South Texas Tangle. T.K. O'Neill

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СКАЧАТЬ apathy of the downer currently spreading over him like warm syrup, Sam said, “How you plan on getting in? Cop might have a security system, some link to his headquarters.”

      “Been watching them cop shows on the telly, Sam? Guard lives out this far in the boondocks is gonna think being a copper is enough to keep the bad guys away. Like, ya know—who the hell would come all the way out here to burgle a fookin’ caravan? Den of bandits over the next hill? Band of renegade Apaches? Come on now, Sambo, cut the shite and let’s move. Most of these things have a sliding door in back, easy as popping a tin of sardines. We’ll be in and out before ya know it.”

      “It’s not me knowing it that I’m worried about.”

      The trailer did have a sliding glass door in back. But it wouldn’t move in spite of the easy way Frankie unlatched the lock with a thin metal tool from his satchel. Sam stood impatiently behind Neelan, watching Frankie jerking the handle of the glass door. “Just like a man with something to hide, Sam,” Frankie said. “Must be a stick in the track.”

      The drug having finally won him over, Sam was feeling bold. “Don’t be an idiot, Frankie. This is a young couple with a kid. Man must work the night shift sometimes. Of course the lady would have a stick in the door. Now let’s get the fuck out of here before one of his trooper friends shows up with a twelve-pack.”

      “Not so fast, Sam. Don’t forget who’s in charge.”

      “I didn’t forget. Bob Ryan is in charge. And I’m not sure he’d enjoy bailing us out on a B and E.”

      “Yer like a miserable old woman, Sam. As Bob’s chosen operative, I have implied permission to do what I think is best. What if the copper’s got the cash stuffed in his closet or under the floor in there? We find it and our job is done. I get a generous reward and you get to keep your shriveled-up gonads.”

      No longer having the inclination to argue with the much younger, bigger man, Sam shrugged and walked slump-shouldered to the swing set, wedging his nearly-too-big buttocks into one of the swings. Resting his elbows on his thighs and his chin in his hands, he gazed wistfully at the dirt at his feet, thoughts drifting along languidly in the back of his head, Sam only vaguely conscious of the sinking sun and the sound of traffic whining along out on the freeway.

      And he must’ve drifted off for a moment, because the next thing he knew, Frankie was looming above him, goon typing on his cell phone. “You get in?” Sam said, rubbing his eyes.

      “Nah. Bob rang me up before I could go in the window. He’s at the hotel and wants us there—now.”

      With some effort, Sam extricated himself from the swing and followed Neelan to the Escalade, Sam’s addled brain plodding through the outlines of a speech to Bob Ryan. Knowing he had to convince Ryan that he and Jimmy weren’t at fault and weren’t attempting a scam—or at the very least divert Ryan’s attention for a while—Sam rehearsed in his head, being careful to leave out the sarcasm. You wanted to keep Ryan calm.

      Who really was at fault, Bob? I’d say it was the moron who fastened on the license plates with plastic garbage bag ties. If not for that significant oversight, everything would have gone along just fine. Jimmy and I had this under control—that much is perfectly clear.

      Ryan might want the both of them dead, but as long as Jimmy was still around, Sam believed there was a play or two remaining. As the Escalade rumbled along towards the freeway, Sam sent a text message to Jimmy telling the little bastard what hotel they were staying at. When he finished he began worrying if Jimmy’s phone battery was charged.

      Oh, the complications of modern life.

      Walking down the lush residential streets of Port Aransas chewing an energy bar and racing indecisively through the numerous escape scenarios his mind was kicking out, Jimmy felt his phone vibrate and took it from his pocket, saw Sam Arndt displayed on the screen. Dude was a bookie and a high-end hustler but had pretty much always treated Jimmy right. At least Sam always gave him a chance to recoup his losses. And if he didn’t recoup, Sam was patient on the payback. Or was that just what a smart money man did? Jimmy couldn’t decide, only knew his loyalty to Arndt was stretching thin. A shrink would say he was conflicted. Well, fuck if he was going to let the goofy sonofabitch Arndt totally ruin his day. The weed had his head up and the sun was warming his bones and as long as he was here, he might as well get in some ray time on the beach, maybe stroll down to that Billy’s Bar and check out the situation.

      Jimmy shut off his phone, returned it to the pocket of his jams and continued strolling along, passing by shrimp-and-seafood outlets, shark-tooth emporiums, flounder restaurants and a Whataburger drive-in, before he finally saw the beach. And then—holy shit, talk about the hand of fate reaching out and grabbing you by the balls—there was the cute babe in the gold Minnesota Gophers’ shirt coming out of a convenience store.

      Another omen?

      But wait now, there was a redhead coming out of the store with Gopher Girl, babe with hair the color of nearly ripe strawberries. Little older than Gopher girl but just as delightful. Fine haughty rack stretching for the sun under an expensive-looking yellow top.

      Jimmy’s first urge was to go right up and say something to Gopher Girl, ask her how she liked her breakfast at the Sand Dollar Cafe. But the redhead was there so he had to slow himself down and observe. He watched the two of them talking like old friends, beach bags over their shoulders, laughing as they walked toward the beige Toyota. From his position about thirty yards away Jimmy watched the redhead point towards a mint, robin’s-egg-blue Ford pickup glinting in the sun at the back of the convenience store parking lot.

      Well, if that ain’t something else, Jimmy thought. Universe seems to be cooking up a gumbo for all of us. The redhead was pointing at the truck he’d stolen—correction, borrowed—and now the chick was getting into it.

      Watching the ladies driving in tandem toward the beach, Jimmy straightened his sunglasses, things sliding down his nose from sweat, pulled off his shirt and went sauntering after them.

      Lying on a multi-colored chaise in his red swim trunks, six-pack cooler and four empty Bud cans in the sand at his side, newly purchased aviator Ray Bans shielding his pale-blues from the glare, Dan Henning watched the line of his shore-casting rig stretching and drifting over the surf, the long cork handle inside a rod holder jammed in the sand down near his son. Danny was close to the gulf and the hole he was digging kept filling up with salty water, keeping the kid busy with his shovel, pail and dump truck. Building up a soggy pile of sand next to the hole, Danny seemed happy without much effort from Dad, who, nevertheless, was maintaining a watchful eye in case the boy encountered a jellyfish or some other stinging creature in his excavations.

      Friday afternoon and Mustang Island was starting to fill up, same as nearly every weekend when the weather was decent. You had your Mex’s from Corpus with their beat-up trucks and vans and loud music, vying for space with stoned white kids, and, this time of year, flocks of pasty-skinned tourists driving their rental cars on the beach for the sheer novelty of it.

      This was the part of the day that always signaled Henning it was time to leave the beach. A stomach full of beer requesting something more substantial and the sun making his Polish skin smell like barbecued pork, Poles not known for their deep tans. Dan’s original family name was Hovaskerich, changed to Henning by his father in honor of a Cowboys’ linebacker from the early sixties. Back in the day when the Hovaskerich family landed on U.S. soil, most immigrants wanted to sound American, and they changed their names accordingly. But now you had a bunch of numbnuts obsessed with trivial shit like preserving their heritage, which seemed to Henning like putting lipstick on a hog. But he also figured his СКАЧАТЬ