Lowdown Road E-Book

Scott Von Doviak

• Herausgeber: Titan Books
• Kategorie: Krimi
• Sprache: Englisch
• Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2023

Seitenzahl: 379

Beschreibung

Join a heart-racing road trip across 1970s America as two cousins make the heist of their lives and must avoid the cops and criminals hot on their tails. It's the summer of '74…Richard Nixon has resigned from office, CB radios are the hot new thing, and in the great state of Texas two cousins hatch a plan to drive $1 million worth of stolen weed to Idaho, where some lunatic is gearing up to jump Snake River Canyon on a rocket-powered motorcycle. But with a vengeful sheriff on their tail and the revered and feared marijuana kingpin of Central Texas out to get his stash back, Chuck and Dean are in for the ride of their lives – if they can make it out alive… Scott Von Doviak, longtime pop-culture journalist for The A.V. Club, Film Threat, The Hollywood Reporter, and the Fort Worth Star-Telegram, made a splash with his debut novel, CHARLESGATE CONFIDENTIAL, which Stephen King called "terrific" and "a fun machine…the white-knuckle kind." With LOWDOWN ROAD, he cements his reputation for pedal-to-the-metal storytelling that also makes you think about just who we are and where our darker roads might lead us.

Leseprobe

Contents

Cover

Title Page

Leave us a Review

Copyright

Dedication

One

Two

Three

Four

Five

Six

Seven

Eight

Nine

Ten

Eleven

Twelve

Thirteen

Fourteen

Fifteen

Sixteen

Seventeen

Eighteen

Nineteen

Twenty

Twenty-One

Twenty-Two

Twenty-Three

Twenty-Four

Twenty-Five

Twenty-Six

Twenty-Seven

Twenty-Eight

Twenty-Nine

Thirty

Thirty-One

Thirty-Two

Thirty-Three

Thirty-Four

Thirty-Five

Thirty-Six

Thirty-Seven

Thirty-Eight

Acknowledgments

Acclaim for the Work ofSCOTT VON DOVIAK!

“Terrific…A white-knuckle fun machine.”

—Stephen King

“Impressive...inventive...immensely enjoyable.”

—Wall Street Journal

“Highly entertaining.”

—Publishers Weekly

“A wildly inventive fantasia spiced with frequent revelations.”

—Kirkus Reviews

“Wonderful, intricate and satisfying…Von Doviak has done an incredible job.”

—The Crime Review

“A riveting tale…worthy of Dashiell Hammett in his prime.”

—Ernie Cline

“Breathtakingly clever…Scott Von Doviak [is] a storyteller of the first order.”

—Criminal Element

“The sort of canny, witty crime novel that doesn’t come along often enough…The crew at Hard Case Crime has found another gem!”

—Owen King

“An amazing sense of place and time…Can’t imagine it not making the Best Of lists next year.”

—Thomas Sniegoski

Sheriff Giddings went inside. Tables were overturned, windows were broken—along with many glasses and pitchers—and the floor was slick with beer and blood.

The bartender looked like she’d gone a few rounds with George Foreman. He showed her the photo.

“Yeah, they were here.” She grinned, revealing a cracked tooth in an otherwise brilliant smile. “That’s Dean, the foxy one. His cousin Chuck I didn’t meet.”

“How long ago did they leave?”

“Maybe an hour ago? Why, they in some kind of trouble?”

“They killed a police officer in cold blood.”

“Oh, I don’t believe it. Chuck, maybe. Like I said, I didn’t meet him. But Dean, he’s just as sweet as pie.”

“Do you know where they were going?”

“Dean said something about Evel Knievel. I guess he’s doing some big jump this weekend.”

“Do you know if they were planning on stopping for the night?”

“Not really. They left in a hurry. If you’re trying to catch them, I don’t think you’re alone. They pissed off a bunch of bikers too, and they’re headed for the same place.”

Giddings called the motel and canceled his room for the night. Too many other people were after the Melville boys, and he wasn’t about to let any of them beat him to thepunch…

SOME OTHER HARD CASE CRIME BOOKS YOU WILL ENJOY:

CHARLESGATE CONFIDENTIAL by Scott Von Doviak

JOYLAND by Stephen King

THE COCKTAIL WAITRESS by James M. Cain

THE TWENTY-YEAR DEATH by Ariel S. Winter

BRAINQUAKE by Samuel Fuller

EASY DEATH by Daniel Boyd

THIEVES FALL OUT by Gore Vidal

SO NUDE, SO DEAD by Ed McBain

THE GIRL WITH THE DEEP BLUE EYES by Lawrence Block

QUARRY by Max Allan Collins

SOHO SINS by Richard Vine

THE KNIFE SLIPPED by Erle Stanley Gardner

SNATCH by Gregory Mcdonald

THE LAST STAND by Mickey Spillane

UNDERSTUDY FOR DEATH by Charles Willeford

A BLOODY BUSINESS by Dylan Struzan

THE TRIUMPH OF THE SPIDER MONKEY by Joyce Carol Oates

BLOOD SUGAR by Daniel Kraus

DOUBLE FEATURE by Donald E. Westlake

ARE SNAKES NECESSARY? by Brian De Palma and Susan Lehman

KILLER, COME BACK TO ME by Ray Bradbury

FIVE DECEMBERS by James Kestrel

THE NEXT TIME I DIE by Jason Starr

THE HOT BEAT by Robert Silverberg

LowdownROAD

byScott Von Doviak

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A HARD CASE CRIME BOOK

(HCC-159)

First Hard Case Crime edition: July 2023

Published by

Titan Books

A division of Titan Publishing Group Ltd

144 Southwark Street

London SE1 0UP

in collaboration with Winterfall LLC

Copyright © 2023 by Scott Von Doviak

Cover painting copyright © 2023 by Tony Stella

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including photocopying, recording or by any information storage and retrieval system, without the written permission of the publisher, except where permitted by law.

This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual events or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

Print edition ISBN 978-1-80336-413-1

E-book ISBN 978-1-80336-412-4

Design direction by Max Phillips

www.maxphillips.net

Typeset by Swordsmith Productions

The name “Hard Case Crime” and the Hard Case Crime logo are trademarks of Winterfall LLC. Hard Case Crime books are selected and edited by Charles Ardai.

Visit us on the web at www.HardCaseCrime.com

LOWDOWN ROAD

ONE

Chuck Melville managed to stay out of trouble for six months following his release from the Texas state prison in Huntsville. That’s what folks would say later over coffee at the Buttered Biscuit, although it would be more accurate to point out that Chuck got into a great deal of trouble during those six months—he just managed to evade the attention of law enforcement while he was doing it.

That lucky streak ended on a sticky late summer night in 1974 when Chuck pulled into the parking lot of the shopping plaza at North and Hutchison and spotted Gary Foulke getting out of his Ford F250. It was Gary who got Chuck sent to Huntsville in the first place, or at least that’s how Chuck saw it. The way he told it to his lawyer, it was Gary who beat the Sac ’n Pac cashier with a tire iron while Chuck helped himself to the contents of the register. But when the judge read the verdict, it was Chuck who got a five-year stretch in Huntsville for aggravated assault, while Gary got away with six months in the county jail.

Watching Gary make his way from his truck to Discount Liquors, Chuck figured his old pal could use a lesson in aggravated assault. He hit the gas and the Magnum V8 engine under the hood of the 1970 Dodge Challenger jumped to life. Gary heard it and glanced back over his shoulder, and Chuck saw his eyes go wide as the Grand Canyon just before he managed to dive out of the way. The plate-glass window bearing the Discount Liquors logo and the neatly arranged displays of cut-rate gin and bourbon behind it all exploded at once as Chuck plowed through the storefront.

Chuck shook it off and threw it into reverse as Discount Liquors proprietor Rob “Rooster” Reubens charged at him, arms waving, face redder than a Hill Country sunset. Chuck skidded and slammed into a VW Beetle, crumpling its hood like tissue paper. He glimpsed Gary hot-footing it back to his truck and slammed on the gas pedal again, forgetting he was still in reverse. He pancaked the Beetle into the Olds 88 parked behind it, shifted into forward gear, and clipped Rooster just as he’d reached the passenger side door. He heard Rooster holler and saw him roll to the pavement clutching his ankle in the rear-view.

He’d missed his shot. Gary’s truck was already squealing out of the lot, heading west on Hutchison. At least he’d put a scare into his old pal. He spotted a frantic woman screaming into the pay phone in front of the check-cashing place and decided he’d shop for his liquor elsewhere. He pulled the Challenger out of the lot and drove it like he stole it. Technically, he did steal it, but that was another story.

*   *   *

Chuck headed south until he crossed the county line. He was thirsty and remembered a place somewhere out on Route 46 where he could wet his whistle and maybe hustle up a game of pool. The trees thinned out ahead and he spotted the neon beer signs. It was nearly midnight and Sonny’s Icehouse was hopping.

The Challenger’s tires crunched over the gravel and bottlecaps that made up the parking lot. He found a place to park around back, which was perfect since he didn’t want the Challenger attracting undue attention. The events at the shopping plaza earlier might have made the radio news by now.

Once upon a time in Texas, icehouses had been just that—places where you could pick up blocks of ice to keep your food from spoiling in the days before home refrigeration. Having all that ice on hand made them the coolest spots in town to hang out, and the proprietors soon realized they could keep beer nice and cold, too. Sonny’s typified the modern Texas icehouse: a dozen or so picnic tables outside, crowded with happy drinkers laughing and whooping it up; a jukebox inside playing Jerry Reed’s “Lord, Mr. Ford”; a couple of cowboys shooting pool and a bunch more crowded around watching; a jar of pickled eggs on the bar. Most surprising of all to Chuck, an attractive woman seated alone at the bar, unbothered by anyone.

Chuck pretended to study the jukebox selections, but his eyes kept wandering over to that woman. She was blonde, probably not naturally, and looked to be about thirty years old. She wore cutoff dungaree shorts and a tank top that barely restrained the gifts God gave her. A pack of Virginia Slims sat on the bar in front of her, minus the one she was smoking. She took an occasional sip from a bottle of Lone Star. A bar full of men, all of them ignoring her.

Chuck put a nickel in the jukebox and selected Merle Haggard’s “Mama Tried.” He considered it to be his theme song. He unrolled the pack of Winstons from his left sleeve, popped one in his mouth, and lit it. He walked over and leaned on the bar next to the woman, playing it cool, signaling to the barkeep.

“Lone Star longneck,” he said.

The man nodded and set a cold one in front of him. “Fifty cents.”

Chuck set a dollar on the bar. “Might as well give me another. This one ain’t gonna last.”

True to his word, Chuck chugged down half the bottle in one go. Licking his lips, he turned his attention to the woman next to him. “Maybe you can help me understand something.”

“Maybe I can,” she said, lighting another smoke.

“How is it that such a gorgeous woman as yourself can sit here alone at the bar, and not one of these red-blooded Texans in here even seems to know you’re alive?”

“Oh, they know I’m alive. Only reason they ain’t drooling all over me like you is they’re afraid of my husband.”

Chuck laughed and crushed his cigarette in the ashtray. “Perks of being from out of town, I guess. I don’t know your husband, and I damn sure ain’t afraid of him.”

The woman looked him over. “Well, that’s a refreshing change. What’s your name, stranger?”

“Charles Melville III. But you can call me Chuck.”

“I’d rather call you Charles, honestly.”

“That’ll work. And your name is…?”

“Gwen Harlan. See, everyone else in here knows that.”

“And now I know it. Buy you another round, Gwen?”

“I was hoping.”

He did so, and they clinked bottles and drank.

“So what do you do, Charles?”

“Well now, that is a complicated question.”

“Didn’t sound complicated when it left my lips, but I guess we’re just getting to know each other.”

“What I mean is, I had a job. Working at a car wash. I quit it this morning. Had a little disagreement with my boss. He was under the impression that I stole some quarters out of the ashtray of this Buick station wagon while I was vacuuming it. Now, we’re talking about maybe six to eight quarters, so that’s two dollars at most. How the hell am I gonna risk losing my job over a lousy two bucks?”

“But it sounds like you did lose it.”

“No, ma’am. Like I said, I quit that job. Just the very suggestion that I would do such a thing was too much for me to bear. And anyway, I could tell he was gearing up to fire me, and no way was I gonna give him the satisfaction. Turns out it was the best thing I could have done, because I ran into an old associate of mine this afternoon and we discussed a new business opportunity.”

Chuck didn’t feel it was the right moment to mention that the associate in question was also a former inmate of the state prison in Huntsville. The particulars of the business opportunity were criminal in nature, and Chuck and his friend had discussed them while snorting crank and shooting at empty beer cans. Nor did Chuck think the time was right to disclose that he’d later tried to run over another old associate of his. Maybe once they’d gotten to know each other a little better.

“So where is this husband of yours everyone is so scared of?” he said by way of changing the subject. “You expecting him tonight?”

“No, he’s working the night shift.”

The overhead fluorescents flashed, signaling last call. “So that means your place is free for the rest of the evening?”

She looked him over again: his bushy muttonchop sideburns, his prominent chin, the gleam of a gold tooth in his smile. She’d seen worse. “You’ve got a lot of confidence, Charles.”

“I’m a man who knows what he likes. And what I’d like right now is to get a six-pack to go, take you out to my car, and drive you back to your place. At that point, we can just see where the night takes us.”

“My car is here.”

“And I’m sure it will be safe here until the morning. But I’ve got a Dodge Challenger parked out there, and you would not believe what that baby can do on these back roads.”

“Charles, I think you talked me into it.”

*   *   *

When Gwen climbed into the passenger seat, her foot hit an object on the floorboard. She picked it up. “What do we have here?”

“That’s my Saturday night special,” said Chuck. He’d been using the .25 semi-automatic pistol for target practice earlier in the day, after which he’d stuffed it under the passenger seat. He figured it must have gotten kicked loose while he was barrelassing around the shopping plaza parking lot. “Why don’t you be a doll and stuff that back under your seat for me.”

She squinted and aimed the pistol toward Sonny’s front door. “Next one out is a dead man.”

“Come on, now. That ain’t funny.”

She shrugged and stuffed the gun back under her seat. “I thought it was.”

Chuck started the car. “Which way we headed?”

“Turn right out of the parking lot and show me what this thing can do.”

Chuck cracked open a Lone Star and peeled out of the lot. He gunned it when he hit the blacktop and ten seconds later the speedometer hit eighty. It was a winding Hill Country road, and the car hugged every turn.

“It straightens out up here for a couple miles,” said Gwen, sipping her beer. “Bet you can’t hit 120.”

“Shit, I can get ’er to 130 without breaking a sweat.”

The engine revved and the speedometer climbed. The stars hung low in the Texas night sky, zipping by like comets. Gwen ran her fingers along Chuck’s leg. The Challenger hit 120 as it squealed past the police cruiser hidden by a mesquite tree just off the road.

Gwen spotted the red and blue flashing lights in her side-view mirror first. “Better hit it or quit it.”

Chuck had no intention of quitting it. He pushed the tachometer into the red as the Challenger neared 130 miles per hour. Whatever their pursuer had under the hood, there was no way he could catch them. Except the stretch of straightaway had come to an end and the road started winding again. At eighty, Chuck could still hug the curves. At 130, no chance. “Keep it between the ditches,” his Daddy always told him, the golden rule. The Challenger spun out as Chuck hit the brakes and did three full donuts before leaving the road entirely.

The car came to a rest gently enough under the circumstances. Chuck surveyed their surroundings. Running wasn’t an option, as the wide-open plain they found themselves in afforded no cover. The cruiser rolled to a stop behind them.

“You just let me handle this,” said Chuck. Gwen turned her head and stared out the passenger-side window.

The beam of a flashlight filled Chuck’s window. The cop knocked and Chuck rolled it down.

“License and registration, please.”

Chuck handed them over. The cop examined them for a moment. “Now, you’ll have to help me out here, sir. Your driver’s license says Charles Melville, but this here vehicle is registered to a Dean Melville.”

“He’s my cousin.”

“Does he know you have his car?”

“He’ll figure it out.”

The cop leaned down and peered into the car. As Chuck’s eyes adjusted, he could see he was dealing with a sheriff’s deputy. He had a calm demeanor and an ingratiating smile, as if they were just neighbors chatting over a fence. His nametag read “Harlan,” and that sounded familiar.

“This woman in the car with you,” said Deputy Harlan. “Is that your wife?”

“Nothing so formal as that,” said Chuck.

“Ma’am, I’m going to need to see your face.”

Gwen turned to face the deputy and gave a little wave.

“See, this is exactly what I thought,” said Deputy Harlan. “She couldn’t be your wife, because she’s my wife.”

“Gwen Harlan,” Chuck muttered.

“That’s right. And I’m Beau Harlan.”

“Listen, deputy, this is all a misunderstanding. She didn’t say nothin’ about being married.”

“No, I believe I did,” said Gwen. “I distinctly remember telling you that no one else in that bar was talking to me because they’re all afraid of my husband.”

“I’m going to have to ask you both to step out of the vehicle now.”

“Deputy, I think we can settle this up real simple,” said Chuck. “Why don’t you just take her with you, and I’ll be on my way? After all, I was simply giving the woman a ride home with no bad intentions, and now there’s no need for me to do that.”

“Get out of the car. Now.”

Chuck sighed, pushed open his door, and climbed out.

“Put your hands on the hood and spread your legs, please.”

Chuck complied. “Listen, I’m gonna be completely straight with you. I am on parole. Anything you could do in the way of letting me off with a warning would be greatly appreciated.”

Deputy Harlan patted him down. “I guess I don’t even need to ask if you’ve been drinking tonight, judging from the empty containers in your vehicle. Well, your cousin’s vehicle, I mean to say.”

“Beau!”

Chuck and the deputy both looked in the direction of the outburst. Both saw Gwen standing there, holding Chuck’s Saturday night special, but Deputy Harlan didn’t see her for long. She squeezed off three shots. The deputy shuddered and stumbled backward, his face transformed into a mask of shock. He touched his chest, and his hand came away covered in blood. He collapsed to the ground.

“Holy shit!” said Chuck. “Are you crazy?” He knelt down to confirm what he already knew. The deputy was gone. “Jesus Christ. I mean, yeah, you got us out of our immediate predicament, but this is really bad. He must have called in the license plate before he got out of his car, searching for wants and warrants and what-have-yous.”

“Your cousin’s license plate.”

“Well, yeah. I see what you’re saying, but it’s not going to take long for anyone investigating this here crime to learn that you and I were together at Sonny’s Icehouse tonight and that we left together. Maybe even an eyewitness saw us leaving in this car.”

“Stand up, Charles. I need you to explain something to me.”

Chuck did as she asked, nice and slow. “What is it, dollface?”

“Two questions. First, is my husband dead?”

“Oh yes. He’s really most sincerely dead.”

“Second question. How could you kill my husband like that? In cold blood?” She pointed the gun at him.

“Now, let’s think about this, Gwen. I get what’s going through your head. You want to pin this on me, and that makes sense from your point of view. That is my gun, although I should tell you it is not a registered weapon. I bought it at a flea market, paid cash. But here’s the most important thing. If you shoot me with the same gun that killed your husband, well, it’s not gonna take Columbo to figure out you’re the one who pulled the trigger on both of us.”

“Step away from my husband’s body.”

Chuck did so. Gwen took a few steps toward the corpse.

“What’s the plan here, Gwen?”

“What you say is true. I can’t shoot you with this gun. But if I shoot you with my husband’s gun, it looks like you shot each other. And I’ll just be the grieving widow they find on the scene. I’ll tell them how you made me leave Sonny’s with you at gunpoint. How you drove like a maniac with me as your terrified prisoner. It’s all gonna work out for me.”

“It does sound that way, except for one minor detail,” he said as she leaned down beside her dead husband. He watched as she reached for his holster and found it empty. He raised Deputy Harlan’s .38 and took aim. “You see, I already liberated this from your husband while I was checking his vitals. Not that I knew right away what you had planned. I ain’t that clever. But seeing what you had just done to your husband did make me kinda wonder what you’d do to a man you just met tonight.”

Gwen stood up, hands raised. “Now, listen, Charles. We can work this out another way. We can get back in your car and drive all the way to Mexico.”

“No, I don’t believe that will work. Like I said, this car is already burnt. He called in the plates, so if we try to cross the border, they’ll have the number and we’ll be in cuffs. Here’s how I see it. They’re gonna find you and your husband here, both shot dead with separate guns. Some kind of lovers’ quarrel, who knows. They’ll find his patrol car, but they won’t find that Challenger. No one’s ever gonna see it again. Now, my cousin Dean is gonna be pissed about that, but to be honest, that’s the least of my worries at the moment.”

“You’re not going to kill me, Charles.” She turned and started running back toward the road.

Chuck didn’t want to shoot her in the back, but the way he saw it, she hadn’t left him much choice. He kept squeezing the trigger until the gun had nothing left.

TWO

Dean Melville wished he felt as cool as he knew he looked. His mane of jet-black hair just touched his shoulders; his mustache had not a hair out of place; his Lynyrd Skynyrd t-shirt clung to his pecs and biceps; his Levi’s hugged his crotch; his Aviators were tinted just the right shade of light brown. But he was standing in Antoine Lynch’s office at the salvage yard, and Antoine had given no indication he’d even noticed yet. He just ran a pick through his afro, occasionally flipping the pages of the Sports Illustrated issue on the desk in front of him.

Dean kept chewing his gum and pretending to study the posters of muscle cars and women with power tools on the walls. He’d seen them all before and was particularly enamored of the blonde in the pink bikini wielding a Makita drill like she was James Bond, but today his nerves were on fire. He didn’t think Antoine had called him in for a friendly chat.

Finally, Antoine shook his head and held up the magazine so Dean could see the cover. “I swear, you white people crack me up sometimes. Y’all just love this crazy shitkicker, don’t you?”

Dean squinted at the cover. A man in a form-fitting white jumpsuit with blue star-spangled stripes held a cane and sneered into the distance in front of a pastoral scene.

“You don’t like Evel Knievel?” said Dean.

“This Elvis-looking peckerwood is gonna strap his ass to a firecracker and blow himself to Kingdom Gone, and y’all act like he’s some kind of real-life superhero. Like the Six Million Dollar Man or some shit.”

“They say he’s broken every bone in his body. That’s kind of like the Six Million Dollar Man, right?”

“This redneck motherfucker ain’t bionic, that’s for shit sure. I tell you what, you ain’t never gonna see a brother get up to this kind of nonsense. For real, think about all them little white kids all across America with their wind-up Evel Knievel stunt-cycles. They’re all gonna be bawling their eyes out when they scrape this fool off the side of the canyon.”

“What if he makes it?”

“Then he’ll try something even more stupid down the line. Try to jump the Grand Canyon in a go-cart or some shit. I’m telling you, he’s got a death wish. You got a death wish, Dean?”

“No way. Life is good.” Dean blew a bubble and it popped. He sucked the gum back into his mouth and continued to chew.

“Well, it can be. If everything works the way it’s supposed to work. Take you and me, for instance. We’ve got a pretty good working arrangement, don’t we?”

“Absolutely.”

“You buy the product from me at my price, you sell it at your price, and everybody’s happy. It’s pretty basic capitalism. I don’t know if it’s the best system, but it’s the one we have. Only last week you ran into a bit of pickle, and we switched things up. And I was happy to do it, because you’ve been so reliable. So you got the product on consignment with the understanding that you’d be paying me the usual price plus ten percent when we met today. Now, are you prepared to do that?”

“Look, I’m not gonna bullshit you, Antoine. The fact is that I don’t have the money right now as we speak. See, there was a little shakeup at work, and Gonzo gave my spot to his brother who just moved back to town. So now I’m out at the medical center, and that’s not exactly a good fit for, you know, what we do.”

Gonzo was Emilio Gonzales, owner of three Gonzo Taco trucks in the San Marcos area. For the past six months, Dean had operated the taco truck parked outside Cheatham Street Warehouse, a honky-tonk just a stone’s throw from Southwest Texas State University. It was the perfect location to sell tacos, and even more perfect for the other business Dean conducted through the truck: selling weed. He bought the product in bulk from Antoine and sold it in joints to trusted customers who knew the password.

It was all good until Gonzo’s brother showed up and claimed the spot, sending Dean to another truck near the medical center, greatly reducing his walk-up traffic. He was doing less than a third of his former business in the new location. Compounding his problems, a costly transmission repair to his beloved Dodge Challenger had put him in the hole. Now he was in debt to Antoine, and worst of all, he had no idea where the Challenger was. He had a pretty good idea who had it, though.

Antoine owned not only the salvage yard, but the land behind it, including a landing strip where small planes from Mexico could touch down just long enough to unload their cargo. Antoine was the wholesaler and Dean was one of his retailers—one of how many, he didn’t know. This was a business, yes, but an illegal one with its own set of rules.

“You don’t have my money today, the penalty goes up to twenty percent. You can’t sell the product out of your truck, find somewhere else to sell it. But you’re going to get my money or else I’m going to take your car.”

“Come on, Antoine. You know I love that car.”

“I know you do. And I assume you also love having the use of both your legs. Do we understand each other?”

“We do.”

“Piece of advice, though. Learn how to fix your own car. You take it to a garage, you’re just begging them to empty out your wallet. Come out here, find the parts you need in the yard, and I’ll charge you a fair price. You can fix it here using our tools, gratis. Now, that assumes you bring me my money and get to keep the car.”

“That’s solid advice, Antoine.”

“Best believe it. While I got you here, let me ask you something. You know what onomastics is?”

“A fancy word for jerking off?”

“No, that’s onanism. Onomastics is the study of names. See, I find names fascinating. For instance, my last name is Lynch. Kind of ironic, seeing as how lynching is what your people used to do to my people. Hell, still do when they can get away with it.”

“I never thought of it that way. But I was always told we never had any slaveowners in our family tree.”

“Oh, I’m sure you were. But what about Klan?”

“Well…my Uncle Red was Klan, true. I think he was all talk and no action, but who knows.”

“Now, your family name, Melville. You share that with one of the greats of American literature. You ever read Moby Dick?”

“The classic comics version, in high school.”

“I thought you went to college?”

“One year. Well, almost one year.” Dean had attended the University of Texas at Austin, but in truth he had mostly attended Barton Springs and the Armadillo World Headquarters. There was too much fun to be had in Austin, and classes just got in the way.

“Well, your loss. But Moby Dick might be a little too deep for you. I got another fish story here might be more your speed.” Antoine dug a hardcover book out of a drawer and tossed it on the desk. Dean picked it up.

“Jaws by Peter Benchley. I think I heard about this.”

“They’re making a movie out of it. How the hell they’re gonna train a shark to do all the shit it does in that book, I have no idea. Anyway, take that and read it. And when you’re done, bring it back to the library at Southwest Texas. I’m serious about that. I don’t do business with any triflin’ motherfucker would steal from a library.”

“Will do. Anything else?”

“Get my money, Dean.”

“I will.” He knew he had to do it. He just had no clue how.

THREE

One thing Sheriff Edwin Giddings couldn’t stand was having a screamer in one of the cells, especially when he was trying to do his crossword. There were three jail cells in the Ivor County Sheriff’s Department, only one of which was occupied at the time. That occupant, one Randall Jennings, age twenty-two, had been caught with a baseball bat outside his ex-girlfriend’s house, where he failed to come up with a plausible explanation for all the dents and broken windows in the Buick LeSabre parked in the driveway that would dissuade the responding deputy from taking him in. Now he was hollering about a stomach ailment, which Sheriff Giddings aimed to make much worse for him once he’d puzzled out a seven-letter word meaning “dessert in a tall glass.”

It had already been a long night. Giddings would have been home in bed hours earlier if he hadn’t received an emergency call from the Twilight Ranch. Miss Mona, the madam of the aforementioned house of ill repute, had caught Giddings just as he was leaving the office for the day.

“I need you out here right away, Bud.”

“Dammit, Miss Mona. I was just heading home to get some dinner and watch the ballgame.”

“Bud, unless you want me to call your wife and tell her a couple things about a thing or two, you’d best get your ass out here pronto. I have a situation. Code Red.”

“What the hell is Code Red supposed to mean?”

“Use your imagination, Bud. Just hightail it out here, toot sweet.”

Giddings hung up, rubbed his eyelids, and cursed his heritage. There had been a Sheriff Giddings in Ivor County since the 1920s. His grandfather held the job first, and his father took over when he returned from beating the Nazis. There was never any question that the job would be his one day. He never had any say in the matter. Now he had to deal with shit like this.

To get to the Twilight Ranch, you had to know it was there. It wasn’t down on any map, and the Chamber of Commerce for sure didn’t have it listed on their pamphlet of notable attractions. Like a real ranch—the kind with cattle—it was separated from the main road by a gate and a long dirt entrance. It was just after 7:30 P.M. when Giddings arrived and stepped through the front door into the parlor.

No one was ever going to write a musical about the Twilight Ranch. The parlor housed a couple of stained, ripped couches and a ratty loveseat currently occupied by a sad-eyed redhead with runny makeup who kept checking her watch. The bar consisted of a half-empty bottle of cheap tequila and a couple of shot glasses that looked like they hadn’t been washed since Lyndon Johnson was president. The radio was broadcasting a station from San Antonio it could barely pick up; Giddings couldn’t identify the music buried in the static.

When Miss Mona entered the room, Giddings’ first thought was that she’d put on thirty pounds since he last saw her. Not that he had much room to talk, with his gut hanging low over his Texas belt buckle, but then, he wasn’t in the sex trade. Well, that wasn’t strictly true, as he took monthly payoffs from the Twilight Ranch to turn a blind eye to its illegal activities. He supposed that made him a silent partner of sorts, but at least no one was paying to see him naked. Still, if you lived in Ivor County, you couldn’t afford to be picky. The Twilight Ranch was your only option if you didn’t want to drive more than fifty miles.

“What am I doing here, Miss Mona?”

“Come with me.” She led him up the stairs, past one bedroom, from which a variety of unpleasant grunts and moans echoed through the thin walls, to another at the end of the hall. Once they were inside the room, she closed the door behind them and gestured to the bed. The man lying there was naked except for the nylon stocking wrapped tightly around his neck.

“Jesus, Mary, and Joseph,” said Giddings. “Is that Freddy McElroy?”

“It is.”

“Is he dead?”

“He looks dead to me, but I ain’t touching him. That’s why I called you.”

“What exactly happened here?”

“He had a date with Marie tonight. His usual.”

“Marie is the sad clown downstairs?”

“She is. Freddy likes her because she’ll indulge in the kind of horseplay he enjoys.”

“Horseplay? You mean strangling him with her stocking?”

“That’s part of it. He likes spankings too. And some other stuff with his rear end, but you probably don’t want to hear about that.”

Giddings winced. Freddy McElroy was a county commissioner and a bank president. If Ivor County had any upstanding citizens, he was one. Or so Giddings had always thought.

“So…this was an accident?”

“Well, that’s what Marie says. But she’s had dozens of dates with Freddy where they’ve done this exact same thing, and somehow it never went wrong before.”

“What are you telling me? You think she killed him?”

“I don’t know. But I do know he liked filthy talk in addition to the horseplay, and sometimes Marie didn’t appreciate that as much. Especially when he was the one doing the talking.”

Giddings nodded and started formulating a plan. His thought process was derailed when Freddy launched into a coughing fit.

“Oh, shit!” said Miss Mona. “He’s alive!”

Giddings walked over to the bed and loosened the stocking around Freddy’s neck. “You all right, Freddy?”

Freddy coughed some more.

“Well, don’t just stand there,” said Giddings. “Run and get this man a glass of water!”

Miss Mona hurried out of the room. Giddings helped Freddy sit up.

“Sheriff,” Freddy managed once the coughing subsided. “I want you to arrest that crazy bitch who tried to kill me. I want you to arrest Miss Mona too, and I want you to close this place down forever. I want you to burn it to the ground!”

“Now, Freddy, you’re a little excited. It’s understandable. Why don’t you just relax a moment and—”

“I am not going to relax until that bitch is in jail and this place is gone for good!”

“You don’t mean that, Freddy. The Twilight Ranch is an Ivor County institution.”

“A mental institution, more like. Listen to me, Sheriff. I know you’re on the take here and a dozen other places besides. You better do as I say or there’s going to be big trouble coming your way.”

“I tell you what, Freddy. I’m getting just a little bit tired of people threatening me this evening.” Giddings picked up a pillow from the bed and pressed it down over Freddy’s face. Freddy struggled, but he was no match for the iron strength of the county sheriff. Giddings held the pillow in place until Freddy stopped moving and kept holding it until Miss Mona returned with the glass of water, which promptly fell from her hand and shattered on the floor.

“What have you done, Bud?”

“I didn’t do anything. He was dead when I got here, remember? Now who else knows about this besides you and Marie?”

“Nobody.”

“Who is that carrying on in the other bedroom?”

“That’s Jerry Hunsicker with Charlene. But he got here before Freddy, so they don’t know he’s here.”

“All right.” Giddings wrapped the naked corpse up in the bedclothes. “Go through his pants and find his keys. He and I are gonna take a ride, and you’re gonna follow in my cruiser.”

“Where are we going?”

“You’ll find out.”

*   *   *

In the morning, an accident scene would be discovered, and an upstanding citizen of the county would be mourned. Giddings would never lose any sleep over it. The only thing that bothered him was that a pervert like Freddy had been a county commissioner in the first place. Once he’d set it all up, he drove Miss Mona back to the Twilight Ranch in his cruiser. She asked if he wanted a bubble bath in her clawfoot tub, and he thought that sounded like a fine idea. She scrubbed his back and offered to do more, but he had an ugly rash on his scrotum he didn’t want her to see, so he declined. Besides, Miss Mona didn’t really do it for him anymore. He got his kicks elsewhere these days.

Afterward he was too wired to go home, so he headed back to the office. He poured himself some bourbon and got to work on the crossword, but that’s when Randall Jennings started hollering in his cell. Giddings tried to block out the sound, but eventually he gave up and walked to the back room.

“Maybe you can help me,” he said to Randall, who was flummoxed enough to stop howling for a moment. “I’m looking for a seven-letter word for a dessert served in a tall glass. The fourth letter is F, and the last letter is T.”

“Please,” said Randall. “It’s my stomach. I need a doctor. Please, call a doctor. The pain, it’s more than I can stand.”

Giddings nodded and unlocked the cell. He motioned for Randall to come out. Randall took two tentative steps forward before Giddings wound up and punched him as hard as he could right in the gut. Randall crumpled to the floor and his hollering turned to whimpering.

“That’s a little better,” said Giddings, locking the cell. “You just rest up and we’ll call the doc in the morning.”

He returned to his desk and got back to work on the puzzle. He solved fourteen down and got the first letter for the word meaning dessert in a tall glass. “I’ll be goddamned. It’s ‘parfait.’”

The phone rang. He sighed and answered it. “Sheriff’s office.”

“Is this Sheriff Giddings?”

“Who’s asking?”

“This is Officer Perez with the Department of Public Safety. I’m afraid I’ve got some bad news for you. Your deputy, Beau Harlan, he’s dead.”

“What the hell are you talking about?”

“He’s been shot. And not just him. His wife, too.”

“What did you just say?” Giddings felt like he was the one who’d taken the gut punch. “Gwen Harlan has been shot? Is she okay?”

“She’s dead too. I think you’re gonna want to come out here right away.”

Officer Perez gave him the mile marker and Giddings wrote it down with a shaky hand. He put on his Stetson and headed back to his cruiser, hoping there had been some kind of mistake.

FOUR

Dean was forty-five minutes into his shift when Gonzo pulled up in his purple 1957 Cadillac Eldorado convertible. Since he’d opened the truck for business, Dean had sold a grand total of three breakfast tacos and none of his other, more profitable commodity.

He knew there was nothing wrong with the food. Dean wasn’t a particularly good cook, let alone a master of Mexican cuisine, but that didn’t matter. All the food prep was done at Gonzo’s brick-and-mortar location just off the interstate. The truck had warmer bins full of scrambled eggs, bacon, chorizo, refried beans, and home fries, all awaiting his meager morning trade. When lunchtime rolled around, all Dean had to do was reach down into the refrigerator and pull out the picadillo or the carnitas or the achiote chicken and toss a handful onto the countertop griddle. The corn tortillas were made fresh each morning, and he kept a pile on the prep station to heat up as needed. The most taxing thing he ever had to do was remember to open the exhaust hood whenever he threw a batch of chips into the fryer.

No, the problem was location, location, location. The truck was parked in the lot farthest from the main entrance to the medical center, and the foot traffic was nearly nonexistent. He had a few loyal customers from his old spot who made the trek, but most of his clientele had found alternate sources of illegal mind expansion closer to campus.

All of which was at the top of his mind as Gonzo approached the takeout window. Gonzo wore black chinos and a white t-shirt, a cigarette pack tucked into one rolled-up sleeve. He had a wallet chain and a pompadour piled up to the heavens. In Gonzo’s world, it was always 1957. He told anyone who would listen for more than two minutes that he went to high school with Buddy Holly and played drums in his first band. He claimed they’d made plans to reunite right before the Day the Music Died. Dean once flipped through a biography of Buddy Holly at the library and checked the index, where he found no listing for Emilio Gonzales. He never mentioned it to Gonzo, though.

When he reached the window, Gonzo checked the squeeze bottles of homemade hot sauce in the rack beneath it. They were arranged in order of spiciness, from Gringo to Gonzo, the latter being the hottest habanero sauce in town. He squeezed a drop of his namesake sauce onto his fingertip, touched it to his tongue, and whistled.

“Como te va, Dino?”

“Not too bueno, jefe. This location, man. I mean, what the hell?”

“My amigo in the parking office here, he arranged this for me. Gratis.”

“But nobody knows we’re here. Just the few people who park this far out, and it’s hardly worth opening for them.”

“Word of mouth, Dino. It’s gonna spread like wildfire through this place. You wait, the lunchtime rush is gonna start soon and it will be bigger than yesterday. And tomorrow will be bigger still.”

“I don’t know, Gonzo. I feel like I’m being punished out here.”

“No, no, that ain’t it at all, Dino. It’s mi hermano, you know, he’s been down there in Nuevo Laredo for six years and he just got back. Now, he can’t go and get a job just any old place, so I had to take him on.”

“So why not start him out here? Ease him into it?”

“Because he won’t do shit out here. You, on the other hand, you built that location at Cheatham Street up from nothing.