by Maria Lima
"So did I at first, but turns out three of them are eighteen,” he said. “Jimmy turned seventeen last month, but in Texas, at that age, he's legally allowed to move out from his parent's house. It's kind of like being an emancipated minor. As long as he has a permanent residence and goes to school, we can't force him to go back to his father. The school told me he moved in with his uncle over by the marina last week. So, far as I can tell—no crime here."
"Well, thanks, good to hear. I'll let you know if we find out anything on our end."
I flipped the phone shut and looked at Tucker.
"That's one thing off our list,” he joked.
I had to smile. “Guess we're just looking for Alex Robles now."
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
The Diamondback was as close as you could get to a Western cliché and not be in a low-budget Hollywood movie. It sat at the curve of a farm and ranch road, about a hundred yards across the official county line into Rio Seco. We'd never been a dry county. Not sure why the sale of alcohol had never been prohibited here, but that meant that tiny ice houses the size of a small cabin and not much bigger honkytonks tended to spring up in the sixties and seventies so folks from neighboring counties could cut across and buy beer and liquor.
By the mid-eighties, most of the surrounding counties had voted wet, so ninety percent of these ramshackle businesses went under, buildings falling apart at the side of the road, so many corpses of entrepreneurship holding mute testimony to the rule of capitalism.
For whatever reason, the Diamondback remained, its weathered cedar and shake shingles flaking, silver gray with age. The entire building listed to the right a bit, not inappropriately in this bastion of conservatism, home of rednecks and Longnecks and a state that spawned one of the worst presidents in history. The Diamondback's wraparound porch was as slanted as the politics you'd find inside, the fading cursive letters of the establishment's sign nearly blended into the background wood. If you didn't know the place was there, you'd probably never find it.
I knew it. I'd been there before, as a reckless teen with Carlton, Bea and Bea's cousins, ready for drinking and two-stepping and the silliness that goes with being eighteen in a wet county in Texas. It wasn't much of a dance hall, or even a bar, but it was close and we could afford it. Teens from all over congregated at the Diamondback, slugging down longnecks and cans of Coors, struggling through the emotional hell that is dating.
Then the drinking age was raised to twenty-one, and the Diamondback took a dive in both reputation and clientele. Ranch hands could frequent the place legally, but they were often short on money and on women. I'd left Texas soon after the legal drinking age was raised: for England, college, family training—so I didn't really pay much attention to local watering holes and their respective fates. Bea had told me once in a letter she'd heard they were having problems making ends meet. I'd never thought about it again.
Now, as Tucker and I mounted the rickety porch steps, I wondered how they'd managed to keep the place afloat for this long.
As soon as we went inside, it wasn't hard to figure out.
The reek of stale smoke and staler beer hit me as I opened the front door. Tucker held it open for me and motioned for me to go first.
I shot him a look, more out of habit than anything else. I was glad he was there with me.
"Thanks.” I smiled a little. He returned it and let the door shut behind him.
It was standard bar-dark inside, the noise of jukebox country warring with billiard balls smacking into each other and voices, lots of them. Hell of a place to be on a Sunday afternoon. Guess this was the ranch hands’ version of Sunday services.
Tucker and I stood in the doorway, in the traditional wait-until-our-eyes-adjust pose. For us, it didn't take long. Genetics is a good thing—most of the time.
The Diamondback wasn't really very big, a squarish room with a bar in its center, a sort of dance floor wrapped around the bar, empty of dancers. Tables and booths lined the outside walls. Today, most of the seats were occupied. At the far right corner was a dark and somewhat forbidding doorway, presumably to the restrooms. The jukebox was to the right of that. A couple of pool tables nestled to the left of the bar, in the shadows of the back of the building. A few men, a woman or two, lounged there, holding cues, sipping beers. I couldn't really tell over the disgusting reek of decades-old nicotine and stale cigarettes, but I didn't think the place served any food—that is, besides the ubiquitous chips and salsa, beer nuts and bar snack mix found in most places. No doubt you could buy a bag or two of beef jerky if that took your fancy. I suppose that was for the best. I'm not so sure I'd want to eat food cooked here.
Weathered faces looked at us, eyes glittering in the hazy air as they studied the newcomers. Lean men in cowboy hats, snap front shirts and Levis worn over a variety of boot brands lifted bottles to lips as they checked us out. A few women sat at the tables too, but not very many. The guy-to-girl ratio in here approached that of the Alaskan bush.
The noise level subsided a little as they looked, but then rose again as most of them recognized us. It's not that we were friends with any of these guys ... but since the Kellys had been residents for so many years, our faces were often seen at the various local establishments: the café, the video store, the deli. We were from around here (more or less) and didn't ping the tourist radar.
"Can I help you?” A heavy twang turned “can” into “kin.” No offer of a seat, nor refreshment. No worries, we weren't there to drink.
A smallish woman approached us, bar tray in hand. Her tired face smiled at us, but the expression was a mask. Her eyes remained dull, also a bit wary. We were trespassers here, no matter how well known we were around town. This was not our turf. She wore an outfit that was meant to flatter, but didn't. High cut shorts, topped by a skimpy green T-shirt that barely covered her assets ... and those she had plenty of. I hoped she'd gotten her money's worth. The shirt was so tiny, the cursive “Diamondback” barely had room to fit alongside the crooked name tag that read “Brandi.” Of course. Brandi's streaked blond hair hung limp, the teased “do” a casualty of the job. No telling how long she'd been working today, but I'd bet it was more hours than her feet could stand. She had that pinched look that echoed the ache in her lower back and her arches.
I was beginning to think I'd walked into a movie set with all the ugly stereotypes and clichés. Of course, like they say, every stereotype starts with some truth. Brandi here was the proof of it.
"Hello, darlin'. How are ya?” My brother's voice suddenly turned Texan, the drawling sound nearly a parody of the woman's own heavy East Texas syllables. I didn't have to turn to know that he'd flashed the easy grin that so many women—and men—found irresistible. I saw it in the changed expression on Brandi's face. Her smile widened, the lines on her face smoothing out, her eyes now flashing interest. She shot me a quick glance, unsure of my role here. I could see her trying to work it out. Girlfriend? Wife? Her gaze dropped to my hand and then as quickly back to Tucker. Not wife. No ring. Her smile flashed into calculated smirk, then back to friendly smile.
I stayed quiet. This was definitely Tucker's forte, not mine. He could do the honors.
"I don't know if you know me,” he continued. “My name's Tucker Kelly. This here's my sister."
This here? For the love of ... what was he going to say next: Fixin’ to? Yonder? I hadn't heard my brother lay it on this thick since I was in junior high and he was messing with my cranky adolescent self. If he said aw shucks I was going to smack him one ... right upside the head.
Brandi's friendly smile morphed into a seductive one, a little lip lick and head toss thrown in as garnish. Her attitude instantly changed from wary to wannabe wicked sexy, every bit of her body language straining to shout “Notice me.” Obviously, she'd decided I no longer posed a threat to her.
"Hey there, Tucker,” she said, her twang now softened deliberately into a drawl. Damn. She was a pro at this. I didn't blame her, though. Tucker was probably
as far from her normal clientele as you could get and still be in Texas ... even if you assumed his humanity.
"Can I get y'all somethin'?” Her smug smile included me this time, the “y'all” a concession.
"How about a couple of Shiner Bocks?” My brother asked, honeyed voice dripping with teasing seduction. I had to fight not to laugh. Brandi was good. Tucker Kelly was better ... much, much better. Centuries of practice. In fact, if I had to compare, and ignoring my own emotional bias, Tucker was probably better at this than Adam.
"Y'all pick anyplace to sit,” Brandi called over her shoulder as she scurried to get our beers. “I'll be right back."
"I'm sure you will,” I muttered under my breath.
Tucker chuckled and placed a hand against the small of my back, gesturing graciously toward an unoccupied table to the right of the bar. Not a bad vantage point, all things considered. For the likes of us, an instant and inevitable choice apparent the moment we'd stepped through the door. It was a small, square table, designed to seat four comfortably and was set in a corner made by a small railing and an alcove. With no window behind, and because the table was set at an angle out from the wall, both Tucker and I could sit with our backs safe and still be able to see the rest of the room. Gigi definitely didn't raise us to be no fools. This was Kelly clan primary education. When in unknown territory, take every advantage. Always sit with your back to the wall and don't let them sneak up on you. Not that I necessarily expected violence this afternoon, but safe is better than sorry any day.
Surprisingly, the table was spick-and-span clean. I'd expected worse—half-emptied ashtrays and sticky beer residue. The Diamondback might be a cliché, but the proprietors seemed to take pride in their shabby establishment.
I nodded to a couple of the men seated near us. They nodded back and went back to their low conversation. I wasn't sure, but they might have been some of the hands from the Pursell place. I exchanged a glance with Tucker. He nodded slightly, acknowledging what I didn't ask out loud.
Brandi was back in no time, frosted mugs brimming with dark liquid. I'd expected bottles, but this was much better.
"Thank you,” I said, as she placed a mug in front of me.
"Sure thing,” she replied, a perky note in her voice. She leaned across the table to serve Tucker his beer. He grinned, she gasped a little in reaction. I could almost smell the pheromones pouring off her. I was sure Tucker could.
"So what brings y'all here?” Brandi asked, bending forward even more. She dropped her left hand to the table and let her weight lean on that arm as she continued her display. I was surprised that she hadn't pulled a Janet Jackson yet. I had to applaud whoever engineered her clothing. I'd have figured that gravity would have won out by now. I didn't really mind this silly preening. I knew Tucker was playing a game and could get information much more easily this way. Problem was, Brandi's pert and barely covered ass was still a too close to my face for comfort. She was practically wriggling at Tucker.
"Why don't you join us?” Tucker leaned forward and pulled out a chair. “It's okay, right?” Thank goodness, he'd noticed my discomfort.
Brandi glanced over towards the bar, then surveyed the room. No one appeared to be in need of anything. “Why sure,” she said, beaming an even bigger smile as she slid into the proffered seat. “We don't hold to much formal stuff ‘round here. I got some time."
"That's great.” Tucker instantly relaxed, draping an arm over the back of the chair, letting his legs splay out even more in the classic posture of strutting male. He was working it ... working her. She ate it up.
I instantly tuned them out, knowing that for the next few minutes, my brother would be exchanging the expected getting-to-know-you small talk, laced liberally with body language meant to tease, to entice. I could watch him and Brandi dance this game, or I could take advantage of the opportunity and survey the room. Give me door number two, Monty. While my brother was reeling in the waitress, I'd check out the patrons.
There were maybe twenty-five people in the place, the dance floor barren for now. Sunday afternoons were for chillin’ and drinking. It wasn't football season, so the small television at the back of the bar was dark. A second waitress moved around the pool tables, passing out beers and emptying overflowing ashtrays. She could easily be Brandi's twin, hair a different shade of blond, legs a tad bit longer—the deep country Texas version of Hooters—a little less leg showing, a lot more hair, about the same ratio of natural to purchased.
A few wives or girlfriends accompanied their men, each with the same rode hard and put away wet look, Mary Kay troweled-on faces worn by too many kids, beers and cigarettes. These were tough women who ran homes on thinner than shoestring budgets, hoping that La Migra or the bad economy didn't take their man and their livelihood. Most of the women worked outside the home. They had to. Working a dead end desk job didn't bring in enough money to really help, but at least it was steady and sometimes the jobs even came with health insurance. Some of them were watching me, watching my brother.
I didn't blame them for looking at me with both envy and hatred. Despair colored their expressions like Miss Clairol colored their hair.
My family had been part of this area for as long as theirs had. The main difference was exactly that—difference. My family had been different from the get-go. Not wealthy ranch owners like Judge Pursell—those types, they knew how to handle. They were the bosses, and the bosses had trophy wives and trophy kids who had to be tolerated. We weren't like them, either, not because we weren't originally from here, nobody really was, except for the Mexicanos, and it was no longer their land. A lot of these guys’ families emigrated here from Germany, Alsace-Lorraine, and other places in the heart of Europe. Names like Schneider and Tschirhardt were as common as Lozano and Garcia.
Again, another point of difference from us, the Kelly clan: most of us were Celtic fair and dark or red of hair and freckled. When I was little, I wanted to have olive skin like Bea. It was such a contrast to my own paleness. Bea darkened in the sun, her smooth tan the envy of many girls in school. I couldn't stay out for long or I'd lobster up quicker than a microwave dinner. Even the lighter-skinned European stock had all come from peasant roots, hardy, sturdy bodies that thrived in the country, long family histories of working the land.
Some of the locals accepted our family, at least the ones who traded with us—Bea's parents, Jonna and Drew Crofter who owned the laundry, Carlton's dad, who accepted us as law abiding, thus easy to leave be. Most of the time the folks in the county, if not friends, came to tolerate and include us as part of the community.
The ranch hands and their families—not so much. They hadn't hated us, not really, not like they hated Arabs (pronounced Ay-rabs) or homosexuals or even city folk. With us, mostly it was the discomfort kind of hate. The kind that meant “I don't understand you, but you've been around for a while and haven't messed with me, so maybe you're okay” ... on the other hand, maybe we weren't, and that's why we never fit in. We, meaning the so-called younger generation. Tucker, me, Marty—who'd been more like them than they'd ever known, and the rest of the clan that looked to be in my generation, even though they weren't.
Most of our so-called contemporaries finished at the high school and then went to work locally, at some ranch somewhere, or maybe in Boerne or Kerrville, or maybe even in San Antonio. These shrubs didn't grow far from the family roots.
They never understood our free and easy traveling ways. I'd gone off to college in England, returned briefly and then went back overseas after my affair with Carlton. Tucker had come and gone between Rio Seco and Europe with as much ease as if he'd been driving up to Austin for a weekend. My father and other brothers had been much the same. Our life, our internal family culture (at least the public side of it) was as far from theirs as New York was from Outer Mongolia. I'd wondered recently if this constant outsiderness was one of the reasons that Gigi had decreed the family relocation. Yes, the area was filling up with incomers, but that surely c
ouldn't have been the main reason to pull up stakes and move. Surely a clan as ancient as ours could figure out how to exist here, in a place that had grown used to us. Surely we'd have been able to purchase enough more land to keep our hunting grounds. I didn't know. Maybe it was easier being an outsider when there were fewer people to be an outsider from. This wasn't something I'd ever discuss with Gigi, as the matriarch and clan chief, she'd admit to no weakness. Kind of like Adam in that respect.
"So you know Alex, then.” The words penetrated my thoughts and I turned my attention back to my brother's conversation.
"Why sure, sugar,” she said. “He and those boys from Judge P's place, why, they're regulars. If it's Sunday, at least a handful of ‘em are here. ‘Cept I haven't seen him since the last big party. ‘Bout two, three months now.” Brandi shimmied a little in her seat. “Don't know where he went, but a big bunch of ‘em were out here last Sunday, another party. Jolene and I worked a double on account of they paid extra. Brought in fried chicken and taco fixin's and such. Even had barbecue from Rudy's. Those boys stayed until closing. They had a grand old time."
"Yeah, and look where it got us."
Fuck. I'd been so caught up in listening to Brandi's story, I hadn't noticed the man approaching the table. Pete. Judge Pursell's foreman. He didn't appear to be any friendlier than he had been at the ranch.
Tucker and I both stood, keeping our backs to the wall. Brandi slid out of her chair and scurried over to the bar. I had to appreciate that. She obviously was a survivor.
"What do you mean?” I asked, keeping my voice steady and quiet.
"I got fired.” Pete challenged us with his expression. “You people bought the ranch, and I don't got a job."
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
I exchanged a quick glance with Tucker, unsure of what to do. It was obvious that Pete was more than a little worse for wear. He listed to the left, half-empty bottle of Lone Star dangled from his lax fingers. Bloodshot eyes completed the picture.
