Bone Dry

be coming or going at this hour. He pulled into the entrance and killed the engine.

Five minutes later, Vinnie was positioned in a grove of cedar trees a hundred yards from Emmett Slaton’s front door. The porch light was on, and the interior lights said Slaton hadn’t gone to bed yet. Now it was a waiting game. Vinnie had no problem with that. He’d wait out here all night if it would make his dad happy. Vinnie was proud to be in charge of such an important mission, and equally proud that his dad had left the specifics up to him. Just do whatever you gotta do to get that bastard to make a deal. But watch your ass. We don’t need any heat on us. And let me know when you’re gonna pull somethin’, so’s I can have an alibi.

Vinnie was enjoying these thoughts when the front door of the home opened and Slaton’s Doberman pinscher trotted out. From his hiding spot, Vinnie caught a glimpse of Slaton before the door swung shut.

Vinnie had chosen his location carefully: The wind was in his face to prevent the dog from scenting him.

The dog pranced away from the house, found a small sapling, and took a long leak. Then, nose to the ground, he sniffed a path through the grass, coming in Vinnie’s direction.

When the dog was about thirty yards away, Vinnie opened a Ziploc bag, removed the contents, and tossed it toward the mutt. When the projectile hit the ground, the dog stopped abruptly and let out a small, surprised bark. Vinnie shrunk back into the trees.

Vinnie knew this was the moment of truth. In the next few minutes, his plan would either unfold smoothly-or it would fall to pieces.

Finally, after staring intently into the darkness, the dog cautiously approached the interesting object on the ground.

CHAPTER EIGHT

Billy Don said, “Bunion’s kind of a funny word. Don’t you think so, Red?”

The men were sitting at their regular bar stools in the Friendly Bar, drinking a couple of longnecks, listening to the jukebox, Merle Haggard singing about the big city. Moments ago, Billy Don had announced that his mother had had bunion surgery, and he was happily sharing the details with Red and anyone else who would listen.

Red’s concentration, however, was elsewhere. He was busy eyeballing Sylvia, the buxom barmaid, as she restocked the beer cooler. It was an event Red eagerly anticipated, because Sylvia tended to wear tight T-shirts without a bra, and the cold air from the cooler always perked things up around the nightclub.

“Watch out there, sugar. You’re liable to put somebody’s eye out,” Red said as Sylvia finished her task. She gave him a Go to hell look and walked down the bar to wait on another customer. Red guffawed loudly and took a long swig from his beer bottle. He loved the way Sylvia took his comments, without getting all pissed-off like some women might. He figured Sylvia secretly wanted to get in his pants, and he couldn’t blame her. Women loved a good sense of humor.

“Hey, Red, lookee there,” Billy Don said, nodding toward the entrance. Across the smoky room, Sal Mameli had removed his overcoat and was hanging it on a peg by the door. The rest of the regulars glanced over. It wasn’t often they were visited by a portly Italian dressed in a silk suit. Mameli turned and made his way through the tables to the bar, oblivious to the stares he was receiving from the locals. He plopped down on the barstool next to Red.

“’Evening, boys,” Sal said as he waved a hundred-dollar bill at Sylvia and called out, “Scotch and soda.”

Billy Don had slipped his boots off and was studying his own feet for podiatric abnormalities. So Red alone returned the Italian’s greeting-without much enthusiasm. There was something about this guy that made him uneasy. Mameli reminded Red of one of the characters in The Godfather-what was his name? Clementine? Chlamydia? Something like that. Red was tempted to turn his back on Mameli, simply ignore him, but for some reason that didn’t seem like a wise thing to do.

Mameli tapped the wristwatch on his arm. “You got the time? Dis piece of shit quit working on me.”

Red said, “Clock on the wall right over there.”

“Yeah, right. Ten-thirty.”

Sylvia brought his drink and Sal said, “Dis is the good stuff, right-not the crap from the lower shelves?” She nodded and he slid the c-note across the bar. He half turned his head to Red and said, “So how’s business? Slaton been keeping youse busy?”

“Can’t complain,” Red said. “But sometimes I still do.” A favorite line of his.

Sylvia returned with Mameli’s change and he left five bucks on the bar. “Dat’s for you, doll.”

She smiled and tucked the bill in her jeans. Sal gave her an appreciative leer. Turning back to Red, he said, “What’s the old man cutting-three, maybe four hundred acres a week?”

“Probably more like five or six,” Red said, pulling numbers out of the air. “And me and Billy Don is his chief operators.”

“Whazzat?” Billy Don asked, snapping to attention like a dog who just heard a doorbell.

“Never mind.”

Billy Don leaned forward to catch Mameli’s eye. “You got any idea why they call it the ‘BrushBuster 3000’?” he slurred. “What the hell is that ‘3000’ all about?”

Mameli scratched his head. “Horsepower? I don’t know nuttin’ ’bout engines.”

Billy Don was crestfallen. If a man who actually owned a couple of BrushBusters couldn’t answer the question, nobody could. He turned his attention back to a large callus on his left heel.

“You guys still considering my offer?” Sal asked.

Red gave him an ambiguous head-bob gesture, not wanting to commit to anything. “Mr. Slaton takes care of us real good.”

Sal patted him on the back. “I’m sure he does. Hey, looks like youse guys is runnin’ on empty. Lemme get the next round.” He signaled Sylvia for two more longnecks and another scotch.

Red watched the wad of bills come out from Sal’s pocket again. It was a roll a couple of inches thick, mostly hundreds. Well, maybe this guy ain’t so bad after all, Red thought.

The dog was damn tough, Vinnie had to give him that. It took nearly an hour for the Doberman to quit twitching and moaning and finally take a last gasping breath. Quietly, Vinnie ventured into the clearing and dragged the carcass back into the trees.

He stopped for a breather and…he heard a noise. Through the branches, he saw Emmett Slaton emerge from his house.

“Patton!” Slaton shined a weak flashlight in Vinnie’s direction. “Patton! Gawdammit dog, git in here.”

Vinnie huddled up close to a large cedar. His hand instinctively went to the.38 in his jacket pocket.

“Patton, you old bastard, come to Papa.” Slaton was gingerly stepping through the high native grasses now, coming toward the cedar grove.

Damn! Vinnie had worried that something like this might happen. He knew it could end up sloppy, unprofessional… and his dad would be mad as hell. But it had been a chance he was willing to take, because the plan had so much potential.

Slaton was about fifty yards away now, and Vinnie could see he was wearing a robe and houseshoes. The old man started whistling and clapping his hands. Vinnie had to grin. Your dog can’t hear you now, old man.

The beam from the flashlight swept across Vinnie’s face and he felt as obvious as a deer in the headlights. But Slaton kept coming.

“Patton! Dammit, I’m losing my patience!”

Slaton was fifteen yards away now… then ten. Vinnie switched off the safety on the gun. He noticed he was breathing rapidly now; way too loud, he thought, sure that Slaton would hear him.

No, ol’ Sal was all right, Red figured, after the Italian had bought yet another round-the fifth, for anyone who was counting. For a Yankee, the man knew how to have a good time.

Sylvia brought Sal change for a hundred again. Red wondered why Sal always used the big bills instead of the change from earlier rounds.