Buck Fever (Blanco County Mysteries) (7 page)

BACK IN THE cruiser, Marlin's adrenaline kicked in as he thought about nailing Roy Swank for good. And now he thought he had what he needed to get the job done. But first, he needed to find someone to test the white powder for him and see if his suspicions were correct. He couldn't go to Sheriff Mackey—if he was involved, he'd make the evidence disappear faster than a cheeseburger at lunchtime.

Then Marlin thought of Bobby Garza, a good deputy and a man he knew he could trust. He'd have to set up a meeting with Garza and get his input. In any case, now was not the time to confront Swank, not till Marlin figured a few things out. So he went directly from Stovall's ranch to Phil Colby's house.

He pulled into the driveway, expecting to see Buck's head pop up somewhere in the high grass. After all, nobody had been here in a few days, and the deer loved company.

But he didn't see Buck.

Maybe he's in the barn,
Marlin thought. Colby always left the back door open a little so the deer could come and go. He also left high-protein feed in a bucket, away from other deer and varmints.

Marlin swung the barn's front door open. Still no Buck.

He checked the bucket of feed. It hadn't been touched.

Roy Swank was nervous. Just talking to Oscar on the phone made his palms sweat. Having the crazy Colombian right here in his den just about made him pee his pants. Nobody—from senators to presidents—had ever made Swank feel this uptight. Even in his discomfort, Swank couldn't help but admire the man. He would have made a hell of a lobbyist.

Right now, Swank was squirming in an uneasy silence. Oscar's last words had been: “What do you think we ought to do?” He said it as if he already knew the answer.

Seconds passed as Oscar's eyes bore a hole through the back of Swank's skull. Finally, Swank gave a weak shrug.

“I tell you, then,” Oscar said. “When you have a problem, you fine a way to eliminate that problem.”

Swank nodded. “But I don't see as how we have a problem anymore.” He tried to sound confident. “We got the deer back, and Colby is in the hospital out cold. He probably won't even remember the whole episode.”

Oscar had been sitting placidly in Swank's chair, fingers steepled in front of him. Now he exploded to his feet and swept several items off the desktop. “You fool! Probably ees not good enough. What if he does remember? What then? Having the deer back means nothing if we have the DEA, the ATF, and the FBI on our asses!”

Oscar walked slowly around behind Swank. He paused in front of a large mirror and ran one hand over his slicked hair. Moments passed in silence.

Then Swank jumped involuntarily as he felt Oscar's hands on his shoulders. Oscar leaned close to Swank's right ear and whispered: “You and I are not so different. We both have beeg dreams. But there ees one thing that sets us apart, like day and night.” He squeezed Swank's shoulders. “You will go to almost any length to attain your dream. But when you strip away your
Americano
boldness, the truth ees, the thought of blood scares you, deep in your heart.” Oscar stood straight again. Swank was still staring straight ahead. Oscar leaned down again. “But it excites me.”

Oscar came around the desk and sat back down in the chair.

Swank knew he had to speak—try to contain things before they got out of hand. “I've got an idea—one so simple I can't believe I didn't think of it earlier.” Swank chuckled and waited for Oscar to urge him on. Oscar simply stared at him.

Swank said, “Here's what we should do. I'll get Tim Gray—you haven't met him, but he's my vet—I'll get him to open up the buck and remove the heroin he musta missed last time.” Swank couldn't remember the last time he had said that word. Normally he referred to it as “goods” or “merchandise,” somehow giving himself a sense of comfort by not directly mentioning the wares he was now peddling.

Oscar nodded. “Go on.”

“Then we give the deer back to Colby. It's that simple. He wants the damn animal anyway. And once he has it—bingo—nobody's breathing down our necks anymore.”

“What do we say about the scar on hees belly?”

“Hell, we just say it had a tumor or kidney stones or some such shit. Who's to know better?”

Swank smiled broadly, revealing smoke-stained teeth, while Oscar sat in silence.

“It'll be worth losing a trophy buck just so we can get back to business as usual,” Swank added.

Oscar placed his fingertips on either temple and closed his eyes, as if searching the recesses of his mind for divine inspiration. Swank listened to the ticking of the antique clock on the mantle. Funny, he had never noticed how loud it was before. Sounded like a miner deep in a tunnel, rhythmically picking away at hard rock walls.

Finally Oscar looked up. “Do eet tonight.”

“I've been wanting to talk to you for a long time, Barney,” John Marlin said. The two men were seated at Cisco's Bar-B-Q in beautiful downtown Blanco, south of Johnson City. “Downtown” meant being within spitting distance of the only traffic light in town.

Barney Weaver was meticulously adding Sweet ’n Low to his second glass of iced tea. He had already explained how he liked exactly two-thirds of a packet. Anything more made the whole glass “fouler than a boar hog's armpits.”

Marlin sat across from him, learning more and more about this peculiar man by the minute. He had been surprised by how readily Barney had agreed to lunch. When Weaver entered the restaurant, wearing a backpack and looking like an escapee from the nuthouse in Big Spring, Marlin knew he should have arranged the meeting sooner. The man was wearing a camouflage jacket and red pants. That wasn't too bad in itself, but they didn't go too well with the foil hat. Barney said it was great for rainy days. In other words, he was the kind of character you needed to keep tabs on.

“There are a coupla things I want to discuss with you,” Marlin said, trying to catch Barney's eye. He continued to stir his iced tea, as if the dissolved sweetener might convert back to solid form if he let his guard down for even a minute. “Barney?”

Marlin was a little embarrassed to do it, but he finally held his hand out over the table and snapped his fingers. Barney looked up.

“I know you and Louise had a good thing when you were together….”

“Did she say that?”

Marlin paused. “Well, not in so many words….”

Barney fidgeted with his teaspoon.

“But the thing is, she's on her own now. To do whatever she pleases.”

Barney looked up at Marlin and nodded his head.

Marlin continued: “If she decides to get married again someday, that's really not anybody's business except her own.”

“Hell, I couldn't agree more.”

“I also don't mind telling you that she and I don't have any plans of that kind….”

Barney smiled and looked Marlin straight in the eye. “Good for you, bud. I shoulda done the same thing.”

“What's that?”

“Hey, it's like the old saying—why buy the cow when the milk's free?”

Marlin wasn't thrilled with the remark, but he let it pass.

“There's another thing…Louise's ex-husband…he's not the Bill Gates that you think he is.”

“Oh, I done figured that out.”

“You did?”

“Yep, but a man's gotta be sure, ain't he? Can't pass up a gravy train like that.”

Okay,
Marlin thought,
we're done here. Maybe ol’ Barney is off the deep end, but he seems pretty harmless.
Only problem, now he'd have to sit through dinner with him. Marlin cursed himself for not ordering just coffee.

Barney continued: “A man's gotta have an angle, know what I mean?”

“Not really,” Marlin said, groaning inside.

“Take a guy like me, out there every day, pouring concrete. Hell, it ain't a bad livin’, but it ain't gonna make me rich, is it?”

“I guess not, but there are other things…”

Barney interrupted: “So I got to keep an eye out for anything that might better my position, as they say.” Weaver smiled like he had just learned his stock had doubled.

He reached for the backpack next to him and began digging around in it. “Let me show you something….”

Marlin started to get a little nervous and realized that he had placed his hand on his pistol.

Barney pulled a Polaroid camera out of the bag. “This here could be just the ticket. Picked it up the other day at Wal-Mart in Marble Falls. Thirty-two bucks. See, I'm gonna take some pictures of a certain celebrity who I been seein’ around town.” Barney glanced around the restaurant furtively. “Did you know some of those newspapers like the
National Enquirer
and even
People
magazine will pay top dollar for a good photo?”

Marlin wasn't sure what to say, so he just nodded.

“You know who I saw?” Barney leaned closer. “Antonio Banderas. You know, that Meskin or Cuban guy from
Zorro?
Good flick. I don't really know what all the ladies see in that string-bean, but there's somethin’. So what I plan to do is, foller him around, and if I can pop one or two good shots of him without his britches, I could make a small fortune. Maybe I could make a name for myself, move out to California, do it full-time.”

The idea of Barney relocating certainly appealed to Marlin.

Barney got quiet as the waitress approached with the men's suppers. Large platters of beef ribs and sliced brisket, with sides of potato salad and pinto beans. Barney pointed to his glass. “Could you bring another glass of tea? I fouled that one all up.”

“You what?” The waitress looked confused.

“I fouled it up. Wrong balance of sweetner.”

The waitress looked at Barney and then at Marlin, who could only smile.

Antonio Banderas.
Give me a break.

When Marlin got home, he had two messages on his answering machine. He punched the button….

“Marlin, this is Roy Swank. Listen, that ol’ buck showed back up over at my place somehow. Maybe with the rut coming on, he just wandered back to his home territory. But I'll tell ya, he sure is a lot of trouble…and I feel kinda bad with Colby in the hospital and all. So I'm figuring on just giving him back when Colby gets back on his feet. I'll just haul him over in one of my trailers later this week and let him go out there around Colby's place again. Put an end to all this bad blood between us. That's where he belongs anyways. So I guess I'll talk to one a y'all later.”

Marlin was elated and pissed off at the same time. Just what in the hell was Swank up to? At least he knew where Buck was now, though. Then the machine played the second message….

“Hi John, this is Becky, uh, Nurse Cameron, at the hospital. Just wanted to call and tell you some great news. Your friend Phil came out of his coma this evening….Didn't I tell you it wouldn't be long? He ate about ten pounds of our nasty hospital food, so you know he must be doing pretty well…. Anyway, he's asleep now, but I'm sure he'll be ready for visitors in the next day or two…. Tomorrow's my day off, so I won't be here…but maybe I'll see you again sometime….I'd like that. By the way, my home phone number is 559-0091, in case you have any questions…or anything. ’Bye.”

Marlin almost tripped going to get a pencil off the bar.

RED AND BILLY Don hadn't been to Austin in several months. Sure, they made a weekly trip to the western outskirts of the growing city to pick up lumber or other supplies they couldn't find in Johnson City or Blanco. But they usually stayed away from downtown.

Tonight was different. Now they each had ten thousand bucks in cash to play with.

They had gone east from Johnson City on Highway 290, through Oak Hill and all the way to Austin, then began a slow northward cruise up Lamar Boulevard. They were in Red's 1972 Ford pickup, a vehicle that would have been right at home in Austin twenty years ago, but now was greatly outnumbered by shiny Mercedes sedans, BMWs, sport utility vehicles, and other late-model foreign cars.

“Damn, this town has changed,” Red said. “ ’Member when we used to cruise into the Soap Creek Saloon over in Westlake? And the Armadilla over on Barton Springs?”

Billy Don nodded as he drained the last drops from a Lone Star longneck. He had noticed that a couple of six-packs helped numb the pain of the snakebite he had received two days earlier. Plus, the swelling had gone down considerably. The horse-doctor had given him a sling, but Billy Don had discarded that after Red called him a sissy.

“Now there ain't nothing here but Yankees and for'ners,” Red continued. “Sucked the life right out of this town. I been to Houston, and I'm tellin’ ya, this ain't much different no more.”

Billy Don belched in agreement.

Red pulled from his own beer. “Buncha high-tech geeks everywhere come over from California, all going on and on about the Innernet…. hell, I don't see the value in it. You wanna talk to someone, why not just call ’em on the phone?”

“There's porn,” Billy Don said.

“Wazzat?

“From what I hear, you can dial up pitchers of naked ladies right there in your living room. Even
Playboy
magazine.”

“Well, hell,” Red said. He'd have to think that over.

Moments later, Red tapped on the brakes. “Hey, lookee there, McLeod's Guns is open late,” he said as he swung into the parking lot. A banner hung over the double front doors that said:
HUNTERS, START THE SEASON WITH A BANG!
“What say we go inside and have a look around?”

As Red climbed from the truck, he patted his camouflage jacket for the hundredth time that night, smiling at the deck of hundred-dollar bills tucked away safely in the pocket. He'd always wanted a high-quality firearm—maybe a Colt or a Smith & Wesson—but none of that foreign stuff. Keep the money right here in the U.S. But he had to admit, those Glocks and Rugers were well-made, he had to give ’em that.

Inside, McLeod's was crammed wall-to-wall with hunters preparing for deer season. Hundreds of pistols, deer rifles, and shotguns were on display, and Red headed straight for the handgun counter.

He elbowed himself between two burly men, who gave him hard looks he didn't catch, then caught the eye of the old guy working the counter.

“Can I help you this evening?”

“Yeah, I'd like to take a look at that Anaconda,” Red said, pointing.

“That's a fine choice, one of Colt's finest products,” the old guy said as he placed the revolver on the counter. “You hunt with a handgun?”

Red picked it up and gave a low, approving whistle, liking the way the weapon felt in his hand. Solid, but not too heavy. “I'm thinking about using one this year. What kind of range can this handle?”

“With open sights, about fifty yards. But you put a scope on that baby and you can make shots up to about a hundred yards. It all depends on the ammo—and the hunter. You look like a guy who can handle a pistol.”

Red passed the gun to Billy Don. “What do you think, Billy Don? We could sure drop one in its tracks with that, couldn't we?”

“Damnation, Red. This sucker's huge. You gonna haul that cannon around on your hip?”

“Or I could just keep it in the truck.”

“But we already got the two-seventy. What do you need a revolver for?”

“A man can't have too many guns, you oughtta know that.” Red smiled at the salesman, who nodded back.

The old guy said, “Fill your Brady forms out and you can pick it up in plenty of time for opening day.”

Red paused. “Brady forms?”

“You know, the five-day waiting period and all.”

“I can't take it tonight?”

The man shrugged his shoulders. “Nothing I can do. Gotta wait five days before you can take possession, courtesy of Mrs. Sarah Brady. Federal law.”

“Well, shit,” Red said, cradling the gun again. “Just like the guv'mint to go and fuck up something as American as buying a gun.”

After a few seconds, the old guy leaned forward and said quietly, “On the other hand, there is no waiting period when you buy from a private individual—and I happen to have a pretty good selection of handguns myself….”

Red perked up immediately.

They sat in the cavernous, smoke-filled room, listening to the driving beat of “Panama” by Van Halen. Red ordered another round of beer each time a new stripper came onstage. They were on their ninth or tenth dancer now; Red had lost track.

“What time did that geezer say to come back?” Billy Don yelled over the music.

“Ten o'clock. Hell, a few hours is a lot less than five days,” Red replied.

“Than what?”

Red cupped his hands. “Five days!”

“I thought you said ten o'clock.”

It was no use shouting.

“I still don't see why you want a handgun,” Billy Don hollered. “You already manage to get yourself in plenty of trouble with a rifle.”

Red wasn't ready to tell Billy Don what was brewing in his head, how he'd feel better having a little protection, so he ignored him and watched the redhead onstage. She was dancing just a few feet in front of him, giving him a big smile. For good reason, too. He and Billy Don had been handing out ten-dollar bills like a Hare Krishna hands out fliers.
The way you do it,
Red had told Billy Don earlier,
is to kinda slide your hand along their thigh when you're putting the ten-spot in their G-string. Get a nice feel. Another trick, sometimes they put their hands on your shoulders when you're putting the money in. You do it just right, you can lean back a little and they fall right into you. You play like you're catching them, but you grab yourself a big handful of tit. Hell, they don't mind, long as you keep the money coming.

After a few more dancers and a few more beers, Red thought Billy Don was in the right frame of mind. He could tell by the way Billy Don was hollering out occasional random sounds and clapping way off-beat to the music. So when a slow, quiet song came on, Red leaned in close and said, “How would you like to double the cash you got in your pocket?”

Billy Don looked at him with wet eyes that wouldn't quite focus properly. “Wat'you got in mind, pardner?”

“I been thinking about Roy Swank and that deer. And man, something just ain't right. I know them trophy deers are valuable, but twenty thousand bucks in cash? There's got to be more to it than that.” Red took a long swig of beer and let that thought rattle around in Billy Don's head.

Billy Don had his eyes glued on the young lady on stage—a platinum-blonde, about five-nine, 34D. Jesus, those high heels did wonders for a girl's legs. Not to mention a red garter belt and stockings. But he was listening to Red at the same time. “What do you think's so special with that buck?” he asked.

“That don't really matter. All I know's that Swank wants to hold on to him.”

“Yeah, well, he's got him.”

“Use your noggin, big man. What if that deer was to disappear again? I ’magine Swank'd come right back to us to find it again. For the same price.”

Billy Don hollered out at the dancer as she bent over backward and looked between her legs at him. Red shook his head. Man, this guy was dense as an oak stump. So Red waited until the song was over and the dancer left the stage. Then he leaned in again and said, “Let me spell it out for ya: We go over to Swank's place, grab the deer, and take off with it.”

Billy Don turned and looked at him. Slowly a smile creased his face.

Red continued. “Best part is, hell, I don't know if that's even a crime. Can a man really
own
a deer?”

“You really think he'd pay us again?”

“I don't see why not. We did a hell of a job the first time.”

Billy Don took a long pull from his beer and pondered it for a few minutes. Then he said, “When do you wanna do it?”

“Well, Billy Don, my daddy always told me…there's no time like the present.”

Red would look back on that night for many years to come and wish he'd done things a little differently.

For starters, he probably would have approached Swank's house a little more discreetly. They knew the deer was in the five-acre pen near the house—and rounding it up would be easy, as tame as it was—but to just go marching right up there at three in the morning was a bad idea.

He probably wouldn't have had so much to drink, and he definitely wouldn't have brought that bottle of Jack Daniel's along with him.

There was also the matter of Billy Don's singing. Bellowing a Hank Williams tune while you're sneaking up on someone wasn't something James Bond did on a regular basis.

And, oh yeah, he would have left the tit dancer in the truck. Sure, Crystal was a nice girl and all…a really nice girl…but what does a stripper know about stealing a deer? She was gorgeous and lean, with that nasty-girl look to her. And she could suck the hide off an alligator—she had proved that in the truck on the way over here for a hundred bucks each—but she wasn't exactly the animal-kidnapper type.

Red couldn't remember all of the crucial events very clearly. Too much booze, and it all happened so quickly. One minute they were approaching the pen, Red right on Crystal's behind in those tight leather pants. The next minute they were standing in the middle of a blinding spotlight. A Meskin-sounding voice yelled at them. Then a shot rang out and Billy Don fell like a sack of potatoes. Yeah, a sack that could hold every potato in Idaho.