Bob — that’s me — hadn’t mentioned it. Scoggins placed the tips of his long fingers together and nodded. His eyelids blinked slightly, but he smiled and nodded again. “Most interesting, Miss Betts. Most interesting.”
Jim reached for a pencil and pad on a nearby table. “I need information, professor. First, the name and address of this organization you represent. Second, I need your full name and the name of the universities where you used to teach. And third, I have a question: You are a licensed realtor, are you not?”
Scoggins blinked again. Still smiling, he gave the name and address of our organization in Dallas. Then he rose, said he would bring papers tomorrow to show his academic record.
We both knew Jim had put us on thin ice. We kept up appearances as we walked to the professor’s small car. We waved courtly goodbyes to Jim and Amy, and said we would return at ten in the morning.
Scoggins headed his car west, driving too fast for the narrow dirt road.
“Blind turn ahead,” I reminded him. “Slow down before we hit Betts Corner.”
He accelerated to show me he was boss. We went into the Woods Road, temporarily blinded by the change from glaring sunlight to gray shade. Huge oaks, protected by Betts patriarchs for almost one hundred and fifty years, barricaded Betts land with their heavy trunks, forming a green-brown roof overhead with interlocked branches. It was like being in a tunnel. The road twisted a sharp ninety degrees from west to south and sixty degrees southwesterly from there. Blackberry vines, heavy with yellow dust from the powdery road, reached for us.
Scoggins grazed a scarred trunk as the car went into the shallow ditch on that blind turn. He swerved hard left, slowing the car to regain control.
When we left that clump of woods, he parked on the narrow shoulder of the open road, facing the hot sun.
“This is a very backward country, Mr. Gaines.”
“Is Jim Betts the first man to doubt your academic record, professor?”
He retaliated by cutting off the motor. With it, of course, went the car’s air conditioner. Hot Texas wind seared my cheeks as I rolled down the car window. Sweat poured from every bit of my body.
“Somewhere in Jim Betts’ makeup there are weaknesses,” Scoggins said in a flat, cold voice. “Weakness we must exploit. Remember: the individual can be understood only through a complete synthesis of all data about him.”
“Cut out the doubletalk. We’re alone now, remember?”
“You are ignorant of psychology, Mr. Gaines. We will explore human foibles, hoping for a solution. Talk, damn you! Tell me about Jim Betts!”
I wanted to tell him to go to hell. I couldn’t, though. All these years I had worked alone, doing con jobs here, promotions there, and I had practically nothing to show for it. Nothing except memories of roachy hotels and occasional small town jails. Luckily, I had never been convicted of embezzlement, but that was due to lack of my own nerve and because I always tried to operate within a semblance of legality. The professor worked the same way, of course, but he worked a lot smoother. He was still in his early fifties, younger than I was, more vital and with a better con man record. And because of him, I had a chance to work with this land promotion group, this organization in Dallas. If we could get the options we needed, we’d split ten thousand dollars.
“I’m waiting, Mr. Gaines.”
Taking a damp cigar from my sweaty pocket, I lighted it and added to the heat. “Old Man Betts lost a fortune in cotton futures in the crash of 1929,” I began. “He stayed stiff-necked and proud the rest of his life. Even in August, with Texas temperatures well over a hundred degrees, I never saw him without a suit and a tie. He walked Caton County like a king, living off his credit. Jim put on overalls and kept the family going. He worked hard. He made money off soy beans after cotton prices fell. Old Man Betts died, and Jim became the boss of Betts property. Then Old Mrs. Betts came down with cancer. All this time, Miss Amy—”
“Stay with Jim Betts.”
“Old Mrs. Betts lived three years, mostly in hospitals. They had to sell much of the land. Jim insisted that they sell only to people who would treat the land right. Caton County has been on the downhill drag since the 1920’s, so land didn’t bring much. Jim is in his mid-seventies now. Most of the young people have gone from Caton County — left to find jobs in towns. No really cheap labor is left here, so Jim makes do with one regular hired hand, and he’s old. Jim owns some cattle, but his farming is restricted to raising a little produce for local markets and selling eggs.”
“Not much money in that.”
“Not when you’re old. You saw his truck. Old thing is at least twenty years of age, and far too heavy for his current needs.”
Scoggins reached into my shirt pocket, helped himself to one of my cigars. “What about vices? Does he drink? Chase wanton women? Gamble?”
I had to laugh. “Not that buzzard. He was straitlaced and sober even when he was young. His only vice is that he protects Amy — he has always spoiled her and protected her, and he still thinks she’s a cute little baby sister. He never really let her grow up.”
Scoggins blew cigar smoke, thinking. “Interesting weakness, Mr. Gaines. Hardly time to explore that avenue, however.”
Even while baking in that hot car under the Texas sun, I thought of cool nights on the verandah with Amy wriggling closer and closer to me when we had been in our teens and early twenties. She had been hot to death in those days, a spoiled kid who was ready to elope any time I gave the word. I thought of how Jim had supported both his parents when they refused to give us permission to marry. Of how Jim always sat near the window next to the verandah, acting as chaperone. After he caught us wrapped too closely around each other one night, he cornered me in a clump of woods. He had split my lip and bloodied my nose and ordered me to leave Caton County.
I left the county the next day. Even then I had a phobia against the sight of blood. Especially my blood.
“Talk, Mr. Gaines. Does Jim have a hobby?”
“He likes to fish. Years ago, when he was upset about something, he’d stop work and go fishing in that stock pond across from the corner with all the trees. He’d fish for an hour or two, then go back to work. I understand he fishes every day this time of year. He’s a punctual son of a gun. Always goes by the clock.”
“You mean he has a psychological adherence to time?” Scoggins stared at me with those ash-cold eyes.
“One of the neighbors said you can set your watch by the time he crosses the road every afternoon. At five, he stops work for a while. At five ten he crosses the road, pole in hand. Promptly at six, even if the fish have just begun to bite—”
Scoggins started the motor. “Let’s go drink beer, Mr. Gaines.”
Hot as I was, I downed two beers before I noticed he drank Coca-cola. Scoggins’ big weakness was liquor, so I knew he was thinking. Hell, his brain cells went click-click all the time. Cold brain cells, aloof, impersonal, hiding behind that phony mask of culture and good will.
At a few minutes of six, he nodded and seemed pleased with himself. “Time to return to Caton, Mr. Gaines.”
“One more beer for me.”
“No. We have business at hand.”
With the afternoon sun low behind us, we drove at normal speed on the dusty road. A jack-rabbit jumped from bois d’arc trees ahead of us, ran along the road for a while before darting into sumac.
We approached Betts Corner cautiously.
“Place was okay a hundred years ago,” I began as we headed into the shade of those giant oaks. “Now with automobiles — watch out — ahead of us!”