moving around dancing couples and crowded tables, toward the battered wooden door opening to the street. Terry Keane, the no-nonsense owner of Monte’s, glanced at the men from behind the bar. The former marine, still muscular with a close-cropped haircut, had a concrete rule that no one was to walk out of Monte’s sloppy drunk. Have some beer, laugh, dance, and play darts, but don’t overdo the drinking, and for damn sure don’t be a smartass. Whether you’re Terry’s friend or not, succumbing to either vice puts you on the outside of Monte’s. His wife and co-owner Debbie was a knockout—and maybe tougher than Terry. She’d knock you out herself if you disobeyed the standing orders. Carlos and Terry made eye contact, and Carlos quickly lowered his eyes as he continued toward the door. Terry returned to his customers.
Outside, a vanilla moon beamed down on Monte’s and on the long line of flat-faced nineteenth-century Texas storefronts along Davis Street. Oblivious to the stars in the clear sky above their heads, the men trudged into the cold Luling night, hunching their shoulders against the chill.
Carlos asked Juan, “You got a car? I’ll ride with you.”
Juan pointed to the deep red 1989 Civic parked halfway down the block from Monte’s. It looked black in the moonlight. “That’s her. She don’t look like much, but she never give me a problem. She’s the most faithful woman I ever knew.”
Emilio and Manuel walked another hundred feet, stopping at a black Ford F-250 truck with extended cab and off-road capability, ideal for working Texas oil country.
Emilio called to Juan and Carlos. “I’ll lead the way. Come up close and follow me down the back end of town. I know a shortcut off eighty-six. That’s if your little piece of shit can keep up with me.” He laughed and climbed into the sleek truck. Manuel jumped into the front passenger side.
Juan laughed as well and looked over at Carlos with a huge grin. “He don’t know this baby. I’ll be on his ass the whole way.” Carlos nodded in agreement.
Five miles out of town, Emilio turned right onto a dirt road. “This is it,” he said. A frog jumped in Manuel’s stomach. Emilio tapped the brakes a couple of times, drifted to the side of the road, and stopped at a dirt turnaround area.
“Oh shit, man.” Juan slammed on the brakes, turning the steering wheel hard left. He slowed the Civic, turned back to the right, and drove forward to the shoulder, parking behind the truck. “What’s the problem?”
“No sé—Don’t know. Let’s check it out.” Carlos opened the door and walked toward the other two men standing in front of the truck. Juan fell in step behind him.
Carlos arrived just as Emilio raised the hood. “What’s wrong?”
“It’s the fucking fan belt again. Maybe I trade my truck for your car.” Emilio nodded his head toward the Civic.
“No way, man. Who has shit now?” Juan smiled with a hint of superiority.
With Manuel’s body halfway into the engine compart-ment, Emilio spoke. “Carlos, would you and Juan check my tool chest? Need the flashlight, wrenches, and fan belt.”
“No problema. Juan, give me a hand.” He walked to the rear of the pickup. Carlos lowered the tailgate before Juan reached the back of the truck. “Help me pull the tool chest out.”
Juan grabbed the left side handle and prepared to pull. “Estoy listo—I’m ready.”
Carlos reached to the side of the chest, taking a claw hammer from the truck bed. He took a quick look at Juan and followed with a smooth, fierce blow. The hammer rotated slightly as it surged forward, hitting Juan in his temple and puncturing the side of his skull with a near-perfect hole. Juan staggered to his left, weathering the initial effects of the blow. He turned and looked Carlos in the eye. A sad frown formed on his face in the moonlight.
“Por qué…” He collapsed onto the road, clipping the tailgate with the left side of his head as he fell.
One
Seven Weeks Earlier,
Friday, October 30
Port Hueneme, California
Port Hueneme lies eight miles southeast of Ventura, California. Seiler Engineering occupied a four-room parcel of a multi-store building on Port Hueneme Road. Owned by Donald Seiler, the company staff consisted of two draftsmen.
Vince Bolduc—at least, that was his name while in California—parked directly in front of the office. He squeezed his way out of the car, his exit impeded by a fast-food waistline and an inconsiderate driver who parked over the stripe. The sun’s reflection bounced off the office window, slicing through his eyes and into his brain. Can’t believe I left my sunglasses in New York, he thought. Vince walked in the door.
“Hey, Vince, come on in,” said a voice from a card table in the middle of the room. Don Seiler stuck his hand in Vince’s direction without getting up. Vince walked over and gave Don a firm handshake. Elam Duquette, Don’s business partner, ignored the new visitor and ended another tale of tales.
“And then I threw his sorry ass into the pool, suit and all.” The lack of raucous laughter caused Elam to look at the source of disruption. Who the hell are you? he thought. Elam didn’t take well to someone killing his punch line.
Don spotted Elam’s irritation immediately and interceded. “Elam, say hello to an actual paying customer. This is Vince Bolduc. Vince, meet Elam Duquette.” Pointing to the two draftsmen, he added, “I think you already know Jay and Mark.”
Vince nodded and apologized. “Didn’t mean to interrupt. I just thought I’d say hello and see how the design is coming.”
“All systems go. Mark’s putting the final drawings together now. We’ll have them ready by Tuesday.” Don changed the subject. “Better than that, you’ve come across some serious serendipity. We’re having a pre-Halloween party. Got Jack Daniels to Coke and everything in between.” He pointed back to the wall behind him.
Vince looked in the direction of Don’s hand. On a desk littered with assorted paper, books, and manila folders sat a cache of Coke cans, two six-packs of beer, a bottle of Dewar’s, and two bottles of Jack Daniels. A small column of stacked plastic glasses and a bowl full of ice rounded out the bar. Two opened bags of chips and a large jar of salsa sat next to the ice bowl.
Elam had driven up from LAX earlier in the day and was four drinks into storytelling. He blew off the interruption. “Hey, Vince, wanna see a humongous fucking fortune? Look over there.” He pointed to some engineering drawings on the table to Don’s front.
Elam’s major vice was his inability to stop talking, but unlike those of bullshitters, his stories were real. Elam got up with a smile, sauntered over to the blueprint, and stuck his finger in the middle of the drawing. “This sucker is straight from the mind of my esteemed colleague, Mr. Don Hudson Seiler. With me doing the marketing and Don doing the engineering, we have a separate little joint venture known as Donelam Oil Systems—that’s for ‘Don’ and ‘Elam.’ Pretty damn soon Don can forget pissant Seiler Engineering; we’re going for the big-time. On the low side, we’re going to make us a few hundred million dollars.”
Elam laughed, partly from conviction of success, partly from Jack and Coke. He slugged down his current round and walked to the improvised bar for a refill. Elam’s blue, flowered rayon shirt hung over baggy, floor-dragging chinos like silk over cow turds. Elam was a paradox: one part commoner and one part F. Scott Fitzgerald character.
Vince glanced at the drawing. Other than its obvious long and narrow outline, there was little that he could discern. His polite smile belied an intense study of the object.
Breaking Vince’s interest in the strange mechanical system, Don grabbed his camera