South Texas Tangle. T.K. O'Neill
trees offering up a rich and colorful contrast to the bleak snow-covered plains of her former home in Minnesota. And no, Cyn hadn’t made it to her own dream house yet, but that kind of thing mattered very little to her. Six years ago, being Dan Henning’s wife and the mother of his child was all she wanted, having chosen Dan over her other suitor at the time, Roy Owen. Bunky, they called him. Biggest car dealer in Corpus now (Owen Toyota, Bunky’s BMW, Roy’s Royal Rides), and he owned one of the biggest, gaudiest homes in town.
Well, Cynthia had made her choice and vowed to make it work and tried her darndest for six years and now where was she? She would gladly do without the waterfront mansion if Dan still possessed what he had back then, although, to tell the truth, she could no longer identify exactly what that was. Maybe it was a lack of something? Seemed like Dan was carrying extra baggage lately. Yes, that could be it.
Possibly things had started eroding after Danny was born. And yes, Cyn had read the magazine articles about first-time mothers losing their sexual desire, young women refocusing their lives around their child at the expense of matrimonial intimacy, but she didn’t think that was her situation. What it was, Dan started coming home with the scent of other women on him. Sometimes faint, sometimes stronger. And then the stuff really hit the fan with the incident with the prostitute, the cell phone picture and Dan’s suspension, the incident putting a spotlight on the problem and making it hard to deny—although Cyn had tried really hard.
God.
After that it seemed drinking became Dan’s main interest at home, annoying her to no end. True, she’d gained a little weight after Danny was born, but the exercise classes and the healthy eating were getting her back to her youthful luster. Looking pretty darn good, thankyouverymuch. But now the two of them were stuck in the mud and she was running away, out cruising the strip like an adolescent, searching for a place to hide out.
Isn’t life a kick?
Patrolman Henning was out of uniform. Wearing lightweight khakis and a white polo shirt, he was resting his left arm on the doorframe of his truck, elbow sticking out the open window, evening air pleasant, things cooling down as clouds moved in from the west. Looks like rain, Henning thought as he watched two little girls bouncing down the sidewalk holding their daddy’s hand.
Dan took a long breath and rubbed his eyes with his knuckles. He wanted a smoke but pushed back the urge. Couldn’t shake the feeling of impending doom ticking in his chest. Why in hell did Cyn have to pick now to stage her little rebellion? Timing, they say, is everything in life and this was definitely rotten timing. And why did the whole thing seem so familiar?
Pushing open the truck door Dan flashed back to the runner at Gamble Gulch and got a little grin, fool trying to hit him in the chest with the door. But the fool deserved a hearty thank you. Shit, a piss pot full of gratitude. That kind of money can smooth out a lot of life’s rough spots. And once this bout of impetuousness and immaturity his wife was having was properly dealt with, everything would be grits and gravy.
He started down the sidewalk to the daycare center, smiling and nodding to a cute little momma in tight peach-colored shorts and form-fitting yellow sleeveless top coming out of the building, a little boy in tow, Henning recognizing the kid as one of Danny’s friends from last year’s birthday party. Billy. Billy Haugen, he thought it was. The kid glanced up at him with a shy look and Henning said, “Hi Billy,” giving Billy’s mother’s bitchin’ bod a thorough scan as they passed by, Dan wanting to turn and check out the rear view but he kept his eyes straight ahead and continued on to the one-story blond brick building that had once been an elementary school. Henning believed the change from a school to a daycare was more proof of the upheaval caused by the massive wetback invasion.
It was warm and damp inside the building, refrigeration set low to save on the electric bill. Henning heard kids squealing down the hall. Moving toward the sound he saw a couple of kids pop out of a doorway giggling and wrestling, one of them Danny. The other boy was bigger and kind of manhandling Danny but they were both laughing and seemed to be having fun. Henning didn’t like his kid getting pushed around but shook it off as just kids roughhousing. Danny could probably take the kid if it came down to serious tussling. Maybe later he’d teach Danny some of the moves Daddy learned in the army.
Danny saw his dad and shouted, “Daddy, Daddy,” eyes bright. The boy’s wide smile gave Henning an unexpected surge of warmth. It was pretty nice. An inkling why kids were good to have around. The boy ran to him and Henning put out his hands and Danny jumped in. Big Dan lifted little Dan up, hugging him, big Dan thinking he could use more of this.
Pulling on his Dad’s earlobe, Danny said, “How come you came to get me, Daddy? Where’s Mommy?”
“Mommy had to go down to see Poppa and Nana for a few days, Danny. She said you and I should get together and do man things while she’s gone. How’s that sound?”
Danny looked confused for a moment, lowering his eyes. “What are man things, Daddy?”
“You know, playing ball and fishing and fixing things around the house.”
“And swimming, too, Daddy?”
“Yep, swimming is good.”
“Can we go see Mommy and swim in Poppa’s pool?”
“Not this time, Danny. We can go to the beach, though, get some ice cream.”
Danny’s lower lip drooped for a second but then his eyes brightened. “Can we go to Whataburger, Daddy?”
“Sure Danny, order whatever we want. That’s what men do.”
Danny made his silly face and threw his arms around his father’s neck, squealing, “Yey.”
Daddy felt sweat beading along his ever-so-slightly receding hairline. Could being a father could bring on such pressure? Must be the humidity. Henning put his son down and went into the classroom to tell the daycare lady he was taking Danny home. Nice older Mex lady, probably good with kids.
The Henning men walked out to the pickup truck together. At least the big one walked, the little one skipped and ran, waving his arms wildly.
5
Jimmy still didn’t have a clue. Should he wait for Sam to find him or take flight and hope for another chance at catching lightning in a bottle? He’d been in tight situations before but never with the concept of death and killing hovering around the outcome. Always seemed like an answer came along about the same time you thought you were totally fucked. As if the gods liked to string you out and beat you down, testing your mettle before they rescued your sorry ass.
Jimmy was hoping this would again be the case. Time would be the deciding factor. Would he have time to wait for the answer or would some mind-warped gun monkey punch his ticket before the intel arrived? Images of insane Irishman, tight assed state troopers and meth-crazed Mexican maniacs swirled on the periphery of Jimmy’s thoughts like a swarm of killer bees.
And for a moment he wondered what happened to the killer bees. Weren’t they supposed to have taken over the southwestern U.S. by now? Was this one more thing he should worry about? But then, as is often the case, physical needs came along to focus his thinking. He was hungry. Really hungry. Hadn’t eaten since sometime yesterday before he was pulled over. The realization hit him and his stomach commenced on eating itself, twisting up inside him like a live octopus’d crawled down his throat last night while he was sleeping, if you could call that sleeping.
Probably just the damn tequila. Tekillya, right?
Jimmy was remembering a small café he’d seen yesterday, a little place across the street from the motel where he’d left the stolen truck. What the hell was the name of that hotel? Bay View? Wayside? Oceanside? Ocean Way? He searched through the fog in his brain and couldn’t find the answer. But believing his instincts would lead him to the place, he kept on walking, hoping his remembrance wasn’t just a fabrication based on need. They’d discussed this kind of thing in his freshman psych course in junior college; the prof insisting that a woman’s vagina might start looking like an apple