Dirty White Boys (28 page)

He went back inside and showered and changed into a good pair of Levi’s, his best Tony Lamas, and a white shirt. He went down to the gun safe, took out the Colt Commander and pinched the slide back to make sure it was loaded, then snapped on the safety and slipped it into an inside-the-pants holster, which he then inserted into the waist of the jeans and hooked on his belt. He had two extra
magazines in a belt mount next to the Colt. Last, he put the Beretta .380 with the thirteen-shot double-stack clip inside his shirt behind his belt buckle. It would hurt like hell after a while, but let it. Better to have too many guns than not enough.

“Bud?”

“Yeah?”

“You come here a second now.”

Now
what the hell did she want?

“Jen, I don’t have time. I have to—”

“You come here.”

That was Jen’s no-nonsense voice. Shit! She sounded loaded for big game. Was he going to have one of those bitter explosions, where her sense of isolation from him and his lack of passion for her lashed out at him? It seemed to happen all the time.

“Jen, this is no goddamn time—” he started to bellow as he walked into the kitchen, but what stopped him short was finding her and Jeff looking like they’d just swallowed a whole flock of canaries.

“Bud, what have they got you doing?” asked Jen.

“They got me knocking on doors as part of some combined state task force, that’s all. It won’t be nothing, that I guarantee you. Now what’s going on?” he said.

“Remember, Dad. I was asking you about the 9-millimeters?”

“Yes, I do.” Bud remembered his lies to Jeff in the car on Sunday.

“Well, sir,” said Jen, “maybe this’ll help with Lamar, just in case. I called my mother and asked for a loan.”

“Jen!”

“Six hundred dollars against my share of the farm profits this year. And so Jeff and I went down to Southwest Pawn and Gun this morning. This here’s to get you out of that
low mood. And so you don’t have to use those speedloaders anymore.”

She held out a blue plastic box, and Bud knew in a second his wife and son had just given him a big Beretta 9-mm automatic. A sense of shame hit him. He swallowed, felt himself blushing.

“Jen, that’s so … nice.”

“Dad, I got you this. It’s a shoulder holster for the Beretta,” said Jeff, holding out a plastic package with the name Bianchi on it. “Now you go anywhere, you go in style.”

“Jeez,” said Bud. “I sure as hell don’t know what I did to deserve y’all.”

Eagerly, they helped Bud mount up. With a box of 115-grain silver-tips that Miss Edna at Southwest had thrown in to aid the cause of law and order, Bud soon had the new Beretta stoked with seventeen rounds and had another magazine of sixteen on the counter. It was a black brute of a pistol, a kind of inflated version of the .380 inside his shirt. It fit his hand like a handshake from a brother, and when he brought it up to a Weaver grip, he found its sight picture clear and vivid.

Next issue was getting into the X design of the rig, not the easiest thing, but eventually, with everyone helping, they got it done. The spare magazine went in a pouch that hung under the other arm, as a kind of counterbalance to the heavy automatic. When he slipped on his sports coat, it would be hard to see he had become a three-gun man. But the thing felt like a brassiere, or how he imagined a brassiere would feel. The gun hung underneath, tight in its holster but loose enough to slap him if he turned quickly; a quick grab presented it neatly enough, but it was a move he’d have to work on, until it was smooth as silk.

Goddamn, he figured, counting it up, no wonder I’m
walking slow these days. Got fifty-eight rounds of ammo stowed on me. That ought to be enough for anybody.

Bud went back to the safe and took out an old .30-30 carbine he’d hunted deer with as a young man. It always helped to have a long gun along; you never could tell. With a box of twenty .30-30 softpoints, he walked to the truck and put the long gun in its case behind the seat. Jen brought out his sports coat, a light tan cotton thing, and his hat, a white Stetson. He pulled on his Ray-Bans.

“You look like a Texas Ranger,” she said.

“You’d best hope not. They’re the meanest boys that ever walked the planet. Oh, wait, forgot something.”

But she had it. His briefcase. Full of Richard’s lions.

“Your damn lions.”

“While I’m looking for this tire, I’ll do some thinking about the lions. Maybe I can figure what he’s got going.”

There was an awkward moment and then he embraced Jen.

“Thank you,” he said. “It was damned sweet of you.”

But she pushed him away, brusquely, as if the gift was what any woman would give her husband.

“You run a hundred rounds or so through that, Bud. You know they jam more in the first fifty rounds than they do in all the others.”

“I will, hon.”

“That gun ain’t supposed to jam ever,” Jeff said. “I read all about it in
Guns & Ammo.”

He gave her another hug.

“Go on, get out of here. Earn us some money so we can feed these damn boys,” she said, turning.

Bud drove away, into Lawton, but not yet toward downtown, instead veering east into the first strip mall that boasted a pay phone. Quickly he dialed Holly’s number.

The phone rang and rang and rang.

Where was she? Probably met someone. Good for her.

He was about to hang up when, at least fifteen or so rings into it, the phone came off the hook and he heard her tired voice.

“Hello?”

“Are you all right? Were you sleeping? I was worried.”

No answer, only her heavy breathing.

Then finally she said, “You were going to call two nights ago. I was up all night waiting.”

“Holly, I went to Wichita Falls, the robbery? You hear?”

She had not. He told her.

“So you couldn’t call? In all that, you couldn’t call just once?”

“Holly, I’m sorry. There was no time down there and by the time I got back, it was really late. I just—I didn’t think.”

“And you didn’t call yesterday.”

He was contrite.

“No. I had a bad night. I’m sorry, I didn’t do nothing yesterday.”

“Bud, look what you’re doing to me.”

“Holly, this business has come up again. They want me to do some work for them.”

He explained briefly what would happen, how he was going back on duty, searching for cars with a certain set of tires over the southern half of the state.

The Beretta was so heavy under his arm.

“Bud, you make all these promises, then you sort of fade. You like the sex great, but when it comes to making plans, then you fade. You’re not there. You’re off somewhere.”

“I’m sorry, Holly. Is there anything I can do?”

“Yes, dammit. I have to move. I can’t stand this place.
We have to find some new place. Will you look for it with me?”

It seemed excruciating to him. It would be horrible. He hated the new-marrieds aspect of it—checking for shelves and views—and he felt so indecent. But he said, “Of course I will.
Sure
I will.”

“Oh, Bud,” she cried. “I knew you would. Oh, Bud, I knew you would.”

“Now, sweetie, I got to go.”

“When will I see you?”

“Soon, I swear. We’ll start looking soon.”

“Oh Bud, I love you so much!”

Feeling relieved, Bud drove over to the City Hall Annex, an old office building, hastily reconfigured to its new purpose. On the first floor, in a wide-open bank of rooms, a few Texas Rangers hung around. There was a phone bank and a slew of operators, and a radio receiver, just like at the highway patrol shop, and a filing cabinet, as well as the by-now regular complement of computer terminals with civilian clerks. And who seemed to be running the show but his old friend Lt. C. D. Henderson of the OSBI, who looked spryer than Bud had ever seen him. For once, the whiff of booze didn’t cling to him. A smile even came across the creased old face.

“Howdy there, Bud. They told me you was coming back on as an emergency investigator.”

“Yes sir, I am,” said Bud. “Figure I can pound on doors as well as anyone.”

“Well, there’s many a door needs pounding. Bud, we’ve already got ’bout six men out there, but with close to four thousand names, the more the better.”

“So where’m I heading?”

“Well, let’s see, many of ’em are in Lawton, where
we’ve sent most of our men, and another hotbed is way out in Ardmore: But let’s work you in from the country side. You won’t get as much done, since there’s some space between ranches, and you may get sick of looking at cattle, but it’s got to be done.”

“Great,” said Bud.

He was issued a stack of computer printouts bearing addresses and car registration data for Tillman, Jackson, and Cotton counties, in the southeast sector of the state, about two hours’ ride. He was told he’d probably end up heading out to Greer and Harmon and Kiowa counties, too, in the next few days.

“Your truck got a two-way?”

“No sir, it don’t.”

“Okay, we’ll issue a Motorola portable unit, you won’t have no problem. It’ll be pre-set to our net, forty-four point nine. You ten-twenty-three each stop and ten-twenty-four afterward, just in case. We always want to know where you’re at. I hope you ain’t lucky again.”

“I hope I ain’t either.”

“You got it, right? You just tell ’em we’re doing a criminal investigation involving a motor vehicle and investigating is
elimination
and we want to check them off the list. You find the car, then you check the tires. If you get the right tires on the right kind of car, then you call it in, wait for what the computer kicks out, and sit by until we decide to raid or stake out. That’s all. If you should bump into anybody nasty, you do not want to be in it without backup. You‘re even more on your lonesome now.”

“I get that. I’m looking at cars and tires, not to make arrests. I told you, I don’t want to cross with old Lamar again.”

“We got a heavy-duty SWAT team—Rangers, troopers, and an OSBI supervisor sitting out at Fort Sill airfield, with
army pilots. Anybody gets in a jam, we can have twenty men there in a few minutes.”

“Sounds good to me.”

“Ten-four, Bud.”

Bud picked up his radio unit and a map, and headed back to the truck. It took him a few seconds in the cab to get the electronic gear set up. Then it crackled to life.

“Dispatch, this is six-oh-five, I am ten-seven, outward bound to Tillman county.”

“Ten-four, six-oh-five.”

Bud took 44 south of town, followed its straight shot south to the toll plaza at Oklahoma 5, then got off to follow 5 into Tillman’s vast and empty flatness. It took him about two hours to find his first stop.

“Dispatch, this six-oh-five, I am ten-twenty-three at Loveland, Route 5, the Del Rio farm, looking for a 1991 Red Tercel, that’s license plate Oklahoma One-fiver-niner-niner-Roger-Mike.”

“Ten-four, six-oh-five.”

Bud got out at a decaying farmhouse and began what would become his routine for the next two days. He knocked on the door, showed his badge ID, introduced himself, and went into his song and dance. It was amazing how cooperative people could be. Most Americans just love to help the police.

“Why, sure, Officer, it cain’t be me or mine,” they’d say, or some variation thereof.

In Loveland, a gnarled Hispanic grandfather took him out back and showed him the car; it hadn’t been driven in a year, and rested in rotten splendor atop a quartet of cinder blocks. And so it went: Sometimes the cars were clean, sometimes beat-up. Sometimes they’d been recently sold, and the name of the buyer or the dealership was gladly provided. Sometimes Bud had to wait for a man to come
home from the plant or the bar; sometimes it was a boy, returning from town or chores or the Dairy Queen. But sooner or later, the car would turn up, he’d examine it, steal a look at the tires, and pass on it.

Twice, in the first two days, he found the right set of Goodyear radials on the right car, itself no crime. One was down near Cookietown in Cotton County, owned by the town’s Southern States Grain and Seed branch manager, a florid redhead with blemishy skin and a belly as large as the outdoors. It seemed unlikely, but maybe the man’s son or brother or something had some connection with … Bud called it in, but the computer produced no evidence of previous criminal activities associated with Mr. Fuerman or his wife, no other family members in existence according to records. Then, on the Cherokee reservation near Polk Lake in Tillman, he came across a run-down one-story government tract house, half its shingles flapping in the dry wind, and as he walked to it, he felt a hundred eyes on him. Cops always have a feeling for such a thing but don’t let it go too far, or it just plain flat ruins them. Bud conquered the little whisper of fear and knocked on the door to find a woman with a face that looked as if it had aged in lava for a century or two, as if she had worn away all her teeth gnawing on bones. Finally, after he explained in English what he wanted, she said for him to go out back. He found the thing, a beat-to-shit Hyundai Excel, once yellow, now nearly rusted out. And only one of the tires was a Goodyear 5400-B, and it was as bald as a rock. Maybe that one and only that one had been the track the detectives had picked up near the Red.

He felt the eyes on him again and looked up at the house, wondering if even now Lamar Pye weren’t squinting over a gunsight at him. But he quelled the feeling, walked back to his truck, and called it in. Half an hour later, the response
came: The car, registered to a Sonny Red Bear, could not be linked to criminal activities, and no trace of criminal records, either local or federal, could be found for either Sonny Red Bear or any of his family. Just then the door burst open, and Bud saw what had scurried so mysteriously behind the doors of the little house: It was a mess of kids, squalling and seething, led to the car by a handsome woman. The children crammed in any which way, and she got in and drove off.

Bud played a hunch.

“Dispatch, can you ten-forty-three the name Red Bear for a State of Oklahoma daycare license?”

“Got you, six-oh-five.”

He waited and then it came back that, yes, one Carla Red Bear had applied to the state for just such a daycare license, though its issuance was pending.