops I’ve done in a long time.”
Sancho whistled. “Sounds a lot better than the schwiggity they had down in Costa. I might can help you out. Timing’s pretty good, actually, with my boy coming up, think he’s angling for some business. It won’t be here in Austin, though.”
“Why’s that?”
“You kidding? Town’s already full of Colorado’s finest. You boys got yourselves one hell of a saturated market up there.”
“Tell me about it. All right then, where could you use it?”
“I think my boy is starting to do some work out in Teller. Why he’s coming up tomorrow to catch up, or that’s the impression I get. He didn’t exactly say. I’ll try to set something up with him when he gets here. Probably about sixteen a pop, I’m guessing. Will that work?”
“It’ll have to, I guess. There was a time that was inconceivably bad, even if you came up here for it.”
“Still wonder why I live down here?” Sancho said. “I’ll hit you up once I get back out into the wild day after tomorrow. Let me see what I can put together.”
“All right, do that.”
“Good to hear from you, Coop.”
“You too, Sanch. Try not to get so drunk that you drown in the pool, you hear?”
“Loud and clear,” Sancho said.
Perez hit stop on the recorder. He and Kirkpatrick looked at each other.
“I see what you meant,” Kirkpatrick said. “He was never careful, really, but that beats all. How does a guy like that make it this far without getting his ass locked up?”
“You know exactly how. Boy’s daddy is a hell of a defense attorney.”
“You mean was. I heard Pops might have run down to Costa Rica with him after they disbarred his ass over that mess down along the border. Luck must run in that family. I don’t know how in the hell he avoided prosecution on money laundering and a whole host of other charges. Last I heard, they were still trying to make the case.”
“Sure you do. The Good Ol’ Boys’ club wouldn’t be so good if they didn’t have some perks. Some folks think every county official up to the governor himself is corrupt around here.” Perez grinned. “Probably some truth to it, too. No telling who that guy might have implicated if they’d let him burn. You snag this little shit now and maybe Daddy will come running out of the bushes and you can get him, too, make a whole new set of headaches for everyone involved.”
Kirkpatrick frowned. “That your way of telling me I’m on my own on this?”
“You heard the tape. It doesn’t sound like the dope is coming within two hundred miles of Travis
County. That puts it out of our jurisdiction. I’ve done all I’m allowed by passing this on, and really more than I was told to do. A lot of folks around here don’t seem to want to see this thing go any further.” Perez looked around to be sure no one was within earshot. “If the department thought for two seconds this could bring even an inch of work back on us, you’d have never heard about this tape in the first place. The sheriff’s had it up to his intestines with Weldon Robb.”
“I figured as much. Thanks for the head’s up, Javi. I’m assuming I can take the recording with me?”
“It’s all yours my man,” Perez said.
Kirkpatrick left the last two tacos sitting on Javi’s desk and walked out of the building to his department-issued, four-door white Dodge Ram 1500, already dialing Senator Weldon Robb’s personal cellphone number as he climbed inside.
Click here to learn more about Texas Two-Step by Michael Pool.
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