Texas by the Tail

by Jim Thompson

  He tore his gaze away from her, the thrusting lewdness of her body. He rubbed his eyes, as though rubbing the sun out of them, and then her boot heels clicked on the packed earth, and he at last looked into her face.

  Looked and was almost sick.

  For what he had thought was a girl was a woman. An old woman. Which meant that she had to be Gidge (Agatha) Lord.

  Her hair was not blonde but a dirty gray. The face beneath it was burned to a deep brown; withered and shrunken as though by some savage headhunter’s rite. Her eyes were so pale that they seemed colorless, all milky whites. He could hardly see her mouth until she opened it—only a brown wrinkle in the deeper brownness of her flesh.

  She held out her hand. Mitch started to extend his, and she viciously slapped it away.

  “The checks, Corley! Let’s have them!”

  “I’ll be glad to,” Mitch said. “In exchange for thirty-three thousand dollars.”

  “Give!”

  The cowhands had lounged up to her sides and a little past, forming the ends of a half-circle. They stood with their thumbs looped in their belts, their jaws chewing lazily as they held him in a cold, unwinking stare.

  Mitch shrugged lightly, managing a surprisingly cheerful grin. “Well…” He passed over the checks. “As long as you insist…”

  Taking out his cigarettes, he made a gesture of passing them around. He beamed confidence and good-nature at the two men, trying to bring them under the sway of his personality, fighting with the only weapons he had. The men remained exactly as they were, thumbs looped in their belts, eyes staring unblinkingly, acknowledging his existence only as something potentially interesting but thoroughly unimportant.

  Mrs. Lord examined the checks, one by one.

  Then she ripped them to pieces, and hurled the pieces into Mitch’s face.

  “You filthy prick! You know what we do to pricks around here?”

  “I’ll bet you’re going to tell me,” Mitch said.

  “I’m going to show you! What do we do with pricks, Al?”

  There was a low chuckle from behind Mitch. “Put ’em in a hole, ma’am.”

  Mitch whirled, but he wasn’t fast enough. Nothing would have been fast enough. There was no running from a spot like this. The rope sang and dropped over him. It jerked and he flew off his feet. His head banged down hard on the stony dirt, and a million skyrockets went off at once and he passed out.

  When he came to, he was being hoisted up on the floor of the stub derrick. His feet were firmly tied now, although his hands and arms were free. He pushed himself up, rubbing the dirt out of his eyes.

  A couple of men were prying up a square of planks in the middle of the floor. Two others were stringing a block and cable in the derrick. Another, a very young man, was standing with his arm around Mrs. Lord, his hand patting one of her flaring buttocks.

  They saw Mitch looking at them, and laughed. But they moved a little apart.

  Mitch massaged his aching head, and glanced up into the rig. As he did so, one of the men there swung out and down, riding a cable. He came down, and Mitch suddenly went up. Shot up feet first into the derrick.

  He went up about thirty feet. Then he came gently down, until he hung poised over the gaping hole in the derrick floor.

  Gidge grabbed him by the hair, thrust her hag’s face close to his. “Want to guess what you’re going to get now? Think you can guess, hmm?”

  But Mitch didn’t need to guess. He knew.

  Practically all modern oil wells are sunk with rotary rigs, which drill with bits attached to pipe. As the well deepens, more lengths of pipe are added, thus making a hole—a relatively small one—which is the same size from top to bottom. Old oil wells, however, any well drilled, say, before 1930, were drilled with cable tools, which made a hole by dropping a bit from a string of cable. This method required the frequent setting of casing (pipe), to protect the drilling tools from cave-ins. Naturally, each string of casing had to be smaller than the preceding one. This also meant, of course, that where a deep well was contemplated, the hole at the top had to be very large.

  The hole Mitch was dangling over was old and huge; the so-called “big hole” of a deep test. But no well had been drilled. Two hundred feet down the bit had struck an unexpected vein of granite, and there was nothing to do but pull out and try another location.

  The Lords had left the hole unplugged, planning just such use for it as it was now being put to. Their reputation being what it was, however, they had not had an opportunity to use it for a long time.

  Mitch went down through the hole in the floor, and into the hole in the ground. He did not struggle. It was useless. His one hope was to make it as simple and painless as possible.

  He held out his hands in front of him, like a diver, keeping his body stiff and straight. Going down crooked or twisted could result in serious injury. He sank into the yawing darkness smoothly, brushing but not scraping the sides of the hole. The blood rushed to his head and his brain roared with it. But he kept a firm hold on his nerves.

  This was going to be damned bad. But nothing more than that. He wasn’t going to die. They weren’t going to kill him.

  He held onto that thought as he went deeper and deeper into the hole. Repeating it over and over, They won’t kill me, they won’t kill me…

  And he was wrong.

  They were going to kill him.

  Unintentionally.

  Water had seeped into the hole since its last usage. No one knew it, it couldn’t be seen from the surface. But it now stood more than half full of water.

  Mitch went into it headfirst, and it closed over him.

  22

  Frank Downing, the gambler, had never been a sound sleeper. Too many of his years, particularly the early ones, had been lived in a world where sound sleepers suffered fatal accidents. He was a considerable distance removed from that world now, of course, but habit was strong in him, and he still slept in starts and snatches; feeling no impelling urge to sleep until it was too late, and he had to get up.

  He liked to have a minimum of six cups of coffee before breakfast. With and after the meal, he would have a minimum of six more cups, by which time he was prepared to be reasonably affable to people—in his own way, of course, providing he felt them deserving of affability.

  He had never felt that Frankie and Johnnie were deserving of it. He had to use them, yes (or at least he thought he had to), but what they deserved, in his opinion, was what they were so fond of dishing out. And he had secretly yearned for an excuse to give it to them for a very long time.

  Since his evenings and nights were extremely busy, they had not been able to report back to him on the day of their visit to Teddy. Oh, they could have, if they had tried. But they had wanted to make the job look harder and more time-consuming than it was, so they had delayed until the following morning.

  It was the morning after one of Downing’s most sleepless nights. Moreover, being anxious to make a good impression, they arrived early for their appointment, thus finding him several cups of coffee short of his absolutely essential dozen. Then, they told him what they had done, giggling and snickering, very pleased with themselves. And his hand jerked at the news, and he slopped an overflowing cup of coffee on himself.

  He caught their smirks and winks, as he tried to mop up with a napkin. But no one would have guessed that he did. He seemed wonderfully good-humored, as though losing a night’s sleep and having his sacred waking-up schedule disrupted and spilling coffee all over three hundred bucks’ worth of clothes and having his strict orders disastrously emended by a couple of punks—as though all these had been delightful and heart-warming experiences.

  Goddammit, he thought. That blows it for Mitch! It could have been a cinch, and these stupes have to act smart!

  He smiled genially at them, and complimented them on their astuteness.

  “Smart,” he said. “Yes, sir, that was plen-ty smart. Funny I didn’t think of it myself.”

  “
Oh well”—Johnnie excused him patronizingly. “A man can’t think of everything.”

  “Mmm-hmm,” Downing murmured. “A man can’t think of everything. That’s pretty shrewd, Johnnie, I’ll have to remember it.”

  “Anyway,” Frankie cut in, “you didn’t know that she had all that loot. I guess you would have, if you’d stopped to think about it, but—”

  “But there you were,” Downing said. A man couldn’t think of everything. “Guess I’ll have to hire you boys to help me do my thinking,” he added. “Excuse me a minute, will you?”

  He left them briefly. Returning, he sat down in front of them on the edge of his desk. His hands were thrust in the pockets of his coat. Each hand gripped a roll of quarters.

  “By the way,” he said. “How did you boys happen to know Mitch’s address?”

  “Oh, she knew. Teddy knew where to take the dough,” Johnnie smirked. “Keeping tabs on Mitch was kind of her business.”

  “But she’s in a new business from now on,” Frankie snickered.

  Downing jerked his head at them confidentially, drawing them in close. “Got something funny to tell you guys. You’ll get a bang out of it.…” He grinned widely, his hands tightening on the rolls of quarters. “Mitch is away from Houston for a couple of days. Anyone that called on him would see the gal he lives with, a real hot-tempered babe who doesn’t know that he—”

  Frankie and Johnnie didn’t wait to have it spelled out for them. They flung themselves backward, trying to make a break for it. Downing’s loaded fists lashed out.

  He got them both in their pretty pans, with a lightning swift one-two. Then, as they spun, he swung with a double-armed backhand, again connecting with such force that they crashed against opposite walls of the room.

  They were still out to the world some ten minutes later when Ace came in. He gave them a raised-brow look, shook his head deprecatingly at Downing.

  “You shouldn’t let guys sleep in here, boss. It don’t look good.”

  “There’s something in the atmosphere, I guess,” Downing said. “They dozed off right while I was talking to ’em.”

  “Well, that was kind of rude,” Ace said, frowning at the recumbent youths. “How’s your hearing these days, boss?”

  “Not so good. The last guys you bounced around in the alley, I couldn’t hardly hear it at all.”

  Ace expressed alarm. After all, he pointed out, the alley was only a hundred yards away. “You suppose we ought to run another test?”

  Downing thought that they should. Ace awakened Frankie and Johnnie.

  He was very good at waking people. Even those who seemingly would never waken again. The boys were on their feet in a matter of seconds, howling and dodging and making many of the same kinds of noises that Teddy had made.

  Ace took them out in the high-walled alley.

  “Now that,” said Downing, a hundred yards away, “is a test!”

  23

  Darkness…

  Black wet no dark light and…

  Smothering strangling and breath wind downup up up biting slicing legs burning yank high low…

  Racing air and light light joggle run bump slam sound of slam mumbles and shouts voices light light breath and coughing strangling burning chest and…

  Voices whiskey coughing brush knock away…

  Mitch kept his head ducked, lips clenched against the pressing whiskey. He kept his eyes closed peevishly, mumbling with simulated incoherence. Fully conscious but wanting time to size things up.

  He was soaked, dripping with the oily slime from the well. Several people were around him, cowhands seemingly; mumbling and fumbling as they tried to revive him. He was sitting slumped on a leather lounge. The room he was in was apparently a large one, for Gidge Lord’s voice drifted to him from a considerable distance away.

  “…Oh, no! Certainly not. There’s nothing at all wrong. He just stepped outside for a…Just a moment, please. I believe he’s coming in right now…”

  She laid the phone down on the desk, as Mitch at last opened his eyes. Frantically, motioning for the cowhands to get out, she hastened across to him.

  “I’m sorry as hell, Corley! I swear to God I didn’t know that hole was—”

  Mitch weaved to his feet—weaved deliberately. There was something that had to be figured out here: the reason for Mrs. Lord’s alarm, her downright panic. The clue that might lead to that one-in-a-million chance.

  “Please, Corley…” She was hanging onto his arm, her magnificent torso moving against his, as she guided him toward the desk. “Don’t crumb me with him, please! Don’t knock me, for God’s sake! Tell him everything’s okay, and I swear I’ll…”

  She smiled at him with her leathery face. The milky eyes pleading, beaming good will.

  Mitch picked up the phone, and spoke into it. A harsh, strangely musical voice came over the wire. And immediately he had the clue to the riddle.

  The banks were loaded with Gidge Lord’s paper. They would lend no more, so she had been beating the state of Texas for big private money. And one of the most obvious prospects for a huge private loan, a man who would instantly know the worth of the Lord holdings and see the opportunity in their mismanagement, was—

  “Mr. Zearsdale,” Mitch said. “It’s good to hear from you so soon.”

  “It’s nice of you to say so,” Zearsdale purred. “Your sister told me I might catch you there.”

  Mitch said that the call had come just in time. He might have been gone in another minute. Zearsdale said he was glad to hear it.

  “As long as you’re through there, you can come to a little party I’m giving tonight. Your sister wants to come, if it’s agreeable with you.”

  “Well, thanks very much,” Mitch said. “What—eight o’clock? Hang on for a moment, will you?”

  He started to turn to Mrs. Lord. Zearsdale’s suddenly sharp voice stopped him. “Is there some trouble there, Mr. Corley? Be frank with me, please. The ranch doesn’t have a reputation for friendliness.”

  “Well—” Mitch hesitated.

  “I suggest that you tell Mrs. Lord I’ve invited you to a party at my home tonight. Tell her I’ll be very disappointed if you’re not there.”

  “Well, the fact is,” Mitch said, “we have a little business to wind up. It could be wrapped up in no time, if we could get right down to it. But—”

  “Then tell her to—No, let me talk to her.”

  Mitch passed over the phone. As she took it, spoke into it almost cringingly, he added her attitude to Zearsdale’s peremptory one and arrived at the only possible conclusion.

  She already had her loan, or a big part of it. Made on demand notes, naturally, since Zearsdale would accept no term paper in a situation that might go sour overnight. So she was over a barrel, Gidge Lord was. She had to be nice, very very nice, or she would take a painful pecuniary paddling right on her astonishing ass.

  She handed back the phone, smiling, grimacing rather; literally groveling in appeasement. Mitch winked at her, and she went to a wall safe, begun turning the combination.

  “Mr. Corley…” Zearsdale said again. “I’m sure Mrs. Lord understands the situation now.”

  “I’m sure she does, too,” Mitch said. “Thanks very much.”

  “Not at all. By the way, I’ve got a jet over in Midland. Give you a ride home, if you like.”

  “Thanks,” Mitch said, “but I may as well use the other half of my round trip. I’ll tell you what I might do, if it won’t inconvenience you…”

  “Yes?”

  “It’s a long, rough ride back to Big Spring. Why don’t I check with you from there in two or three hours, so that you’ll know I haven’t, uh, haven’t had any accidents.”

  “You do that.” Zearsdale caught his meaning immediately. “You do that, Mr. Corley.”

  They hung up after a moment or two of polite nothings.

  Mrs. Lord closed the safe and came back to the desk. She counted out thirty-three thousand dollars, and pushed it a
cross to him.

  “Would you like to clean up a little? I can give you some other clothes, too.”

  Mitch said that sounded good to him, but his immediate need was for a drink and a cigarette. She provided them quickly, also pouring a drink for herself. Then, spoke to him nervously as he settled back in his chair.

  “Maybe you’d better sort of hurry, hmm? You’ve got to be back in town in a few hours.”

  “Oh?” Mitch took a deliberate taste of his drink. “You think I might have trouble getting there?”

  “You’ll get there, all right! You’ll get there if I have to carry you on my back!”

  Mitch chuckled wickedly.

  He wasn’t inclined to pour it on anyone when they were down, but Gidge Lord wasn’t just anyone. She was damned near a murderer. His. He felt entitled to needle her a bit.

  “I’m a professional gambler,” he pointed out. “I come out here alone, and face up to an army of your thugs. And I make you pay off like a slot machine. I think the experience should prove very good for you, Mrs. Lord.”

  “So?” She left it at that, not saying any of the things that she might have said. That Zearsdale probably didn’t know he was a gambler, that it was Zearsdale, and Zearsdale alone, who was making her behave.

  She had had to take a beating. That was the fact, and to hell with the why.

  “You’re not even curious?” Mitch teased. “You don’t wonder why a man like Zearsdale would go to so much trouble over me?”

  “No,” she said flatly, “I’m not curious, Corley. But maybe you should be.”

  24

  Mitch got back into Big Spring early in the afternoon. After checking with Zearsdale, he shucked out of his borrowed duds, took a long, hot bath and re-dressed in some he had brought with him. Then he called Red, asking her to meet him when he arrived in Houston.

  She sounded a little cool and strained. But that, he thought, was natural enough. He had left town without giving her a chance to object—and she would have objected to a trip as perilous as this one. Now that he was out of danger, she meant to punish him for the scare he had given her.