The banker brought up Gammel’s most recent bank statement. There was remarkably little activity, mostly small checks written to pay utilities, plus a small mortgage note written to a bank in Austin. There were only two deposits, identical amounts transferred electronically from a county account.
“That’s his paycheck,” Sanchez said, anticipating Marlin’s question. “Direct deposit, twice a month.”
“Not much of a balance, really.”
The banker quickly navigated through several months of statements, none showing anything out of the ordinary.
“Can you tell me specifically what you’re looking for?” Sanchez asked.
“Just any large deposit, probably in cash, in the last year or so.” Marlin thought about the Ford Explorer Gammel had purchased with cash. A call to Kyle Parker, the owner of the car lot, had revealed that Gammel had purchased the car nine months ago. “Especially in the springtime,” Marlin added.
But the statements showed nothing. According to the paper trail, nothing unusual had happened to Gammel’s financial condition in the past two years. Just the same deposits made by the county like clockwork, the same checks written monthly to the same creditors.
Marlin was disappointed, but not really surprised, since Gammel seemed to have an affinity for carrying cash. He thanked Sanchez for his time and went outside to his truck. Next stop: a meeting with Maynard Clements, the county employee who worked most closely with Bert Gammel.
Red figured he could get used to this vice president stuff real quick. Here it was ten o’clock-a time when he’d normally be working his ass off in the brush-but instead, he was back at the Dairy Queen enjoying a couple of breakfast tacos.
He’d already spoken to most of the men on the work crews and told them what’s what: that Slaton was gone and Red was ramrodding this operation now. Most of them hadn’t even batted an eye. Of course, the majority of them were illegals and couldn’t speak good English, so Red wasn’t sure they had understood. But the important thing was, they were off doing the work while Red and Billy Don were sitting in air-conditioned comfort.
Last night, Red had told Billy Don everything the Austin lawyer had said. But he hadn’t sprung the Big Idea on Billy Don yet-the major brainstorm that Red had had while lying in bed. With Billy Don, you had to take things kind of slow or the big man would flip out. He wasn’t a big-picture kind of guy like Red was. You had to work up to important stuff one step at a time. Hell, half the battle was just getting the man’s attention, getting him to focus for even just a few minutes. It was like he had that attention-defecate disorder or something.
“I used to work here, ya know,” Red said. “Back when I was a kid.”
Billy Don nodded, unhearing, as he peeled back the foil from his fourth taco. The man could demolish a taco in two bites.
“I was the cook,” Red continued. “Man, I only earned a couple bucks an hour, but I bet I ate twenty bucks’ worth of food during every shift.”
That caught Billy Don’s attention, pulling his eyes from his taco for a second. “What, you just grabbed whatever you wanted?”
“Hell, yeah. A burger or two, a big order of onion rings, maybe a couple of corny dogs. And that was just the appetizer.”
Billy Don searched Red’s face for a lie. “Shee-yit.”
“The God’s truth. Hell, the owner was never around. He always left his twin daughters in charge.” Red let out a whistle. “Good-lookin’, too. I wonder whatever happened to those two. I used to call one Beltbuster and the other Hungerbuster.” Red chuckled. Yep, those were the times.
Billy Don didn’t respond.
“Don’t you get it?” Red said. “That’s what the hamburgers are called.”
Billy Don glanced at the menu above the serving counter. “What’d they call you? DQ Dude?” Billy Don grinned, chunks of sausage caught between his teeth.
“Har-de-har-har,” Red said. He watched an elderly couple trudge out the door to a waiting RV. Snowbirds, probably-Yankees carrying their tired asses down to the warm Rio Grande Valley for the winter.
Red waited until Billy Don had a mouthful of taco before he said, “Listen, we need to talk a little more ’bout that lawyer what called last night. See, there’s somethin’ that’s gotta happen before the company is all mine.”
“Like what?”
“Well,” Red looked around the room, checking for eavesdroppers, “they gotta find the body,” he whispered.
A confused expression crossed Billy Don’s face and he set his taco down on a napkin.
“Relax, it’s no big deal,” Red said. “They just need to make sure Mr. Slaton ain’t still alive. That lawyer would look like a reg’lar moron if he signed the company over to me and then Slaton showed up again, wouldn’t he? On the other hand, it’s a real pisser if you think about it. For instance, what if they don’t never find the body? That’s entirely possible, you know. Then where would we be? This thing could drag out for years-buncha lawsuits and torts and expositions. Now, that’s something we’d all love to avoid, wouldn’t we?”
Billy Don belched, loosing a torrent of noxious air in Red’s direction. “What do you mean, ‘we’? You got a mouse in your pocket? I don’t see how this affects me none.”
Red could tell from Billy Don’s tone that the giant man was pouting a little. Hell, Red couldn’t blame him. If the positions were reversed-with Billy Don owning the company-Red would fully expect Billy Don to share a little of his good fortune. More important, Red knew he would need Billy Don at his side in the days to come.
“Aw, now, you don’t think I’m forgettin’ about my best buddy, do ya?”
Billy Don stuck his bottom lip out a little but didn’t reply.
“Well, hell, Billy Don, I was gettin’ to that.” Red stood up beside the booth and cleared his throat. “Ladies and gentleman, may I have your attention, please?”
There were only three other occupied tables in the restaurant: two sets of gray hairs and a trio of young punks who were likely skipping school. Red waved his arms with an elaborate flourish. “I’m pleased to present to you the new office management supervisor of Slaton Brush Removal, Incorporated.” The retirees were happy to provide an arthritic round of applause. One of the schoolkids simply muttered, “Dorks.”
Red could see that Billy Don was trying to stifle a grin, but it broke through anyway. “Come on, Red, sit down. You’re ’barrasin’ me.”
Red sat back down and patted Billy Don on the shoulder. “Congratulations, big man. You deserve it. Now, for your first official act as office management supervisor…”
Billy Don had already gone back to his food.
“… you’re gonna help me look for Mr. Slaton’s body.”
Billy Don stopped assaulting his taco.
“And,” Red said, “I got a pretty good idea how we’re gonna go about it.”
Sitting in his sedan near the sheriff’s office, far enough away to be discreet, Smedley Poindexter munched a king-sized bag of potato chips and pondered recent events in Blanco County. The hostage situation had made the Austin newscast last night. Smedley had done a little checking into it, and had then stumbled upon a new missing-persons case: a rancher named Emmett Slaton. That was enough to put him back into his car early this morning, heading for Blanco County.
On the surface, there was no indication that Salvatore Mameli had had anything to do with the standoff or the disappearance of Slaton. But Smedley had to wonder. Too often, things seemed to “just happen” in the vicinity of guys like Mameli.
Smedley was proud to be a federal deputy marshal, but there were times when he felt somewhat guilty being involved with the witness protection program. Of course, some participants in the program were simply that: witnesses. Good people who were willing to stand up and do what’s right, even though it meant placing themselves at risk.
But plenty of people in the program were criminals-evil, brutal, coldhearted men like Mameli-who had turned on their own kind and had no choice but to go underground.