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“Dammit, Billy Joe, I don’t need this right now.”
“Marshal, this is a bad patch you’re going through. It’ll pass. Hey, you’ve gone through times like this before.”
“Oh, sure. This time I let a damned Fed into my organization. He skims off information they can maybe use against me and almost walks away with it.”
“But he didn’t. Manners is dead, and the Feds still don’t have any kind of case against you. Let that ride. If anything does rise to the surface, we’ll let the lawyers handle it. Believe me, Marshal, this is going away.”
“Not until I know who this bastard is.”
“That’s something we all want to know.”
“Is he a damn Fed? A cop? Some psycho on a mission from God?”
“You want to find out?”
“Well, yeah, that seems to be a good idea.”
“Then do what I say. Let your boys run around making noises, but sic Preacher and Choirboy on him. Toss them a contract and let them run.”
Dembrow reached for one of the phones on his desk, tapped in a number and waited while it rang out. The voice on the other end was immediately recognizable.
“Preacher. You want to take a run over? I got a proposition for you two. Big payday. Huge payday. Well, hell, of course the usual. Half down if you come on board. The rest when you deliver. Sure, I’ll be here.”
Rankin poured himself another drink. He stood at the big window overlooking the grounds of Dembrow’s large property.
“It’s time you put that swimming pool in, Marshal. It’ll make a nice addition to the place. We can cut a good deal with Jack Templeton.”
“You think?”
“Big pool. Patio surround. Spot for a barbecue. Damn good way to entertain business clients. Have a few pretty girls running around in bikinis. Or no bikinis.”
Dembrow laughed. “Hey, you could be right, Billy Joe. What the hell, like you said, we got the cash. Give Templeton a call. Set it up.”
Rankin sipped his bourbon, his mission accomplished. Dembrow’s mind had been diverted from his current problems. His employer was a hard man when it came to his business dealings, but he had a failing that caused him to worry overly when problems came his way. If Dembrow allowed himself to be drawn away from his main concerns, the drug business might suffer, and no one in the organization wanted that. Especially Rankin. He enjoyed the success of Dembrow’s dealings and the material gains that he enjoyed. He wanted it to stay that way, so it was part of his job to keep Dembrow on a linear path, fielding off anything that might rock the boat.
PREACHER AND CHOIRBOY showed up an hour later. They parked a gleaming 1986 Lincoln Continental in the drive and stepped out, clad in tailored Western-style suits, complete with leather boots and wide brimmed Stetson hats. They were every inch Texan boys, down to the expensive aviator shades and string ties. The Mexican houseman let them in and escorted them through the house. Dembrow was in his office, alone, Rankin attending to other business. The pair settled into the big armchairs ranged in front of Dembrow’s desk. The houseman took their hats. Dembrow handed them ice-cold bottles of beer, then settled back in his own chair.
“Nice job you boys did on that Fed. I think we got the message across.”
“Take a man’s money, it’s only right you give him value,” Preacher said.
Reaching down behind his desk Dembrow lifted a tan leather carry-all. He placed it on the desk and slid it in Preacher’s direction.
“Well, guys, it’s time for you to do it again.”
Preacher took the bag and placed it on the floor between the armchairs.
“You heard about the shooting at the diner?” Dembrow asked.
Choirboy nodded. “Kind of ended up messy.”
“That was a local fuckup,” Dembrow said. “Some of the hired help decided to think for themselves and take out the girl the undercover Fed had been bedding. Figured they were doing me a big favor. All they did was screw up and make the situation worse.”
“The way we heard it, the girl had some protection,” Preacher said.
“Damn right. He spread my crew all over the scene and walked away. “
“He our target?”
“I’ve run some checks, and no one seems to know who this bastard is.”
“Nothing from the local law-enforcement agencies?”
“I had a word with my contacts at local and State. Not a whisper. If this guy is undercover, he’s so deep he’s invisible.”
Preacher drained his beer. “If the Feds have put in another agent so soon after the last one, he won’t be making himself known. And he isn’t about to make any new friends. That means he’s working in the cold. He’ll be a stranger. That could work for us. Folks around these parts don’t buddy up so fast. They tend to be suspicious if you’re not a native.” He pushed to his feet. “You leave it to us, Mr. Dembrow. We’ll find your boy and retire him.”
Choirboy picked up the money bag.
“I’ll keep you posted,” he said.
7
Choirboy placed the leather bag in the Lincoln’s trunk. When he climbed into the car, Preacher had the vehicle running, the powerful engine softly purring. Choirboy sank back in the soft seat, tipping his hat forward over his face.
“When you reckon you have the strength,” Preacher said, “give me some thoughts.”
“If we’re goin’ to find this boy, we need a starting point. How about the diner? He was there. He took out Dembrow’s crew. Somebody had to have seen him.”
“Good thinking, son. It’s the diner, then.”
They waited until dark. At 11:15 p.m., the parking lot was empty. The staff parked up at the rear of the establishment. Preacher coasted onto the lot, the Lincoln’s lights already turned off. Choirboy followed him out of the car and they walked down the side of the building, looking for the back entrance. The kitchen door was ajar against the night heat. There were two cars parked in back.
“Let’s do it, son,” Preacher said, leading the way in.
The diner’s kitchen hung on to the day’s cooking smells. A wall air conditioner pushed out barely chilled air, rattling as it worked. The owner, middle-aged and thickset, hunched over a deep fat fryer as he cleaned it. The back of his T-shirt clung to his skin, patches of sweat darkening the cotton.
“They say industrial kitchens can be dangerous places,” Preacher said conversationally as he moved up behind the man.
The man straightened and looked at Preacher and Choirboy. There was no mistaking the implicit threat in Preacher’s voice, so the man simply stood there.
Choirboy walked directly past, skirting the edge of the kitchen and emerging in the dining area to confront the waitress, who was clearing tables. She froze when she saw Choirboy, her eyes suddenly wide, swiveling toward the diner’s entrance. The damaged door had already been replaced since the shooting.
As Choirboy shook his head at her, he crossed to the door and locked it, then stood with his back to it as Preacher and the owner appeared.
“Both of you sit down,” Preacher said. “This ain’t gonna take long.”
“If this is about the shooting, we already told the cops everything we know,” the owner said.
“Let’s make this quick, then. You were both here that night?”
“Yes,” the woman said. She was in her early forties, not unattractive, but starting to show her age. She kept brushing loose strands of hair back from her cheek.
“The man and woman who came in—did you know them?”
“No, sir. Both were strangers to me,” she said, and the owner nodded his agreement.
“Tell me about the man.”
“Tall. Black hair and blue eyes. Handsome looking guy in a rugged sort of way. And he looked like he would be able to handle himself. Polite, too.”
“See, that wasn’t hard,” Preacher said. “And you gave a good description, ma’am.”
“Something that comes with the job,” she said. “You get to check people over. Try to spot potential problem customers. I guess it’s a habit.”
“Did they drive onto the lot?”
“No. I only noticed that after they’d already ordered, because two of our regulars left and drove away and the lot was empty. I didn’t have time to think about it, what with everything that happened.”
“So the guy and the girl must have walked here?”
“I guess so.”
“Unusual,” Preacher said. “Folk don’t make a habit of walking the streets around here.”
“So where did they come from?” Choirboy asked.
“Likely the motel,” the owner suggested. “Motel?”
“Out of the parking lot, make a left and it’s a couple hundred yards on the same side of the street.”
The waitress nodded in agreement. “That’s right. We get folks staying there coming in to eat. Hardly worth driving, it being so close.”
“You tell the cops that?”
“Ed and me told them nothing. The way they treated us, the hell with them,” the woman said.
Preacher glanced at his partner. Choirboy smiled.
“How did the shooting go down?” Preacher asked out of professional curiosity.
“We didn’t see it,” the woman said. “An armed man came in through the kitchen door. He pushed Ed and me into the big cold room and locked the door. Said if we raised any fuss he’d shoot us.”
“Next thing we heard,” Ed said, “was like a war had broken out. Lots of gunfire.”
“After that it just went real quiet. We didn’t know what was going on, so we stayed quiet, too.”
“When the cops came and started shouting, we hollered and they let us out. Bastards treated us like we were part of it,” Ed grumbled, obviously still resenting the treatment he’d received at the hands of the local police. “Questioned us half the damn night, and us still shivering from that cold room.”
“Is that all you wanted?” the waitress asked.
Preacher could see she was trembling.
“That’s all, ma’am. Hope we haven’t upset you too much. We’re going now.” He turned away, then paused to look back. “That thing you mentioned?”
“What?”
“Being able to remember details about customers and all?”
The waitress managed a thin smile. “It doesn’t seem to be working tonight,” she said, understanding the reasoning behind Preacher’s question. “Could be because I’m at the end of my shift.”
Preacher raised his hands. “Lucky for us then.”
BACK IN THE CAR Choirboy said, “Nice folks.”
“Yep.”
Preacher turned onto the street and coasted along until he saw the lights of the motel. He made a left and rolled the Lincoln across the courtyard, coming to stop outside the manager’s office. Through the window he could see the guy on duty watching TV.
“Come in the back way,” he said. “I’ll go talk to the guy.”
The motel manager didn’t even look up from his TV as Preacher entered the airless office. He simply waved a hand.
“You want a room?”
“Just some information.”
Now the man glanced up, irritation on his face.
“Do I look like a fucking tourist guide?”
Preacher smiled. “Remember I asked politely.”
“I’ll put you down for an award. If you don’t want a room, I’m busy.”
“This could have gone a lot easier, son,” Preacher said.
“Just get the hell out of here ’fore I—”
“Before you what, boy?” Choirboy asked.
He had walked around to the rear of the office, coming in through the screen door and had moved up beside the manager. He pressed the muzzle of his handgun against the guy’s skull.
“I asked nicely,” Preacher said, “but this cocky son of a bitch decided to get lippy.”
He turned and locked the door, closing the blind.
“You know what?” Choirboy said. “I recognize this bird. He used to work for Harry Lyle out of Dallas. You recall that place Lyle had downtown? This guy used to work behind the bar, but Harry caught him shortchanging customers. Had him worked over and run out of town. They called him Hatcher. Nick Hatcher.”
