“What do you think happened to buggy whips?” asked Tank in conclusion.
Pedro drew a finger across his throat.
“Exactly. The second cars got cheap, demand for the buggy whip collapsed. The buggy-whip manufacturers tried everything to improve their products and make them less expensive, but it didn’t matter. People couldn’t care less whether a buggy whip looked sharper or lasted longer. They were driving Model T’s, Chryslers, and Chevrolets. No one needed a buggy whip, no matter how nifty it was. Until finally one day no one was riding in a carriage at all.” Tank downed his shot and banged the glass on the bar as a fitting endnote. “Goodbye, buggy whip.”
“Why are you telling me this?” asked Pedro.
“Because you’re looking at one,” said Tank.
“A buggy whip? I thought you were a reporter.”
“Same thing. You’re looking at a living, breathing example of technical obsolescence. A walking anachronism. Like the abacus or the typewriter or the fax…and now the newspaper.”
“How’s a buggy whip like a newspaper?”
“It’s like this: a reporter is to a newspaper as a buggy whip is to a horse-drawn carriage. Follow?”
Pedro’s face lit up. “Now I know what’s in the envelope.”
“Well, you don’t have to look so stinkin’ happy about it.”
Pedro frowned and retreated to the end of the bar as Tank finished his beer. He put down the empty and swiveled on his stool, looking at the piñatas hanging from the ceiling and the velvet black-light paintings of Selena and Jennifer Lopez.
Tank’s real name was Henry Thaddeus Potter. He’d started life as Henry, then Hank, then Hank the Tank, by virtue of his playing fullback on a state championship team at Westlake High. After four years as a Texas Longhorn, he was just Tank. It made for good copy. He was stuck with it.
His phone rang and he checked the caller. “Yeah, Al.”
“You at Pedro’s?” demanded Al Soletano, managing editor of the Austin American-Statesman, Tank’s employer for the past sixteen years. “Betty said she saw your car there. I need you to come in.”
“I already got my envelope.”
“You read it all the way through? The new management is itching for an excuse to fire you for cause. It would save them a lot of dough. You have thirty days until the deal clears. Keep your nose clean until then. In the meantime, we got a breaking story. An FBI agent got himself killed in Dripping Springs. Thought you might want to handle it. You know-a last hurrah.”
“My beat is state politics.”
“This one’s in our backyard. I’m not giving it to a wire service. I’ve still got my pride.”
“You mean you’re short a crime reporter.”
“Press conference is at nine at the Federal Building.”
“In the morning?”
“Tonight. Don’t be late. And Tank-no more cocktails.”
Tank hung up and asked for his tab. Pedro put the bill on the counter, concerned. “Leaving already? The señoritas aren’t here yet.”
“Duty calls.”
The bartender flashed his most optimistic smile. “So you’re not fired?”
Tank slapped the envelope on the bar. “Buggy whip, Pedro. It’s only a matter of time.”
9
Tank crossed the street and climbed into his ’98 Jeep Cherokee. The engine turned over after a few tries, no buggy whip needed. His first task was to roll down the windows. The air conditioning was DOA and the fan had as much power as a fruit fly’s wings. This accomplished, he reached under his seat for a backstop and took a two-second swizzle of Cuervo. Soletano had said no more cocktails. He hadn’t mentioned pick-me-ups.
The FBI residency was off Ben White in South Austin, no more than a fifteen-minute drive. Tank made a U-turn against traffic and headed north. To the west the sky was flaming red. A wavy black line rose from the river and climbed east into the purple dusk. A gust of warm, fetid air washed through the car and he grimaced.
The bats.
Each spring a million bats migrated north from Mexico to Austin to nest beneath the Congress Avenue Bridge. Every evening they left the damp, cool recesses of the bridge and flew east to scour the countryside for insects. The air was thick with their musty, throat-clawing odor.
Tank continued on Lamar, skirting the south shore of the Colorado River, the skyscrapers of downtown Austin to his left. He spotted Potter Tower, built by his grandfather in the late 1980s. To answer Pedro’s question, yes, there was money in the envelope. Or at least the promise of money. More money than Tank was likely to see again in one lump sum.
The Potter family money was a thing of the past. Oil dried up. Real estate crashed. Besides, his mother wasn’t the first Mrs. Potter and he wasn’t the first male heir to carry on the family name.
Tank arrived at the FBI’s office ten minutes later. The lot was half full and he parked in a far corner. He scoped out the place and took a quick snort from his backstop. It was just 8:30, and he chided himself for leaving Pedro’s so quickly. A car pulled into the lot and he spotted a slim, eager-looking man in short sleeves and a black tie hustling inside. It was the AP stringer out of Dallas. The enemy. No small-market paper could afford a full complement of reporters these days, not with circulation down 50 percent in the past ten years.
A minute later two dark sedans pulled into the lot, braked dramatically by the double glass doors, and disgorged several men in business suits. He recognized Don Bennett, the agent who headed up the Austin residency. Another ten minutes remained before the press conference was scheduled to begin. God knew they never started on time.
Hurry up and wait. It was a reporter’s life.
Tank sipped from the Cuervo and turned up the music. Bob Wills and His Texas Playboys sang about lost loves and ruined lives. The night had cooled, and Tank leaned his head back and gazed out the window at the darkening sky. He remembered his own cheatin’ wife, gone these past five years. There hadn’t been anyone serious since, just the floozies from Pedro’s…though he did enjoy their company. He thought he saw a shooting star. He relaxed a notch.
Damn if it wasn’t a beautiful night.
–
Tank woke with a start.
He grabbed the steering wheel and pulled himself upright, then wiped away a lick of drool that had dried on his cheek. It was 10:45. He’d passed out for almost two hours. He looked around, still getting his bearings. The lot was empty. The press conference was over.
He bolted from the car, ran to the front doors, and banged furiously. A young hotshot came down the hall and opened the door a crack. “Yeah?”
“I need a summary from the press conference.”
“And you are?”
“Tank Potter. Statesman.”
“Press conference ended an hour ago.” The hotshot was hardly old enough to have his first hangover, with a fresh high-and-tight and his sidearm high on the hip. A real greenhorn.
“Just give me your write-up, okay?” said Tank. “Don’t be a dick about it.”
The hotshot gave him a look, then smiled. “Sure. Wait here.”
“Thanks, bro.”
Tank retreated down the steps and lit a cigarette. He checked his phone and saw that Al Soletano had left ten messages. Tank swore under his breath. They couldn’t dismiss him for missing a press conference.
The hotshot came outside and handed him the summary. “Headed out?”
“Yeah,” said Tank. “Bedtime.” In fact he was hoping to get back to the office, file his story, and make it to Pedro’s by midnight.