the flies buzzing about their hindquarters, and TV reporters inevitably fry eggs on the sidewalk as stunts for the evening news. Time seems to slow to a crawl. Women’s hairdos and their prizewinning gardens wilt, car radiators and drivers’ tempers boil over, and incidents of road rage rise dramatically, as do domestic violence calls to 911. The reservoirs supplying Dallas’s drinking water run precipitously low, the city rations lawn watering, the green grass bakes to a crisp brown, and the pest control business picks up as the entire rat population emerges as one from their nests in search of a drink, usually from the family pool. Poor people without air conditioners die.
The only thing Dallas has going for it in August is knowing it’s worse in Houston. Houston’s a goddamned swamp. If the heat and humidity don’t kill you in Houston, mosquitoes the size of small birds will.
“It’s hot,” Scott said.
Life in Dallas in August is lived indoors and in pools. Where Scott Fenney now was, sitting on the steps of the backyard pool in the cool water and wearing sunglasses, a sombrero-style straw hat, and a number 50 sunblock to protect his fair skin from the deadly UV rays. He sucked iced tea through a straw from a big plastic mug like he was siphoning gasoline while Bobby sucked on a cigarette. Boo and Pajamae were playing with a Frisbee in the shallow end of the pool, Louis was sitting in the shade of the patio awning, and out front the FOR SALE BY OWNER sign was slowing traffic on Beverly Drive.
Scott had decided to sell the place himself, without a real-estate agent, an unheard-of transaction in Highland Park. Selling your own house was way too similar in job description to mowing your own grass or washing your own car, manual labor that no Highland Park homeowner with pride, money, and a religious upbringing dared engage in, for to do so called into question the whole concept of divine infallibility: “If the good Lord wanted us to mow our own grass and wash our own cars, then why did He make Mexicans?” Or so the prevailing thought went. Bottom line, if you’re too damn cheap to pay a real-estate commission, then you’re too damn cheap to live in Highland Park. But as he watched his income evaporate before his eyes, Scott had become damn cheap lately.
His asking price was $3.5 million, the market value. But market value didn’t mean squat when the seller was desperate and everyone in the market for a Highland Park home knew it. The best offer to date was $3 million, only $200,000 more than he owed. A broker’s six percent sales commission would take $180,000 and leave Scott only $20,000 in sales proceeds. Once closing costs were deducted, he’d be lucky to break even. After doing the math, Scott drove to the nearest hardware store, purchased the red and white FOR SALE sign, and hammered the son of a bitch into the front lawn.
“How’s Boo handling it?” Bobby asked.
Scott slapped a June bug off the water and wondered why June bugs hung around through August. Rebecca had been gone fifteen days today.
“Okay, I guess. Hell, I think Boo misses Consuela more-she was more of a mother to her than Rebecca.”
“Rudy gonna get her back?”
In spite of Rudy Gutierrez’s best efforts, the INS had deported Consuela de la Rosa to Mexico. She was now living in the four-star Camino Real Hotel in Nuevo Laredo on Scott Fenney’s American Express card and waiting for Rudy to secure her green card so she could return to the Fenney family in Dallas. A week ago, Scott had put Esteban Garcia on a bus south to keep her company.
“She cleared the background checks, I’m sponsoring her for citizenship, guaranteeing her employment…but the INS is slow-balling her green card.” He shook his head. “But I’ll get her back. I promised her. And Boo needs her more than ever now, her mother running off with a goddamned golf pro.”
“I understand Rebecca leaving you”-Bobby shot Scott a smile-“but how could she leave Boo?”
Scott shrugged. “The humiliation, I guess. This is a tough town if your life is less than perfect. Failure is not an option in Highland Park.” Scott paused and looked over at the girls. “Thank God she didn’t take Boo.”
“Maybe she just changed.”
“Maybe. Maybe I never really knew her. Back then, we were exactly the same, that’s why I married her. We were young and ambitious, two poor kids on the block trying to make it big in Dallas. When we stood in that church and said ‘for better or for worse,’ we weren’t thinking for worse. Things were good and getting better fast. I never figured on things getting worse.”
He shook his head.
“It’s just like football. You never really know your teammates until you start losing.”
“One problem with that, Scotty.”
“What’s that?”
“She started up with that guy while you were still winning.”
Scott nodded. “So the home, the cars, the clothes, none of it made her happy.” He looked over at Bobby. “What the hell do women want?”
Bobby chuckled. “Like I would know? Shit, Scotty, two women have walked out on me.”
“The last seven months, she didn’t want to have sex.”
Bobby caught an errant Frisbee flung by Boo and said, “My wives didn’t want to have sex on our wedding night.”
“I’ll probably never have sex again,” Scott said.
Bobby flipped the Frisbee back to Boo and said, “ You? Shit, Scotty, half the married men in Highland Park are worrying their wives are gonna want a second shot at you. It’s me who’s never gonna have sex again. Been almost three years.” Bobby took a drag on his cigarette. “Course, I can crush an armadillo with my right hand.”
“That’s going to kill you one day, Bobby.”
“Nah, it’ll only make you go blind.”
“Not that. Smoking.”
“Oh. One can only hope.”
“Don’t start that depressed crap with me, Bobby. I’m the one who’s lost everything.”
Bobby exhaled smoke and said, “Yeah, but at least you had everything for a while. At least you know what it feels like.”
Scott sucked his tea and said, “You loved her back then, didn’t you?”
“Yeah, but mostly I loved your life.”
“Me, too. Right up until two months ago. If Buford had called anyone but me, my life would still be perfect.”
“It wasn’t perfect, Scotty. You just didn’t know it.”
Scott felt the emotion building inside him again and the tears forming and thought he would burst out crying as he had each night in the shower until Bobby said, “You think he’ll make it?”
His tone was that of asking whether a patient would survive a life-threatening operation.
“Who make what?”
“Her golf pro-you think he’ll make it on the tour? It’s pretty tough out there.”
Bobby maintained his deadpan expression until Scott jumped on him and dunked him, Bobby holding one arm aloft to keep his cigarette dry. Scott released him when Boo yelled, “Oh, boys-we’ve got company!”
Over by the entrance to the motor court stood a burly man wearing mirrored sunglasses and a cap turned backward, his greasy hair and black T-shirt stained with sweat, his huge belly lapping over his waist like a lava flow over a cliff. He was looking around at the Fenney estate like a kid at Disneyland.
The repo man.
He was here to take away Scott’s beloved $200,000 Ferrari. Two days ago, knowing this moment would come, Scott had cashed out his 401(k) and purchased a replacement vehicle: a $20,000 Volkswagen Jetta.
Scott walked over to the motor court. Two more tow trucks were idling at the curb, here for the Range Rover and Rebecca’s Mercedes-Benz. The repo man held out a clipboard and said, “Nice hat.” Scott signed the document acknowledging the repossessions on this date and watched as the red Ferrari 360 Modena two-seater with Connolly leather interior and an engine capable of hitting 180 miles per hour was hoisted onto the flatbed by a wench and secured in place. Even though he knew he was losing something he never really had, it still hurt like hell to see his perfect life being dismantled and carted off piece by piece.
An hour later, Scott, still hurting, was stretched out on the chaise lounge by the pool.
“Mr. Fenney,” Louis said.
Scott looked over at Louis, who nodded his head in the direction of the motor court. Scott twisted around and saw a young couple standing there. The man was slim, in his early thirties, and dressed in a starched, long-sleeve,
