South Texas Tangle. T.K. O'Neill

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СКАЧАТЬ stoking Jimmy’s nerves as he turned the key and fired up the cherry Ford. Glancing toward the ranch house, Jimmy eased out the clutch and backed down the pavement to the dirt road, headlights off. Swinging the truck around, he headed away from the main highway, and, he hoped, the law.

      Jimmy had often wondered what you might find on one of these strips of white dirt you saw running out from the highways in ranch country. Shifting into third, he watched the dust kicking up behind him in the red tint of the taillights, Jimmy thinking, This road could take me anywhere. Or nowhere.

      Inside the tidy ranch house, Rachel and Dr. Robert Hayden couldn’t hear anything over the commotion from the most recent of their increasingly frequent fights. This time it was about the lazy hired hands and the amount of time the doctor was spending away from home, the reasons du jour Rachel chose when she really just wished Doctor Bob would stand up and face himself—perhaps accept responsibility for his actions—if it wasn’t too goddamn inconvenient. But honestly, these days, just about anything could set the two of them off.

      Recoiling from his wife’s angry salvos, Dr. Robert huffed and mumbled as he retreated toward the sanctuary of his lockable home office, Rachel saying to his departing back: “You better start taking more of a part in this marriage or there’s going to be trouble, Bob. You can’t hide from the truth forever, Doctor.”

      Calling him “Doctor” to express her growing indifference.

      Patrolman Henning jogged back to his darkened cruiser where it sat idling, lights off, a hundred yards down Gamble Gulch Road from the Chevy minivan. He’d considered putting a few rounds from his sidearm into the van to give it that Texas “been-here-a-while” look but decided against it because noise carries and crime lab nerds can identify slugs.

      Having stuffed the cash in a military-surplus duffel he’d found in the back of the van—Christ, a ton of money in wrapped packets, all denominations—Henning threw the olive-drab bag into the trunk of the cruiser and drove back to the Interstate.

      Nothing on I-37 but blackness.

      Good.

      His watch ending soon, Henning needed to get the hell down the road and make a bust a long ways from Gamble Gulch before some citizen called in the abandoned minivan. Tearing down the highway at eighty-five, passing everything in sight, which fortunately wasn’t much—couple tourists and a few semis—Henning got to Lake Corpus Christi Road in a few minutes, made a U and started back north. Wasn’t long before he came up behind a blue Ford Focus with its rear license plate light out.

      Henning pulled the loser over. And when the kid rolled down the window, reefer smoke floated out thick as the pubes on a Jaurez whore. Just like I figured, Henning thought. Young spic doper out for some fucking and sucking. And the girl was white. No crime, but maybe her parents would want to know the company she was keeping. No doubt he’d find contraband if he searched the car—but Henning was feeling too good tonight for complications. And it was getting late. And hell, when you got down to it, spics weren’t that bad. Worked hard for shit wages and were better than niggers any day.

      Going through the motions, Henning scanned the kid’s license with his flashlight, wrote out a ticket for the faulty light and gave his usual stern lecture about the dangers of inattentive driving. And how kids should be home doing schoolwork or sleeping this time of night instead of out on the highway looking for trouble.

      The driver, likely thinking he was off the hook, seemed about ready to jump out the window and give Henning a kiss. Kid was looking at the ticket and slobbering. “You’re right officer, it is very late. I lost track of the time. We’ll go directly home, I promise.”

      Something in the boy’s tone annoyed Henning. Now he couldn’t help himself. Staring down at the nervous kid, he said, “Before you leave, Alex, I’d like you to do one thing for me.”

      “Yes, sir?”

      Henning believed Alex would get down on his knees and slurp the snake if he asked him to, anything to avoid a search of the car. Grinning slightly, enjoying his power and rushing behind thoughts of the cash in the trunk of his cruiser, Henning said, “Come around to the passenger side with me, Alex. I have a favor to ask of you.”

      Alex got out of the Focus and moped around to the other side, glancing warily at Henning. “Alex,” Henning said, stopping by the passenger window, “Open this door and reach inside the car. Push the button on the glove compartment with the back of your hand and then step back out of there. I have this sneaking suspicion there’s something in there going to do you and your friends harm. Would you do that for me, Alex?”

      Henning stood there grinning, watching the kid and tapping his fingers on the butt of the Glock 17 in his hip holster. Henning saw subservience in the kid’s eyes, the boy’s hands trembling. Henning hoped there wasn’t a weapon in the glove box. There was, he’d have to brain the dumb kid, same as the last fool he baited into trying something.

      Alex Ruiz looked scared shitless and did exactly as told, leaning in to push the button on the glove compartment with the back of his right hand before backing out quickly. Then Henning’s flashlight beam settled on a pint of lime vodka inside the glove box. And reaching in to lift it out, Henning saw the edge of a plastic bag peeking out from under some papers. He lifted out the liquor bottle and set it on the roof of the Ford, reached back in and grabbed the baggie and let it unfurl, saw a few brown buds of marijuana. “Just as I expected, Alex, you were about to travel down this public thoroughfare without your rear license plate light and in the possession of dangerous drugs and cheap alcohol. I wonder what Mr. and Mrs. Ruiz would think about this, Alex? You do have parents, don’t you, boy?”

      “Yes sir.”

      “That’s good, son. A boy needs two parents in this world today. What about your girlfriend here? What’s her name?”

       “Jenny.”

      “Jenny what, son?”

      “Jenny Lang, sir.”

      “So, Jenny Lang,” Henning said, bending over with the baggie in his hand and leaning in closer to the frightened girl. “You have an ID with that name on it, young lady?”

      The girl had her driver’s license ready and handed it up to him.

      “Well, Alex,” Henning said after examining the girl’s license, the nervous eighteen-year-old boy shifting from foot to foot on the shoulder of the Interstate. “What do you think the Langs would think about this trouble you’ve gotten their pretty young daughter into tonight?”

      “There’s only a Mrs. Lang, sir. Jenny’s old man split a long time ago.”

      “So you thought you’d take advantage of a poor fatherless girl, huh, Pedro?”

      “It’s Alex, sir, and it’s not like that at all. It’s her dope—her booze. I—”

      “That’s where you’re wrong, boy. From now on, this contraband belongs to the State of Texas. And I’ll hang onto your driver’s license in case anything bad happens to cute little Jenny Lang here. In the case of said event, or any other goddamn stunts you might pull in the future, I will take this bag of dope with your license inside it and mail it to Ms. Lang’s mother. And I hope Jenny here has some second thoughts about givin’ it out to a whimpering snitch like you. So get your sorry ass down the road and have that light fixed or I’ll chase you down and bust your ass.”

      Alex did what СКАЧАТЬ