at the very least divert Ryan’s attention for a while—Sam rehearsed in his head, being careful to leave out the sarcasm. You wanted to keep Ryan calm.
Who really was at fault, Bob? I’d say it was the moron who fastened on the license plates with plastic garbage bag ties. If not for that significant oversight, everything would have gone along just fine. Jimmy and I had this under control—that much is perfectly clear.
Ryan might want the both of them dead, but as long as Jimmy was still around, Sam believed there was a play or two remaining. As the Escalade rumbled along towards the freeway, Sam sent a text message to Jimmy telling the little bastard what hotel they were staying at. When he finished he began worrying if Jimmy’s phone battery was charged.
Oh, the complications of modern life.
Walking down the lush residential streets of Port Aransas chewing an energy bar and racing indecisively through the numerous escape scenarios his mind was kicking out, Jimmy felt his phone vibrate and took it from his pocket, saw Sam Arndt displayed on the screen. Dude was a bookie and a high-end hustler but had pretty much always treated Jimmy right. At least Sam always gave him a chance to recoup his losses. And if he didn’t recoup, Sam was patient on the payback. Or was that just what a smart money man did? Jimmy couldn’t decide, only knew his loyalty to Arndt was stretching thin. A shrink would say he was conflicted. Well, fuck if he was going to let the goofy sonofabitch Arndt totally ruin his day. The weed had his head up and the sun was warming his bones and as long as he was here, he might as well get in some ray time on the beach, maybe stroll down to that Billy’s Bar and check out the situation.
Jimmy shut off his phone, returned it to the pocket of his jams and continued strolling along, passing by shrimp-and-seafood outlets, shark-tooth emporiums, flounder restaurants and a Whataburger drive-in, before he finally saw the beach. And then—holy shit, talk about the hand of fate reaching out and grabbing you by the balls—there was the cute babe in the gold Minnesota Gophers’ shirt coming out of a convenience store.
Another omen?
But wait now, there was a redhead coming out of the store with Gopher Girl, babe with hair the color of nearly ripe strawberries. Little older than Gopher girl but just as delightful. Fine haughty rack stretching for the sun under an expensive-looking yellow top.
Jimmy’s first urge was to go right up and say something to Gopher Girl, ask her how she liked her breakfast at the Sand Dollar Cafe. But the redhead was there so he had to slow himself down and observe. He watched the two of them talking like old friends, beach bags over their shoulders, laughing as they walked toward the beige Toyota. From his position about thirty yards away Jimmy watched the redhead point towards a mint, robin’s-egg-blue Ford pickup glinting in the sun at the back of the convenience store parking lot.
Well, if that ain’t something else, Jimmy thought. Universe seems to be cooking up a gumbo for all of us. The redhead was pointing at the truck he’d stolen—correction, borrowed—and now the chick was getting into it.
Watching the ladies driving in tandem toward the beach, Jimmy straightened his sunglasses, things sliding down his nose from sweat, pulled off his shirt and went sauntering after them.
Lying on a multi-colored chaise in his red swim trunks, six-pack cooler and four empty Bud cans in the sand at his side, newly purchased aviator Ray Bans shielding his pale-blues from the glare, Dan Henning watched the line of his shore-casting rig stretching and drifting over the surf, the long cork handle inside a rod holder jammed in the sand down near his son. Danny was close to the gulf and the hole he was digging kept filling up with salty water, keeping the kid busy with his shovel, pail and dump truck. Building up a soggy pile of sand next to the hole, Danny seemed happy without much effort from Dad, who, nevertheless, was maintaining a watchful eye in case the boy encountered a jellyfish or some other stinging creature in his excavations.
Friday afternoon and Mustang Island was starting to fill up, same as nearly every weekend when the weather was decent. You had your Mex’s from Corpus with their beat-up trucks and vans and loud music, vying for space with stoned white kids, and, this time of year, flocks of pasty-skinned tourists driving their rental cars on the beach for the sheer novelty of it.
This was the part of the day that always signaled Henning it was time to leave the beach. A stomach full of beer requesting something more substantial and the sun making his Polish skin smell like barbecued pork, Poles not known for their deep tans. Dan’s original family name was Hovaskerich, changed to Henning by his father in honor of a Cowboys’ linebacker from the early sixties. Back in the day when the Hovaskerich family landed on U.S. soil, most immigrants wanted to sound American, and they changed their names accordingly. But now you had a bunch of numbnuts obsessed with trivial shit like preserving their heritage, which seemed to Henning like putting lipstick on a hog. But he also figured his own name change had probably saved him from a lot of ribbing at work. True that. He’d never discussed his “Polack” heritage with anyone in the patrol.
Henning reminded himself that concerns about the jibes of his fellow troopers would soon be a thing of the past. Couple weeks and he’d be out of there for good. So why didn’t he feel as great as he thought he should? Was it guilt over stealing the money? Hell no on that count. So much dirty cash was trucked through here by the druggies and gun smugglers, there was a running joke among the troopers: Southwest Texas was the financial capitol of the world. And there was hardly a goddamn day went by you didn’t hear about some Wall Street muckety-muck getting caught with his hand in the golden cookie jar, so no, Henning couldn’t care less about who was losing the revenue, long as he was the one gaining it.
So it had to be the family situation bothering him. Just when he’d convince himself of the need to escape the demands of married life and fatherhood, contradictory thoughts would slide in and crank up the second-guessing.
Indecision.
A sign of weakness?
That’s what you heard. And part of him leaned in that direction. But Henning preferred to think of it as an indicator of heightened awareness and increased knowledge of all the possible choices, which, of course, made it harder to select just one.
Raising his torso, yawning and looking up and down the long strip of sand, Dan saw a Toyota just like Cyn’s rolling along the beach in his direction, an old Ford truck with perfect light blue paint close behind it. And sure as hell, it was Cynthia’s Camry. He could see a redhead behind the wheel of the truck. Seemed they were both coming this way.
Surprised by the pleasant feeling that came over him when he saw Cynthia, Henning tried to push his elation back down and find the anger again, not quite ready to let it go. But then Cyn was stepping out looking great and Danny was running up the sand yelling Mommy, Mommy and Dan quit fighting his feelings, thinking it might still be love. If he even believed in that shit anymore, time having a way of wearing off the good parts of a marriage.
The blue pickup stopped next to Cyn’s Toyota and a redhead got out looking real fine herself. When Danny jumped into Cyn’s arms Henning laid back and grinned, thinking things were sliding back into their proper places.
Strolling down the beach following tire tracks, Jimmy was still pondering the implications of his sightings. Sweet cakes in the sand, indeed. But more pressing, the weed high was fading and his hunger was rising. He peeled the wrapper off another energy bar and decided to follow the sandy trail a while longer, see if he could catch up with the two fine ladies.
After nearly a mile of sweaty trudging Jimmy was sorely reminded of his lack of fitness, chiding himself and putting “Get in shape” at the top of his need-to-do list. Then changing the list’s heading to Things to start tomorrow, he picked an empty spot of sand and put down the cheap aqua-blue beach towel from the discount beach ware outlet. He’d follow the tire tracks later if he felt like it.
He began applying more of the knock-off Hawaiian tanning oil. Stuff was nearly as thick as shortening, and, although it had the familiar smells of coconut oil and cocoa butter just like the real thing, this stuff also had a lingering odor like fuel oil or something worse, Jimmy speculating the Mexican company making the shit could be grinding up the bodies