Invasion of Privacy (6 page)

It was a quiet night in Pedro’s Especiale Bar and Grill in Austin, Texas.

Tank Potter sat atop his favorite stool, elbows on the bar, eyes glued to the envelope placed in front of him. Pedro kept the joint as dark as a Brownsville cathouse, and Tank had to squint to read the words typed across its face:
Henry Thaddeus Potter. Personal and Confidential
.

Only a few of the regulars were in. Dotty and Sam, the swinging septuagenarians, were swilling margaritas at one end. French and Bobby had taken claim of the TV and were cursing at ESPN at the other. Tank’s stool was in the middle. He called it his “umpire’s post,” because from it he was able to adjudicate any disagreements that might break out. He was hard to miss no matter where he sat. At forty-two years of age, he went six-four, two-fifty, with forty-six-inch shoulders. There was also the matter of his hair, which was thick, brown, and unruly and defied the best efforts of his brush. To combat any impression of carelessness, he made a point to dress neatly. This evening his khakis were pressed, his Oxford button-down starched so that it could stand on its own. As always, he wore Nocona ropers to remind him that he was a Texas boy, born and bred.

“Pedrito,” he called, raising a hand to give the place a little excitement.
“Uno más, por favor.”

A chubby middle-aged man with slicked-back hair and a Pancho Villa mustache poured him a shot of Hornitos in a clean glass. “Good news or bad?”

“What do you mean?”

“You been staring at that envelope for the last hour. You going to open it or what?”

“Already did.” Tank tapped the envelope on the bar, feeling the single sheet of paper slide from side to side. He was a journalist by profession, and he was hard put to come up with ninety-six words that more concisely conveyed the message on that page.

“And?”

“Buggy whip,” said Tank.

Pedro opened a Tecate and placed the bottle next to the tequila. “What is a leather crop used to hit a horse to make it pull a carriage or one of them hansom cabs in Central Park? Buggy whip.”

“Wrong,” said Tank, with a polite tilt of the bottle before he took a swig. “And you don’t have to repeat the word at the end. This isn’t a spelling bee.”

“What do you mean, wrong? What do you think a buggy whip is?”

“Technically, you’re correct,” Tank conceded. “But it wasn’t a question.”

“You trying to make some kind of point?”

“You asked about the envelope.”

Pedro leaned against the bar. “Okay, then. Shoot.”

And so Tank told Pedro the story.

At the turn of the twentieth century, everyone rode horses to get around. Wagons and carriages were the most popular means of transport for groups of people traveling any kind of distance. You couldn’t have a carriage without a buggy whip. Buggy whips were everywhere, and so were the companies that made them.

Then one day automobiles appeared. They were regarded as marvels and quickly became objects of envy. But for many years they were too expensive for regular folk. Still, little by little the price of this newfangled invention fell. Each year more people bought automobiles and fewer people rode in horse-drawn carriages.

“What do you think happened to buggy whips?” asked Tank in conclusion.

Pedro drew a finger across his throat.

“Exactly. The second cars got cheap, demand for the buggy whip collapsed. The buggy-whip manufacturers tried everything to improve their products and make them less expensive, but it didn’t matter. People couldn’t care less whether a buggy whip looked sharper or lasted longer. They were driving Model T’s, Chryslers, and Chevrolets. No one needed a buggy whip, no matter how nifty it was. Until finally one day no one was riding in a carriage at all.” Tank downed his shot and banged the glass on the bar as a fitting endnote. “Goodbye, buggy whip.”

“Why are you telling me this?” asked Pedro.

“Because you’re looking at one,” said Tank.

“A buggy whip? I thought you were a reporter.”

“Same thing. You’re looking at a living, breathing example of technical obsolescence. A walking anachronism. Like the abacus or the typewriter or the fax…and now the newspaper.”

“How’s a buggy whip like a newspaper?”

“It’s like this: a reporter is to a newspaper as a buggy whip is to a horse-drawn carriage. Follow?”

Pedro’s face lit up. “Now I know what’s in the envelope.”

“Well, you don’t have to look so stinkin’ happy about it.”

Pedro frowned and retreated to the end of the bar as Tank finished his beer. He put down the empty and swiveled on his stool, looking at the piñatas hanging from the ceiling and the velvet black-light paintings of Selena and Jennifer Lopez.

Tank’s real name was Henry Thaddeus Potter. He’d started life as Henry, then Hank, then Hank the Tank, by virtue of his playing fullback on a state championship team at Westlake High. After four years as a Texas Longhorn, he was just Tank. It made for good copy. He was stuck with it.

His phone rang and he checked the caller. “Yeah, Al.”

“You at Pedro’s?” demanded Al Soletano, managing editor of the
Austin American-Statesman
, Tank’s employer for the past sixteen years. “Betty said she saw your car there. I need you to come in.”

“I already got my envelope.”

“You read it all the way through? The new management is itching for an excuse to fire you for cause. It would save them a lot of dough. You have thirty days until the deal clears. Keep your nose clean until then. In the meantime, we got a breaking story. An FBI agent got himself killed in Dripping Springs. Thought you might want to handle it. You know—a last hurrah.”

“My beat is state politics.”

“This one’s in our backyard. I’m not giving it to a wire service. I’ve still got my pride.”

“You mean you’re short a crime reporter.”

“Press conference is at nine at the Federal Building.”

“In the morning?”

“Tonight. Don’t be late. And Tank—no more cocktails.”

Tank hung up and asked for his tab. Pedro put the bill on the counter, concerned. “Leaving already? The señoritas aren’t here yet.”

“Duty calls.”

The bartender flashed his most optimistic smile. “So you’re not fired?”

Tank slapped the envelope on the bar. “Buggy whip, Pedro. It’s only a matter of time.”

Tank crossed the street and climbed into his ’98 Jeep Cherokee. The engine turned over after a few tries, no buggy whip needed. His first task was to roll down the windows. The air conditioning was DOA and the fan had as much power as a fruit fly’s wings. This accomplished, he reached under his seat for a backstop and took a two-second swizzle of Cuervo. Soletano had said no more cocktails. He hadn’t mentioned pick-me-ups.

The FBI residency was off Ben White in South Austin, no more than a fifteen-minute drive. Tank made a U-turn against traffic and headed north. To the west the sky was flaming red. A wavy black line rose from the river and climbed east into the purple dusk. A gust of warm, fetid air washed through the car and he grimaced.

The bats
.

Each spring a million bats migrated north from Mexico to Austin to nest beneath the Congress Avenue Bridge. Every evening they left the damp, cool recesses of the bridge and flew east to scour the countryside for insects. The air was thick with their musty, throat-clawing odor.

Tank continued on Lamar, skirting the south shore of the Colorado River, the skyscrapers of downtown Austin to his left. He spotted Potter Tower, built by his grandfather in the late 1980s. To answer Pedro’s question, yes, there was money in the envelope. Or at least the promise of money. More money than Tank was likely to see again in one lump sum.

The Potter family money was a thing of the past. Oil dried up. Real estate crashed. Besides, his mother wasn’t the first Mrs. Potter and he wasn’t the first male heir to carry on the family name.

Tank arrived at the FBI’s office ten minutes later. The lot was half full and he parked in a far corner. He scoped out the place and took a quick snort from his backstop. It was just 8:30, and he chided himself for leaving Pedro’s so quickly. A car pulled into the lot and he spotted a slim, eager-looking man in short sleeves and a black tie hustling inside.
It was the AP stringer out of Dallas. The enemy. No small-market paper could afford a full complement of reporters these days, not with circulation down 50 percent in the past ten years.

A minute later two dark sedans pulled into the lot, braked dramatically by the double glass doors, and disgorged several men in business suits. He recognized Don Bennett, the agent who headed up the Austin residency. Another ten minutes remained before the press conference was scheduled to begin. God knew they never started on time.

Hurry up and wait. It was a reporter’s life.

Tank sipped from the Cuervo and turned up the music. Bob Wills and His Texas Playboys sang about lost loves and ruined lives. The night had cooled, and Tank leaned his head back and gazed out the window at the darkening sky. He remembered his own cheatin’ wife, gone these past five years. There hadn’t been anyone serious since, just the floozies from Pedro’s…though he did enjoy their company. He thought he saw a shooting star. He relaxed a notch.

Damn if it wasn’t a beautiful night.

Tank woke with a start.

He grabbed the steering wheel and pulled himself upright, then wiped away a lick of drool that had dried on his cheek. It was 10:45. He’d passed out for almost two hours. He looked around, still getting his bearings. The lot was empty. The press conference was over.

He bolted from the car, ran to the front doors, and banged furiously. A young hotshot came down the hall and opened the door a crack. “Yeah?”

“I need a summary from the press conference.”

“And you are?”

“Tank Potter.
Statesman
.”

“Press conference ended an hour ago.” The hotshot was hardly old enough to have his first hangover, with a fresh high-and-tight and his sidearm high on the hip. A real greenhorn.

“Just give me your write-up, okay?” said Tank. “Don’t be a dick about it.”

The hotshot gave him a look, then smiled. “Sure. Wait here.”

“Thanks, bro.”

Tank retreated down the steps and lit a cigarette. He checked his phone and saw that Al Soletano had left ten messages. Tank swore
under his breath. They couldn’t dismiss him for missing a press conference.

The hotshot came outside and handed him the summary. “Headed out?”

“Yeah,” said Tank. “Bedtime.” In fact he was hoping to get back to the office, file his story, and make it to Pedro’s by midnight.

“I’ll walk you. That you in the corner?”

“The Jeep? That’s it. Got two hundred thousand miles on the original engine. A real trooper. You with the Bureau?”

“APD. Detective Lance Burroughs. Liaison.”

“Really? Detective? Didn’t know they were promoting right out of college.”

“I’m thirty-two.”

Tank tried to read the release, but his eyes sucked and the light was too low anyway.

“Did I miss anything?”

“You’ll find everything we have there. There’ll be a follow-up conference sometime tomorrow.”

“Sounds good.” Tank reached his car and Burroughs opened the door for him. Tank looked at him for a second, then climbed in and closed the door. “Thanks again, detective. Appreciate it.”

“Say, Tank, where do you live?”

“Tarrytown,” he said as he started the engine. “Why do you ask?”

“You may not be making it home tonight.”

“What do you mean? Car runs fine. Secret is to change the oil every two thousand miles.”

The hotshot had stepped away from the car and stood with hands on his hips. “Sir, would you turn the car off?”

Tank dug his chin into his neck. “Why would I want to do that?”

“Just do as I say, sir. Turn off your engine and step out of the vehicle.”

“But…” Tank looked down. It was then that he saw the fifth of Cuervo lying on the seat beside him.

“Now, Mr. Potter. You’re under arrest for driving while intoxicated.”

It was late when Mary returned home. She parked in the front drive and stayed behind the wheel after she cut the engine. Through the front window she could see the girls watching television. For the rest of their lives they would remember that they were watching
Survivor
when their mother came home and informed them of their father’s death.

Mary got out of the car and managed a few steps toward the house before stopping. The front door was twenty feet and a mile away.

Mountains don’t get smaller for looking at them
.

Mary listened to the buzzing of the cicadas, the murmur of the television, the cycling of the air conditioning on and off. One more minute of innocence. One more minute of not knowing. One more minute of not feeling like she did.

Jessie spotted her car and jumped up from the couch. Grace rose, too. Both hurried to the front door, eager to learn why she was home so late. Their children’s sense had warned them that something was wrong. They had no idea.

Jessie opened the door. “Mom, what were you doing just standing there?”

Mary started up the walk. “Coming, peanut.”

Grace pushed her way in front of her older sister. “Where’s Daddy?”