South Texas Tangle. T.K. O'Neill
smiled weakly and went stiff before turning around and facing front. The lawn-chair duo kept the laughing jag going. Jimmy stretched his neck and looked out the windshield, saw a small super market ahead on the left side of the road. “Hey, ah,” he said, “can you drop me off by that grocery store up there, (pointing) I need some supplies for the day.”
“The man wants to be dropped off at the g-r-o-c-e-r-y store,” Albert said, pursing his lips and enunciating every letter, doing his take on Minnesota speak.
Henry pulled the van to the curb. Jimmy, squatting, slid open the side door. Sunlight poured in. People were going by on the sidewalk with smiles on their faces. The darkness in Jimmy’s head vanished as his feet hit the pavement and the sea breeze brushed his hair. “Thanks for the ride, man,” he said, turning to look at the driver.
Henry said, “My pleasure, Jim. Tourist bureau is up ahead a couple blocks. Beach ain’t far from there. Come to Billy’s at dusk, that’s when the fish start biting. Party will be on, dude.”
One of the guys in back slid the door shut and Jimmy stood there watching Albert leer out at him from the front window, the man’s George Lopez eyes unnaturally wide. When the van rolled away Jimmy felt like laughing. Recalling his meager fold of bills, best he could do was a thin smile. He wiped his sweaty forehead with his fingertips and walked across the street toward the market.
12
Frankie Neelan leaned his shoulder against the faded white wall of the empty petrol station and put the binoculars on the cute bird’s Jap car as it bounced onto the southbound lane of I-37. Frankie was thinking there were too many people here with connections to Minnesota to be just a coincidence. You had the four involved with the van: Ireno, Sam, himself and Ryan. And now the thieving trooper’s old lady had on a Minnesota Gophers shirt. Made his conspiracy alarm sound off. Was this some kind of set-up, Ryan and the trooper working a scam? Trying to make it look real? You couldn’t be sure with old Bob. He was an enigma, always playing the crime-boss role to the max in private—Frankie’d seen that a million times—but put him out in full view and it was a different tale altogether, the man coming across humble and maybe even a wee bit paranoid at times. Like he thought the Big Leprechaun was gazing down from a spy satellite in the clouds or some shit. Gave you pause. And reason to worry. But shit, everyone was a tad paranoid these days, so maybe it was all just nerves.
Sam’s gut was twisted up like a German pretzel. All he wanted was to get back where there was a comfortable toilet, a good bed and a television set. But this crazy mick bastard clearly had other ideas, bozo obviously getting off on the trooper’s wife. Man was probably dreaming up some depraved Irish shit, the Irish being drunks and perennial losers, comfortable wallowing in the muck for centuries now.
Sam was hoping Frankie’s short attention span would kick in and he would tire of this nonsense and give Sam a chance to relax before Bob Ryan arrived. Sam was gambling that Ryan wouldn’t kill him as long as Jimmy was still running loose. Bob likely wanting everyone together for a nice mass-grave situation, efficiency-conscious prick that he was. Sam was trying his best to keep an optimistic outlook—implausible, yes, but what else could he do as he waited for his subconscious to come up with a solution? He sensed something percolating in his cranial recesses, an idea still beyond his grasp, but the gods seemed to be pushing him to the brink, as always, making him suffer until he could barely stand it.
Just like Jimmy Ireno on the basketball court, always bringing you to the brink of despair before saving things at the last possible moment.
Sam was in the passenger seat of the expensive goddamn Escalade, watching Frankie strut around the old service station with his fancy goddamn binoculars. But oddly, in spite of the chaos, confusion and fear, Sam felt a web of familiarity weaving around the edge of things. Like this was only the gods presenting another test of his will and tenacity, nothing more and nothing less.
“Miss Honey Thighs has departed, Sammy,” Neelan said, climbing in the driver’s seat. “What say we take a ride over and see what we can find inside the tin can?”
“You crazy, Frankie?” Sam said, voice going up an octave. “It’s still daylight.”
“Who’s gonna see us? Fookin’ Roy Rogers? Lone Ranger and Tonto? Maybe Wiley Coyote or the Roadrunner? Beep-beep, Sam.”
Sam ate his frustration. “Whatever you think, Frankie. You’re in charge of this operation.”
“That’s the spirit, Sammy. Buck up now, me lad, maybe the lady left some undies on the clothesline you can sniff.”
Sam swallowed hard against the acid reflux. He could feel psychic relief coming on as the chemicals in the Xanax slowly crept up his legs. Some times there is freedom in having no choice at all, he thought, surrendering to his fate. He leaned back in the seat and waited for the languor as Neelan started the Escalade, drove across the overpass and down the road toward the trooper’s mobile home, the big SUV throwing out dust everywhere. The moronic mick turned in the trooper’s drive, drove up and parked close to the trailer in the shade of three young trees. Sam saw a swing set anchored in the dirt just past the far end of the trailer, a child’s plastic tricycle lying on its side in front of the swings.
His brain flip-flopping between raging anxiety and the dull 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