for his time and wished him a good night.
A week later, Sal felt he was making progress. During the second phone call, the rancher had merely told Sal to “catch the next train to hell or Houston, it don’t matter which.” Sal, however, still didn’t lose his temper, mostly because he had never been to Houston. Also, he could tell that being a little blustery-“ornery” was the word they’d use around here-was merely part of the Texan’s act. The truth was, Sal was having a tough time reading some of these Texans. Sometimes he would think he was on the verge of a fistfight, only to have the man clap him on the back, say, “Hell, I was just bullshittin’ ya,” then laugh like it was the funniest thing since Grandpa dropped his dentures into the mashed potatoes. Sal took heart in the fact that Slaton had seemed to soften a little during the second phone call, as if he just enjoyed giving people a hard time.
Finally, on the third phone call, the rancher had said, “Aw, what the hell-I’ll hear you out. Come see me at the ranch.”
So Sal was practicing his spiel, thinking of the empty promises he was about to make, when he pulled into the entry way of Buckhorn Creek Ranch on Sunday morning. Slaton’s home, a limestone-and-granite monstrosity, sat half a mile off the road, ringed by towering hundred-year-old oak trees.
As Sal parked his new Lincoln, a fearsome-looking Doberman pinscher raced off the front porch, placed both front paws on Sal’s door, and howled at Sal through the glass. Sal instinctively recoiled from the growling beast.
“Heel, Patton!” Slaton yelled as he came out the front door. The dog immediately retreated to his master’s side and plopped his rear onto the ground.
Sal, feeling somewhat safe now, climbed out of his car. “Mistuh Slaton?”
“Call me Emmett. With an accent like that, you gotta be Sal Mameli,” Slaton said, extending his hand. “Damn glad to meet you.”
Sal shook Slaton’s hand, keeping an eye on the Doberman.
“Don’t worry about him,” Slaton said. “The growlin’ is just for show. If he really wanted to do ya any damage, you’d never even hear him comin’.”
Sal wondered if that was supposed to make him feel better. “Patton, huh?”
“Yessir. Named after a great American-and a distant relative of yours truly, I don’t mind tellin’ ya.”
“Dat right?” Sal feigned interest. He had noticed that Texans tended to be long-winded-and he hoped he wasn’t in for a story.
“Somethin’ like a third cousin on my daddy’s side,” Slaton said. “But that’s neither here nor there. Let’s head inside and hear what you’ve got to say.”
The two men entered the house, with the dog following a little too closely in Sal’s footsteps. Slaton led Sal to a large den where a rust-colored cowskin rug covered the polished Saltillo tile underneath. It was furnished in a traditional ranch motif, with blocky wooden furniture, wood paneling, and several antique-looking firearms mounted on the walls. Slaton motioned to two chairs beside a large fireplace. “Have a seat. Can I get you something to drink? I know it’s early, but the bar’s always open ’round here.”
“Got any scotch?”
“No sir, fine Kentucky bourbon’s the only liquor I keep in my home. And I got some cold beer.”
“Beer’d be fine,” Sal replied, looking around the room. It was much too gaudy for his tastes, but the room-in its own backwoods way-spoke of money. And a man who understood the value of a dollar was certain to appreciate Sal’s generous “offer.”
Slaton brought over a couple of drinks and sat in the chair next to Sal. The dog lay obediently beside Slaton’s chair.
The men chatted for a minute-polite but meaningless conversation-and then Sal decided to lay it on the table. “Emmett, I know you’re a serious man, so I’ll be straight wit’ ya: I’m interested in buying your land-clearing operation. As you know, I’ve been in the business a few months myself, and it’s treated me well.”
Slaton took a sip of bourbon but didn’t comment. So Sal continued: “I hope you don’t mind-I done a little research, found out how many machines you own, how many employees you got…”
Sal removed a pen and a small notepad from his coat pocket and wrote a figure on a page. “… and dis is what I’m prepared to offer ya.” Sal held the notebook up for Slaton to see. “I’m ready to pay twenty-five percent now, and the rest one year from today.”
Slaton remained quiet.
Sal squirmed a little in his seat. He was used to holding the upper hand in negotiations like this. “Whaddaya say, Mistuh Slaton? Can we talk about it?”
“What’s there to talk about, son?” He broke into a grin. “The outfit’s all yours.”
“Seriously?” Sal hadn’t expected things to go quite this smoothly.
“Hell, yeah,” Slaton said. “I know a good offer when I see it. I’ll get my attorney to draw up the contracts on Monday. Until then”-he raised his glass-“I’ll wish you luck on your new venture.”
Sal raised his beer.
Slaton eyed Sal a little suspiciously, probably thrown by the foreign phrase, but he drank anyway. “So, how you enjoyin’ Texas so far?” the rancher asked.
“Fuhget about it,” Sal said. He figured he’d make a little small talk, then exit gracefully. “What-we’re already into November and it’s eighty degrees outside? And the summertime? Place is a goddamn sauna.”
“It’s not so bad,” Slaton said.
“You kidding me? I don’t know how you live in dis hellhole.”
Right then, Sal knew he’d made a mistake. Slaton stood slowly, and the only sound was the scrape of the chair on the tile floor. Sal felt awkward looking up into the old man’s weathered face.
“Son, did you just call the great state of Texas a ‘hellhole’?” Slaton asked.
Sal gave a feeble smile. “I was just talking, ya know? Figger of speech.”
“Well, the deal’s off. You can take your figure of speech and your shiny East Coast suit and get the hell out of my house.”
“C’mon, Mistuh Slaton, why ya breakin’ my balls? I was just-” Sal heard a growl. The Doberman had risen also, and was now at Sal’s right elbow, fixing him with an unsettling stare.
“I think it’s time for you to leave, Mameli.”
Sal couldn’t believe it. What would have been an offhand remark back home was apparently cause for a duel here in Texas. “Aw, fuck it,” Sal said. “You’re making a mistake here, pal. A big one.”
“You’re the one who made a mistake, son. Now clear out.”
On his way toward the door, Sal pointed a meaty finger at Slaton. “You’re gonna regret dis.”
Twelve miles away, two twenty-year-old men were smoking a fat joint and slamming Budweisers at Pedernales Reservoir. Terrence Jackson Gibbs-“T.J.” to his friends-was lying on top of a picnic table, indifferent to the puddle of old ketchup that was ruining the back of his hundred-dollar polo shirt. His friend, Vinnie Mameli, was sitting on the table’s bench seat, shooting a pellet rifle at any bird who made the mistake of lighting in a nearby tree. Vinnie was a tall, well-muscled kid, with dark eyes, close-cropped hair, and a purple birthmark on the left side of his neck. T.J. was smaller, and thick through the middle, like a frat boy who’d been drinking beer all summer.
“I need a new car,” T.J. wheezed, propped on an elbow, trying to contain the pot smoke in his lungs. “My fuckin’ Porsche sucks.” He finally exhaled a large cloud of gray smoke. “It’s in the shop half the time, then I have to drive one of my dad’s trucks. Feel like a redneck.”
“Goddamn, quit yer bitchin’ already,” Vinnie said. “Just get your old man to buy you something else.” He spotted a mourning dove thirty yards away in a Spanish oak. He pumped the rifle five times and let a pellet fly. The bird flapped, then flew away erratically, leaving a few feathers to drift gently to the ground. “You’re spoiled rotten anyway,” Vinnie said.
T.J. sat up straight. “Look who’s talking, you asshole. You’re the one who’s always packing a wad of hundreds. And you don’t even fuckin’ work. At least I got a job.”
“Assistant manager at Dairy Queen? You’re really climbin’ the corporate ladder, T.J.”
“Hey, work builds character. At least that’s what my dad tells me. And anyway, I also got my own place to stay.”
