Bone Dry

But Sal remembered Aunt Sofia. If she could make goats drop dead, maybe Maria could make a cat come back to life.

Sal whispered, “Good kitty,” and eased backward toward the door, sweat breaking out on his forehead. Had to move slowly now. One wrong move and that cat might spring at him, rip his goddamn throat out. “Good kitty. Uncle Sal is leaving now.”

The cat squirmed out from under the bed and hissed at Sal.

Mary, Mother of God! It was coming for him!

Sal took another step backward-and the evil creature took a stealthy step forward.

Sal’s heart was jackhammering now, slamming against his rib cage. All the deadly men Sal had faced, and now he was about to be slaughtered by a house cat. The devil’s house cat.

“Stay right there, kitty.” Sal could hear his own voice trembling. He fumbled for the doorknob behind him, his palm slick on the brass.

The cat took another small step forward and hissed once more.

Sal jerked the door open, quickly stepped outside, and slammed the door behind him, leaving the horrible beast on the other side.

Oh, Jesus, that was close! Sal leaned against the outside of the door, waiting for his breathing to slow.

Fuck it, he thought. That shell’s not in there-and if it is, that damn cat can have it.

Red kept one hand on the steering wheel, the other on the cold beer between his legs. It had been another long hard day driving the BrushBusters, and the ice-cold Keystone tasted like some kind of elixir from the gods.

Red drained the can, admired the scenic landscape printed on the label, then tossed it out the window at a speed-limit sign. He grabbed a dirty rag off the seat and wiped some grime off his neck.

“So,” Red said, turning slightly toward Billy Don. “What ya think I oughta say to him?”

Billy Don finished a long slurp of his own beer and belched out, “Who?”

That was one of Billy Don’s favorite conversational tactics: belching words. Red had never been able to master that particular trick himself, so he condemned it as juvenile.

“Slaton, goddammit,” Red said. “Remember? We was gonna swing by his house, talk to him about a raise. I wanna get my geese in a row, lay everything out for him. Question is, should I mention the screwups, maybe make up some good excuses, or just let ’em slide?”

“Hell’s bells, Red. He knows all about them anyway, which is why he ain’t gonna give us no raise. The other day, you thought he was gonna fire us. Now you wanna ask for a raise? Sounds like a shit-brained idea to me.”

Red thought of a handful of good replies, but let them all pass. He drove in silence for a few miles.

“Guess what I’ll do, then,” Red finally said, “is go in there, tell him how much land I’ve cleared in the past few months, mention how many hours I’ve been working, and point out that I haven’t taken a single goddamn sick day yet. Then I’ll say, ‘Sir, considering my commitment to your company, I sure would be appreciable if you could consider giving me a raise. On the other hand, I don’t know about ol’ Billy Don. I don’t think he really wants any extra dough. In fact, he seems to be perfectly happy with the generous garnishments he is now receiving.’”

Billy Don let out a huff, but Red could tell his words had hit home.

A mile later, Billy Don pawed through the ice chest on the floorboard and came out with two dripping beers. He passed one to Red and said, “Well, hell, don’t leave me out.”

Five minutes later, Red wheeled into the entryway of Buckhorn Creek Ranch and parked in front of Emmett Slaton’s massive home. Slaton’s truck wasn’t parked in its usual spot and the porch light was dark.

Damn, Red thought. Got my nerve all worked up and he ain’t even home.

“What we gonna do now?” Billy Don asked.

Red scrounged in his glove box and came up with a matchbook from Chester’s, a topless club in Austin. He scribbled a note on the inside and said, “Tell you what, go stick this in the door and I’ll talk to him about it tonight. Do it over the phone.”

“Go do it yourself,” Billy Don said in a rapid-fire staccato of gastric releases.

“Hell, it was my idea,” Red said. “When you come up with the ideas, you can be the one who’s in charge of things. Now, you want a raise or don’t ya?”

Billy Don grumbled, but climbed out of the truck and proceeded toward the house.

He lumbered up the stairs, took one step on the porch, and his feet shot out from under him. He came crashing back down on the stairs, accompanied by the sound of splintering wood.

Red stuck his head out the window and giggled. “Goddamn-you all right, Billy Don?”

He heard cursing and grunting, then: “I’m stuck like a sumbitch, Red. Come help me outta here.”

Red grabbed a flashlight, walked over, and found Billy Don’s sizable rump wedged in a hole in the staircase.

“I hit something slick as goat shit,” Billy Don groaned. “My back feels like crap. Get me loose, will ya?”

Red stuck out both hands and hauled Billy Don to his feet.

“What the hell did I slip on?” Billy Don whined. “Shine the light up there.”

Red swept the light over the front porch and saw a smeared red streak where Billy Don had lost his footing. There were several other dark-red drops between the stairs and the front door.

Billy Don said, “That looks like blood.”

“I can see it.” Red stepped around the drops and knocked firmly on the door. They waited, but there was no answer.

Billy Don said, “Could be anything. Maybe he shot a deer and hauled it in through here.”

Red stooped and shined the light directly on one of the drops. Definitely blood. “Billy Don, if you shot a deer, would you drag it right into your goddamn living room?”

Billy Don started to answer, but Red cut him off, saying, “Forget I asked. Stupid question.”

Vinnie drove to a pay phone in Johnson City and made a call.

“Yo, T.J. what’s up?”

“Nothing, man. I been meaning to call you, but I was at work. I just got home.”

“Everything cool?”

“Man, I was so wasted last night, I can’t believe we did that.”

T.J.’s voice sounded shaky.

Vinnie licked his lips, getting a little nervous. “Don’t turn into a pussy now, dude. Everything will be solid. Did you call the cops yet, report it stolen?”

“That’s the thing, man. I started thinking about it, and I remembered something. The deal is, I got LoJack.”

The word meant nothing to Vinnie. “Shit, bring it over and we’ll smoke it.” He forced a laugh, but T.J. didn’t join in.

“Nah, man, I’m talking about one of those anti-theft deals, you know?”

“What, like a burglar alarm? Fuck, that’s no big deal. Your car is fifty feet underwater. If the thing goes off, it won’t bother nobody but the friggin’ fish.”

“Not an alarm system, it’s worse than that. Goddamn, I was so blitzed, I completely spaced. You’re gonna hate this.”

“What the hell’re you talking about, dude? Just fuckin’ say it.”

T.J. took a breath. “It’s a trackin’ device, you know, like a chip, with satellites and all that shit. So when a car gets stolen, the cops can just log on to a computer or something, and they know exactly where the goddamn car is. Soon as I call it in, they’ll find my car in about two seconds.”

Oh-my-fucking-Jesus-Mary-Mother-of-God! Vinnie was suddenly very hot. His heart began to pound, and his palms became damp. The earth began to shimmy and he grabbed the pay phone for support.

“You there, man?” T.J. was talking, but to Vinnie, the voice sounded distant, fuzzy, like a poor signal on an A.M. radio station.