There was something else hanging from the necklace, an object that had caught Smedley’s eye earlier in the evening. But the light had been dim, and he had been understandably preoccupied. Now, leaning for a closer look, he saw what it was.
A spent shell from a handgun. That seemed odd.
Squinting, he could see the inscription on the butt of the shelclass="underline" .35 AUTO S amp;W. Smedley had never even seen a.35-caliber handgun before, but he seemed to remember that Sal owned one, an old family heirloom. Sal had mentioned it over dinner one night: His grandfather had bought it when he immigrated to the United States, his way of saying, There. Now I am an American. Maybe Maria had found an old shell lying around. He’d have to ask her about it in the morning. Or attempt to ask her about it, anyway. With her poor English, she might not-
Smedley’s train of thought was broken by a noise outside. Sounded like a car door, but he couldn’t be sure. Then he heard the rumble of Vinnie’s Camaro, and there was no doubt.
Where in the hell was Vinnie going at this hour of the night? Sure, Smedley might expect Vinnie to be coming home this late, but not leaving. With the recent events in Blanco County, Smedley realized he had no choice. He’d have to tail Vinnie and see what was up.
In bed, Sal Mameli could barely open his eyes. Was that Vinnie’s car he heard? Could be. The kid was probably getting down to business, just like Sal had asked. Sal didn’t want to know how the kid took care of the problems, just as long as he took care of them. It was nice to have someone he could rely on, someone who didn’t question his orders.
Sal hadn’t told Vinnie about the caller earlier in the evening, but wondered if he should have. Nah, probably better this way. He didn’t want Vinnie to think he was totally whacked-out on painkillers-or losing his edge, getting senile.
I saw what you did with the body. What the fuck was that supposed to mean? Sal himself hadn’t done anything with any body. Probably some asshole’s lame idea of a practical joke. Nothing new. Sal had received some weird looks and some occasional muttered comments over the years in Blanco County. Even gotten a couple of prank calls, someone whistling the theme to The Godfather. Jerk-offs. Fuck ’em. They didn’t know nothing. Sal had always been known for his nerves of steel, and he wasn’t about to freak out over a little harassment.
Or what if I dreamed it all? Sal wondered as he fell back into a deep slumber.
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
Red had to make a decision. Would Sal Mameli be driving a souped-up black Camaro? Didn’t seem likely, but that was what had just pulled out of the driveway. A real nice car, sleek and shiny, with tricked-out rims and a throaty-sounding exhaust. Red remembered that Sal had mentioned a son named Vinnie a couple of times. Seemed a lot more like the kind of car a kid named Vinnie would drive. Then again, maybe the son was in on the murder and would lead them straight to Mr. Slaton’s body. Or it could be a trick. He and Billy Don would go hightailing after Vinnie, then Sal would take off a few minutes later, free to do his dirty business without any onlookers.
“So what we gonna do, Red?” Billy Don asked as the Camaro’s taillights faded in the distance.
“Let me think, dammit!” Red said, fidgeting with his keys. His entire future came down to this moment. He could wind up as a local hero by helping the cops find the corpse. And that, in turn, would make him the owner of Slaton Brush Removal, Incorporated. If there ever was a time when he needed to think like a vice president, this was it.
“Better git if we’re gonna git,” Billy Don said.
Red peered down the Mameli driveway, trying to see lights at the house. Was Sal waiting down there somewhere, watching to see if Red took the bait? All Red saw was darkness.
He cranked the truck’s big engine and took off after the Camaro.
Panting and already starting to sweat, Smedley trundled down the driveway as fast as he could, which really amounted to more of a fast walk. He could hear Vinnie’s car rumbling down the county road, and he knew he’d have a tough time catching him. Two miles to the west, the county road teed into Highway 281. If Smedley didn’t catch up before Vinnie reached that intersection, the kid would be long gone.
Smedley struggled to slip his jacket on as he walked, his ample gut jiggling, wishing he hadn’t eaten so many of Maria’s enchiladas.
Then he paused for a moment. What the hell was that? He thought he heard another engine. For a second he wondered if Vinnie was returning to the house. But no, he could tell it wasn’t Vinnie’s Camaro. It was a different vehicle, with an engine that sounded every bit as powerful-except that it needed a tune-up.
Vinnie could already feel the fucking adrenaline pumping through his system. That was something he had discovered about being a stone-cold killer. You could control the rush. You could shape it and mold it and make it work for you. He’d done it when dealing with Emmett Slaton, and he’d done it when he’d handled T.J. That was what made him different from some of the cugines back home, weaklings who didn’t have the balls to do what needed to be done.
Prowling in the night like this, dressed in black, mentally prepping himself for action-it excited Vinnie, and his crotch stiffened as he contemplated his plan.
Then he noticed headlights in his rearview mirror, another vehicle maybe a quarter-mile back, coming on quickly. Oh, shit, it was probably that damn Smedley. When Vinnie had pulled out of the driveway, he had seen the marshal’s car sitting on the shoulder of the road. But it had been empty when Vinnie’s headlights swept over it. Or maybe Smedley had been napping in the backseat. Who the hell knows? The marshals were pretty strange fuckers, showing up when you least expected it, just hanging around, watching. They said they were guarding their precious witness; but wasting tax dollars, that’s what it really was.
Normally, Vinnie didn’t give a rat’s ass what Smedley did. Hell, he could follow Vinnie around for days, who gives a shit? But not tonight.
Red caught up with the Camaro about a mile before it reached Highway 281, but now he had another concern on his mind. Headlights were bouncing along on the road behind him, gaining fast. Could that possibly be Sal? If sending Vinnie out first had been a trick, Sal would be stupid to show himself like that.
Smedley was pushing the cheap little sedan as fast as it would go, and now he had to ease up on the gas. He was forty yards behind an old Ford truck now, and he could see the taillights of Vinnie’s Camaro about fifty yards ahead of the truck. The highway was seconds away.
Vinnie reached the highway and had to come to a stop as an eighteen-wheeler roared past. There was no need to rush now. Whoever was behind him-and it wasn’t Smedley-was right on his damn bumper. Nothing to worry about, just some redneck’s truck. Old and red and ugly. Vinnie thought he recognized it from around town, but he didn’t know who owned it. Vinnie sat at the stop sign, idling, glaring into his rearview mirror. Looked like two guys back there, lurking in the dark.
Probably just some teenagers out for a cruise. Or it might be poachers. Hillbillies in Texas seemed to enjoy that sort of thing.
Then he saw Smedley’s sedan pull up behind the truck. Oh, fuckin’ great! So the marshal had been sitting in his sedan. The question was, was Smedley following Vinnie, or was the dumbfuck simply heading back to Austin?