Way Down on the High Lonely (20 page)

Neal picked up the reins. “Is this the steering wheel?”

Jory swung open the corral gate.

Midnight looked back at Neal with a gentle are-you-ready expression.

Neal gave the horse a slight nudge in the ribs.

The horse took off like he had a rocket up his ass. His soft eyes now burned with a demonic fever as he headed straight for the nearest barbed-wire fence.

Neal wanted to get off, but the horse didn’t feel so small anymore and it seemed like a long way to the ground, especially at this speed. So he just held on as Midnight found the fence, turned left, and galloped alongside the wire, leaning in ever so slightly to graze Neal’s leg on the barbs.

Neal heard the roars of laughter from the corral, and Billy’s proud voice warbling, “Yep, that damn horse is doing it again! You can’t teach that, you know—he comes by it natural!”

“I wish you still had your balls, Midnight!” Neal hollered as he felt his jeans rip on a barb. “So I could cut them off myself!”

Midnight responded by racing beside the wire for another hundred yards or so and then bearing down toward the trees by the creek bed.

Or more accurately, one particular tree. A scraggly old pine with the dead limb sticking out, the limb about as high off the ground as say, a man on horseback.

Not being as smart as the horse, Neal didn’t see it coming until they were about fifty yards away.

He pulled back hard on the reins but Midnight plunged ahead like a New York cabbie at a yellow traffic light.

Neal jerked back harder.

Midnight ignored it and pulled his head down.

“Have you ever heard of Alpo?” Neal yelled.

Midnight was so intimidated that he sped up as he galloped under the limb. Neal managed to get his hands up over his face as he smacked into the tree limb, did a little trapeze dismount, and landed on his back on the ground.

As Neal struggled to get some air back in his lungs, Midnight walked over and gently nudged him with his nose, like Fury trying to wake up Joey.

Then he bit him.

It was just a nip, but it was a nip that hurt, goddammit, and Neal was just pissed enough to get up, dig his foot into the stirrup, and swing back up into the saddle.

Midnight stood still during all of this and then headed out at a tame walk when Neal nudged him. After a while, Neal got brave enough to take the horse to a little trot, and eventually cantered back into the corral as the boys reassembled to watch his triumphant return.

“Just a matter of showing the animal who’s boss,” Neal announced as he brought Midnight to a stop.

That’s when Midnight started whirling in a violent circle, sending Neal spinning off the saddle like a Frisbee and skipping across the ground like a stone on water.

So Neal was a little sore when he met Karen that night, and she had some questions as to why he was learning to ride at Hansen’s.

And, of course, the crime wave was the talk of the town. Over beers at Phil and Margie’s, or coffee at Wong’s, or cheap whiskey at Brogan’s, people talked about the robberies that were starting to become the stuff of legend. It seemed like everyone knew about the holdup at the Filly Ranch, and suddenly it seemed like there was a gang sticking up every drug dealer in the Great Basin, and most folks heartily approved. And there was talk that the police were turning a blind eye to these activities, and there was even talk that it was off-duty cops who were pulling them off. And there was titillated talk that the Mafia down in Las Vegas—which most people considered a colony of California and not part of Nevada of all—was getting a little unhappy and was out hunting the robbers themselves.

And Hansen’s boys heard the talk too. They started walking with that little extra swagger when they came to town and started smiling smug, knowing smiles when the robberies came up in conversations and people started to joke about the James gang and the Daltons. Neal about choked on a green chili when that bone-stupid David Bekke said something about this gang being more like Robin Hood, “robbing from the Jews and giving to the poor.”

Soon the whispering started. A few fingers discreetly pointed at the backs of the boys as they walked through town, and there were murmurs beneath the music at Phil and Margie’s; Neal even imagined he heard his name spoken as he sidled to the bar to get another pitcher for the table. And maybe it was his imagination that Steve looked at him a little funny from time to time, or that Peggy’s “hmms” took on a more serious tone. And maybe it was only in his head that Karen was getting a little reserved, would start to say something and then stop, as if a question was caught in her throat.

Neal thought that his life was like one of those drawings of railroad tracks stretching out over a horizon. The illusion is that the tracks stay separate, but in reality the lines come closer and closer until, at some point over the horizon, they have to meet.

They absolutely collided one cold Saturday night at Phil and Margie’s.

Neal and Karen had gone with Steve and Peggy to drink and dance, to chase away the blues that came with the first snowfall of the season. The snow had hit the valley that morning, not an honest-to-goodness kick-ass storm or anything, but enough of a dusting to let them know that the long winter was on them.

So Neal had crowded into the pickup’s cab with Steve and Peggy and they had no real trouble rattling into Austin. They met Karen at Phil and Margie’s. The place was already crowded with like-minded celebrants, including Cal Strekker, Randy Carlisle, Dave Bekke, and Craig Vetter—the whole gang.

The trouble didn’t start right away. Like a lot of trouble, it needed to get fueled up by alcohol, so for the first couple of hours Neal danced with Karen, Steve spun a few with Peggy, and the boys stayed bellied up to the bar. Steve was refreshing himself liberally between dances though, so the alcohol level rose steadily to the point where all it needed was a spark.

Which happened when Steve and Cal scraped together.

Steve was turning away from the bar with a fresh beer in his hand and he happened to slosh some on Cal’s boots.

“Sorry about that,” Steve said.

“If you can’t hold your liquor, Mills, you shouldn’t be here,” Cal answered.

Cal’s boys turned from the bar to look, other heads turned at that, and then it seemed like the whole crowd was watching.

“What’s going on over there?” Peggy asked as she looked toward the bar.

Neal got up and made his way through the crowd.

“Well, now,” Steve was saying, “I never knew of a cowman who got too upset over a little beer on his boots. Then again, you’re not a cowman, are you? You’re the shithead of security.”

“Let it go, Cal,” Vetter said, seeing the murderous look come into Strekker’s eyes.

But Steve Mills was interested in pouring a little more gas on the fire.

“And I told you before,” he said, “to call me Mr. Mills or Steve. And while you’re at it, you don’t tell me where I should or shouldn’t be, you jailhouse punk.”

Neal grabbed Steve by the elbow and tried to pull him away. “Come on, Steve,” he said.

“You better go with him, old man,” Cal smirked.

Steve tried to yank free of Neal’s grip. “Don’t let age stop you,” he said to Strekker.

“Let him go, Neal,” Cal said.

Steve turned to Neal with a surprised look. “Are you guys buddies now?”

Neal tightened his grip. Steve pulled free easily this time, just to show he hadn’t been trying before. He set the beer back on the bar and then launched a wicked roundhouse right at Strekker’s head. Strekker stepped back easily and the punch whooshed two inches in front of his nose.

Strekker smiled his psycho smile. “You all saw it,” he said. “He swung first.

He brought his hands up and stepped back into a fighting stance.

Strekker will kill him, Neal thought.

“Get out of the way, Neal,” Randy Carlisle said. He was grinning like the sycophantic fool he was, eager for his dominant half to shed somebody’s blood.

Peggy Mills sat frozen at the table. She was helpless. If she let the fight go on, her husband might get hurt bad. If she intervened, she would hurt him worse. When Karen started to get up, Peggy took her wrist and pulled her back down.

The music stopped. The crowd made a circle around Steve, Cal, and Neal. Steve took another swig of beer and put his hands up.

“Get out of the way, Neal,” Randy repeated.

Neal stood for a long second between the two would-be fighters. Then he shrugged, got out of the way, and walked over behind Cal. Randy and Dave slapped him on the back. Karen gave him a look of astonishment and outrage. Neal shrugged again, picked up a barstool, and smashed it over Cal’s head. Strekker dropped like he’d been poleaxed.

“Fight’s over,” Neal announced.

“Whose side are you on?” Carlisle yelled. He grabbed Neal by the front of the shirt.

“My side,” Neal answered.

Carlisle punched him in the eye, threw him to the floor, and hit him twice more in the side of the head. Steve jumped on Carlisle and hit him with a tremendous right uppercut that sent him sprawling unconscious into Vetter’s arms. Vetter set him down, stepped up, and punched Steve in the jaw. Dave Bekke jumped Steve from the side.

Neal got to his knees, saw Bekke hanging from Steve’s back, and tackled Bekke’s legs, pulling the man down on the floor with him. Bekke rolled him over, got on top, and started punching. Neal got a leg between Bekke’s legs and drove his knee up into Bekke’s balls, which discouraged the punching.

Steve and Vetter were holding each other with one hand while exchanging haymakers with the other when Bob Hansen walked through the door.

“Knock it off!” he yelled.

Dave Bekke was rolling on the floor gripping his crotch just as Randy Carlisle got up and charged at Neal. He hit him in the midsection and drove him back to the floor. Craig had Steve bent backward over the bar and was cocking his fist for the coup de grace.

“I said that’s enough!” Hansen hollered.

Steve reached up, grabbed Vetter’s fist, and pulled back like he was flipping a calf to the ground. Both men went over the top of the bar and landed with a crash on the floor. Neal had managed to pull Randy’s denim jacket over his head, trapping his arms. As Steve and Craig got up punching, Hansen pulled a pistol from his belt and shot a hole in the ceiling.

The roar stopped them all in mid-punch, and they looked sheepishly over at the rancher.

Hansen surveyed the damage and said, “You need to leave me with a hand or two, Steve.”

“Then you need to teach ’em some manners, Bob.”

“I expect you’re right about that.”

Hansen looked quizzically at Neal.

“Carey coldcocked Cal from behind, Mr. Hansen,” Carlisle accused.

“That right, Neal?” Hansen asked.

“You bet.”

Hansen holstered his pistol. “Seems we have us a few things we need to get resolved.”

You ain’t kidding, Neal thought.

Cal Strekker pushed himself up onto his knees. He shook his head a few times as Carlisle and Vetter grabbed his arms and helped him to his feet.

“Let’s get going, boys,” Hansen said. “We got work to do tomorrow. Neal Carey, I’ll be talking to you.”

Neal nodded. And I’ll be talking to you, he thought. Because it looks as if we’ll have to speed things up a little bit.

Hansen looked around at the broken glasses and the pool of blood on the floor where Strekker had been taking his nap.

“I’ll take care of the damages,” he said to the bartender.

“No you won’t,” Steve Mills said. “We will—me and Neal Carey.”

“You’re a traitor,” Carlisle snapped to Neal as he walked out.

I wish you hadn’t said diat, Neal thought. I really do.

The band started up again and Steve threw his arm around Neal’s shoulders.

“Goddamn, it’s been a long time since I been in a fight like that!” he whooped. “Goddamn that was fun! But you shouldn’t have hit him with that stool like that. I would’ve held my own with him.”

“Aww, I know. I’ve just been wanting to hit him with a stool for a long time. Seemed like the right moment to do it.”

They were back at the table now and the women were looking them over for damage. There was a lot to look at. Steve had a split lip, a nasty cut over one eye, and a cheek that was swelling up like a squirrel’s in the fall. Neal’s right eye was beginning to close and a lump was starting to rise up from his forehead.

“Barbarians,” Peggy muttered. “Karen, we’re sleeping with barbarians.”

“That has yet to be seen,” Karen answered. She had a severe, schoolteacher frown on her face.

“Which part?” Steve asked. “The barbarian part or the sleeping-with part?”

“I don’t think there’s any question about the barbarian part,” Karen answered.

Steve winked at Neal. “Uh-oh,” he said. “I believe we’re in trouble.”

But Peggy was looking over his shoulder at Neal and mouthing the words “Thank you.”

“Let’s get these barbarians home,” Peggy said aloud. “I’m married to one, but the other is optional.”

“I’ll take him,” Karen said. Then, in a lower tone to Neal, “Besides, I have some questions to ask.”

Uh-oh.

Joe Graham watched as the pretty boy prostitute settled on a price and got into the front seat of the Mercedes. The car sped off, leaving the sidewalk in front of the True Christian Identity Church empty. Graham slipped into the alley and shuffled through the garbage and the stench of stale urine until he came to the fire door.

He looked around once, then pulled a thin metal strip from his coat. The lock gave up without a fight and Joe Graham was inside the building. He listened for a second, heard no human or animal sounds, turned on his flashlight, and headed up the stairs.

He had the place pretty well memorized from weeks of coming to the damn services, drinking the weak coffee, and eating the cake at the social hour afterward. The price you pay, he thought. He’d heard more damn Jewish jokes than he would at a Catskill weekend.

He found Carter’s office with no problem. The door was unlocked, so he walked right in. Trust in the Lord is a wonderful thing, he thought.

There were three horizontal file cabinets plus the vertical files in the desk drawers. None of them were locked, which Graham found discouraging. He was looking for something that Carter had to hide.