Blanco County 04 - Guilt Trip (13 page)

Red said, “Let’s hear ‘em.”

Lucy looked him in the eye for a long time. “This is all just ‘tween you and me, right?”

“Absolutely.”

She lit a fresh smoke and rambled on for ten minutes solid—and the things she told Red were enough to make him realize he was in the company of a master con artist.

For starters, Lucy had been operating as a pet psychic for the past six months or so.
A pet psychic.
“Can you believe that?” she asked. “Can you believe people are that gullible?”

Red said hell no, he couldn’t believe it, and he decided not to mention that he’d run up a pretty good phone bill calling a late-night TV psychic last month. Madame Crustacean or something like that. Truth was, he could see how an authentic psychic could maybe figure out human-type affairs and all, but talking to poodles and parakeets? He shook his head, like it was all totally ridiculous. Lucy said her clients wanted to
believe
she could communicate with their animals. That’s what made it so easy, she said. The clients were believers to begin with, which is why they called her.

But there was more. Lucy’s second husband—this was about fifteen years ago—had been an accomplished scam artist. He’d wheedle his way into an old geezer’s home, get into the attic, then proceed to find “evidence” of termites or a leaky roof or whatever was on the menu that month. Then he’d take a down payment, fill out an official-looking work order (bogus, of course), then vanish in the wind.

“The problem with that,” Lucy said, “is that you’ve gotta move around all the time. People know you’re cheating ‘em, so sooner or later someone’s gonna look hard enough to find you. We must’ve lived in a dozen towns in five years. Gets old real quick. No, the way I see it, there are only two ways to go. One, you come up with a scam where the people don’t know they’re being duped. Like the pet psychic thing. Or two, you pull it off so that they never know who you are anyway. Never even see your face.”

Red was having trouble following all of this. “How do you do that?”

Lucy laughed. “All kinds of ways. Let me tell you about an old classic. You start with a list of about a hundred people. They gotta be rich folks, with plenty of extra cash to spare, so maybe you focus on a hoity-toity little neighborhood on the right side of town. Then you send them all an anonymous letter about a football team, like maybe the Cowboys. Okay, in half the letters you say that the Cowboys are gonna win on Sunday. In the other half, you say the ‘Boys are gonna lose. You follow me?”

“I think so.”

“So then, after the game, half of the people think you’re pretty smart, right? You predicted the outcome of a pro game. So you send those people another letter, but you split ‘em in half again, same as the first time. Half the letters say Dallas will win, half say they’ll lose.”

Red was starting to catch on.

Lucy said, “And you keep doing that every week, splitting it each time, only sending letters to the people who received the right prediction the week before. Pretty soon, they think you’re about as slick as frozen snot. By the time you get down to just one guy left on the list, hell, you’ve already told him what’s gonna happen in six different games. He’s watching his mailbox each week, just dying to see what’s gonna happen next. That’s when you make your move.”

Red couldn’t help it, he was grinning wide. Lucy was about as clever as a girl could get. “Then you ask ‘em for money,” he said.

“Damn right, you do. I always say five thousand bucks if they wanna know what’s gonna happen in the game that week. Most of ‘em think it’s a pretty small price to pay for information like that. They start thinking about flying to Vegas and placing a big ol’ bet.”

“So you’ve done it?” Red couldn’t imagine having the guts to pull something like that off.

“Yep.”

“They go for it?”

“Some of them do. Not a lot, but enough. Plus, you gotta be real careful how you go about picking up the money. Just in case they report you. Feds would nail you big time for that.”

It was all so simple…and so smart. Red wasn’t sure if he should be disgusted or thoroughly impressed. In his state of inebriation, he went for the latter.

She told him about some other neat tricks, too, like how to swindle a cashier out of extra change, or how to convince a widow that her late husband ordered a bunch of encyclopedias right before he died. “You look in the obituaries,” she said, “and go from there.”

Red was starting to realize how much money a person could make if he—or in this case, she—tried hard enough.

Sylvia hollered out last call, and Red was starting to wonder if he’d get a chance to see Lucy again. He was trying to work up the nerve to ask for her phone number, but it turned out
she
wanted to see
him
again—real soon.

“I’m working on something right now,” she said. “One of my patients—an old guy who’s not doing so good—he’s got a ton of money and nobody to leave it to. Doesn’t even have a will, at least not one that’s valid anymore. And I figure, hey, why should it all go to the state, right? I mean, what right does the government have to it?”

That made sense to Red.

“So I’m working on a way to get some of it for myself,” she said. Then she added slowly, “But the thing is, I need some help. I need someone like you to work this thing with me.”

She gave him that look again—the long stare, almost as if she was questioning his manhood.

Red glanced at Billy Don, who was snoring like a hooker after a long night. He looked back at Lucy, who was watching him patiently. “Who
is
this old guy?” he asked, wondering what in the hell he was getting himself into.

Lucy downed the rest of her beer, stubbed out her cigarette, and said, “His name’s Scofield. Vance Scofield. Senior.”

LUCAS WOKE EARLY in the motel room because he still had a lot to figure out. Like fake IDs. That was number one on the list. He was trying to decide whether he should try to get a phony set here in Miami, where he had a better chance of finding someone who could supply that sort of thing, or go ahead and make the four-hour drive to Key West. The island was infamous for sheltering all types of refugees—those who were running from the law, and those who simply wanted to leave the past behind. There, he could take his time, live on the cash they had, until he was able to make some connections. Get in with the right group of people, ask a few questions, and don’t rush anything. He figured he was less likely to get caught that way. So that’s what he decided. Maybe make one more stop in Miami to buy some clothes and other supplies, then hit the road.

Stephanie was breathing softly next to him, still fast asleep. The clock read 7:14.

She’d calmed down last night, and once again seemed happy about this adventure they were on. He’d told her the only reason the cops were looking for her was to question her. To ask her if she had any idea what had happened to Vance.

He thought there was a pretty good chance he was right.

Buford and Little Joe woke early in the motel room because they still had a lot to figure out. Like getting Colby to talk.

“I don’t see what the big deal is,” Joe said from the other bed. “We just go back to his place, stick a gun in his mouth, and tell him what we want. Do it real fucking easy that way. You always say the best plans are the simple ones.”

“Yeah, but it could get messy real quick,” Buford said. He’d already followed that line of thought out to the end. He’d lain awake last night pondering all sorts of possibilities, and nothing had panned out. “What if he’s got the negatives stashed away in a safe-deposit box?”

“What if he does?”

“Think about it. Once he gets into that bank, he’s safe again. He figures we’re not gonna blow him away inside a bank, right? So all of a sudden, he’s back in charge. Plus, he woulda seen our faces, and that ain’t no good.”

“He’s already seen our faces.”

“No, I mean seeing our faces and knowing we’re the bad guys.”

“Whatsisname, the doctor the other day, he saw our faces.”

“That was different.”

“How was it different?”

Buford didn’t have the patience for this.

Joe said, “I’m just trying to learn something, is all.”

“Winsted knew he was in the wrong. Man owed us money, no way around it. Plus, he couldn’t go to the cops, not without a lot of bad publicity. Thing like that wouldn’t look good for a man in his position. But it’s more than that. It’s more about the
type
of person we’re dealing with.”

Joe had a vacant expression on his face, and Buford knew he wasn’t following the logic.

So Buford said, “This guy Colby, he isn’t like the others at all. The way he’s going about it all—the things he’s saying to Herzog, the things he’s doing—he’s more like you and me. He’s a cat, not a mouse.”

Joe nodded, and Buford wondered if he really understood. “What we gonna do, then?” Joe asked.

“Hell, Joe, that’s what we’re trying to figure out.”

Buford had the color TV tuned to CMT, watching videos with the volume turned all the way down. Brad Paisley was on there right now, singing his head off without making a sound. Buford handled a few guys like that—talented as hell, and they could write the shit out of a song, but so far, they couldn’t get that one lucky break. Or, to be precise, Buford couldn’t get it for them. Nashville was an incestuous little town, and if you were an outsider, you didn’t have much chance at all. There were times, sitting across the table from some label exec, he wanted to reach across and grab the guy by the hair. Start whacking his head on the table until he got that smug goddamn look off his face. Wouldn’t work, though. Even if he did it for real, all it would get him was arrested. He had to play by their rules, even if it meant being excluded forever.

Joe said, “Sounds like we need something besides just whacking him upside the head. Or maybe shooting him in the foot.”

Buford reached to the nightstand and grabbed a cigar. He lit up and said, “Yeah, something a little more clever than that. We can’t go at him head-on.”

They sat in silence for fifteen minutes. Buford was at a loss. Every idea he had ultimately involved beating Colby until he cooperated. Violence, pure and simple. The kind of stuff Buford was good at. But this required a smarter approach.

Then Joe surprised Buford by spitting out a damn good idea. Simple as hell, but good.

Marlin called Garza from home first thing Thursday morning, checking in.

“Getting back to your regular routine?” Garza asked.

“Pretty much. Unless you need an extra hand with Lucas.”

“That’s the problem,” Garza said. “There’s nothing we
can
do—not until we find him.”

“Then I’ll be out all morning,” Marlin said. “If you hear anything from Austin, catch me on the radio, will ya? I’d like to hear what the autopsy says.”

“Will do. It could be this afternoon, but I’m guessing tomorrow’s more likely.”

Marlin hung up and walked outside to his truck, content to be returning to his normal duties. He drove the quiet back roads of the county and stopped at several hunting camps. The weather was crisp and beautiful, the temperature in the low seventies, big white clouds hanging in the sky like balls of cotton. The toms were strutting, and several of the hunters had had some luck. All the birds had been properly tagged.

At lunchtime, he drove back into Johnson City and stopped at a pay phone. The dispatchers and some of the deputies were always after him to get a cell phone, but he hated the damn things. He dialed a number, and Phil Colby answered on the fourth ring.

“Wanna get some lunch?” Marlin asked.

“Who the hell is this?”

“Funny.”

“Well, I’ll be. Is this John Marlin? I thought maybe you’d already moved to San Antone.”

“You crack you up,” Marlin said, but he was glad that Colby was in a good enough mood to be a smart-ass. “You wanna get some lunch or not?”

“Wish I could, but I’ve gotta run some culls up to Lampasas later this afternoon.”

“Need some help loading up?”

“Naw, I already got ‘em penned. I’ll be back late tonight. I’ll catch you later this week, all right?”

By early afternoon, Red couldn’t stand it anymore and he went behind a cedar tree to throw up. His sweat smelled like stale beer, and his head felt like someone was inside with a pickax trying to get out. Jesus, he couldn’t remember the last time he’d been this hung over. The fact that he was operating a bone-rattling hydraulic T-post driver didn’t help matters much. He’d heard about prison work that was easier than this crap.

Normally they used a tractor-mounted post driver—a big son of a bitch delivering more than seventy thousand pounds of force with each blow. But they were working in a ravine, down low in some rough country where the tractor couldn’t go. They were having to do it all by hand.

Good thing Jack Chambers had made a run into town, so he couldn’t complain if the unofficial captain of the work crew called a little break. Red took a seat on the ground in the shade. Billy Don dropped down beside him. Jorge, the wetback, shook his head at them and kept working.

“God Almighty,” Billy Don said, rubbing his temples, “if I could work up the strength, I’d shoot myself.”

Red didn’t reply. All he could think about was his soft, comfortable bed, and the fact that they’d be finished with this job before sundown. He was going to sleep for about three days when he got home. He’d drink a gallon of water, curl up, and wait for the demons to quit howling.

Despite the way he was feeling—pounding skull, trembling hands, and bowels that were churning with a liquid ferocity—Red couldn’t help but smile on occasion.

Lucille.

Even the name alone was enough to lift his spirits. There was something special about her, and any moron—including him—could spot it from a mile away.

“So…you gonna call her or what?” Billy Don asked, grinning. The look on Red’s face must’ve given him away.

They hadn’t discussed her yet. Red had been putting it off. He wasn’t sure how Billy Don would react. “She’s a handful, ain’t she?” he said.

“Shee-yit,” Billy Don said. “She’s just like Loretta, only more so.”

Red didn’t see how Lucille could be more like Loretta than Loretta was, but now was not the time for an argument. So he said, “Well, speaking of Lucy, there’s something we need to talk about.”

“Hell, she likes you better’n me, Red. I can see that. Y’all have your fun.”

“I appreciate that, Billy Don, but that’s not what I’m talking about. It’s something more important.” Red removed his baseball cap and used it as a fan, trying to generate a small breeze to fight the humidity. “See, Lucy’s got a little problem. Something to do with one of her patients. And I came up with a way to help her out of it. Turn it from a challenge into an opportunity. A real moneymaker. But she needs our help.”

Actually, Lucy had said she needed
Red’s
help, but Red had made it clear last night that he wasn’t getting involved without his partner. She’d said, yeah, sure, that’s fine. So she and Red had figured out a doozy together, and now all Red had to do was get Billy Don on board. Which wasn’t always easy.

The big man eyed Red with suspicion. “What now?”

“Now see,” Red said, “how come you’re always so negative about everything? I haven’t hardly opened my mouth yet, and you’re already looking for problems that ain’t there. How come you can’t give me a little credit now and then? I mean, I know some of my ideas don’t always work out, but some of them are pretty damn good. Least you could do is say thank you ever’ once in a while.”

Red could tell that Billy Don was about to deliver some kind of smart-ass answer, but he must’ve changed his mind. He simply said, “All right, then, let’s hear it.”

“That’s more like it,” Red said, forgetting his hangover for a second, getting excited about the possibilities. “Before I get into all the little details, let me ask you something: How would you feel about impersonating a plumber?”