To my relief, my Dos Equis arrived, Tom and his father ordered longnecks, and we fell into a discussion of the menu, which featured several rather adventurous items for a rural Tex-Mex joint. Tom and his dad decided on a large plate of nachos and the house salsa, reputed to be hotter than hades, to occupy us until the rest of the food arrived. Figuring that my mostly veggie monastery meals gave me a little leeway, I went for the steak tampiqueno, which was billed as an eight-inch pancake of mesquite-grilled beef enfolding onions and hot peppers, topped with cheese and ranchero sauce, plus chicharrones-Mexican-style chitterlings. Tom Senior and Junior ordered the usual medley of enchiladas and chalupas and chiles rellenos and retried beans. (Ordinary beans are fat-free and good for you. Why does lard have to taste so great?)
The ordering accomplished and the nachos and salsa duly delivered and given pride of place in the middle of the table, we moved to the munching stage of the meal, trading (as Texans invariably do) tall tales of the hottest salsas we have ever eaten. Finishing our repertory of salsa stories, we moved to recent history, and Tom asked me about the progress of my investigations. Figuring I might as well get it over with, I repeated my story of this morning's events- making it as amusing as possible-and admitted to having been wrong about Dwight on two counts. Then Tom asked the question I was getting tired of hearing.
"If Dwight didn't set those fires, who the hell did?"
"I'm working on it," I said. "Ask me tomorrow." After I talked to Sister Olivia, and found out the truth about the
fire that had so profoundly scarred Father Steven.
"So oV Royce has taken up target-shootin', huh?" Tom Senior asked with a grin. "Gotta keep your eye on them Townsends. Devious sons of bitches. Rena too. Among the four of 'em, they've got the county trussed up like a bull calf in a ropin' contest."
I pressed him for information about the Townsends, but he wasn't forthcoming. My guess was that they were big customers at the bank and it didn't do for him to bad-mouth them any more than he had to. But I did manage to learn some Rowan family history that I'd either never known or had forgotten.
Tom Senior had come back to Carr from the war in the Pacific with a Silver Star he'd earned on Iwo Jima for taking out a Japanese pillbox when his squad was pinned down by machine-gun fire. He married his high school sweetheart, Harriet, and had a son, Tom Junior. A few years later, he succeeded his father, Old Tom, as president of the Carr State Bank, which had managed to survive the Depression, but not by much.
When Tom Senior took over, business began to look up. He moved the bank out of the small brick building it shared with the feed store and into the two-story modern facility I'd seen on the square. Over the next three-plus decades, he tripled its staff and quadrupled its assets. Then Harriet died and illness struck him, and a couple of years ago Tom Junior-newly divorced from the woman he'd told me about yesterday-came home to move into Tom Senior's spot at the bank. He had also moved into the family home.
"Two guys bachin' it," Tom said wryly. "You can guess what that's like." He grinned at his father. "Although I've got to admit the old man can cook up a mean pot of spaghetti. His apple pie isn't half-bad, either."
"After Harriet died, it was either learn to feed myself or starve," Tom Senior said. "Hell, there's a limit to the number of bologna sandwiches a man can eat and five to tell it. Although I won't be tellin' it long," he added, without
a trace of resentment or self-pity. ' 'Doc Townsend says I can forget about makin' it to the half-century mark at the bank."
"What do those doctors know?" Tom grunted. "You've fooled ' em before. You'll fool 'em again."
Tom Senior went on as if his son hadn't spoken. "The boy here is carryin' on the fam'ly tradition." He glanced at Tom fondly. "Third-generation banker. Can't beat that with a stick. Course, it's in the blood. The Rowans are the best bankers in Texas, bar none."
"Watch it, Dad," Tom cautioned. "You'll break your arm patting yourself on the back."
The old man scowled. "Yeah, well, one thing I ain't so proud of, let me tell you." He picked up his beer. " 'Less you get off your can and start workin' on it, there ain't gonna be a fourth generation."
Tom colored. "Come on, Dad," he muttered. "You agreed-''
"He tell you about that woman he married on the bounce, after you and him split the sheets?" Tom Senior pointed his beer bottle at me, his pale eyes narrowing. "TV star, she was, name of Janie."
On the bounce? Tom wasn't looking at me.
"Real beauty. Family with money, too. Father's got a big spread down in Bexar County." The old man scowled at Tom, shaking his head. "Shoulda hung on to Janie when you had your rope on her, boy. Shoulda had a kid or two so there'd be somebody to take over the bank after you."
"Maybe I'll sell the damn thing," Tom muttered.
Tom Senior's mouth tightened. "You do that, and I'll come back to haunt you, sure as little green apples. I'll bring your mama with me, too."
Tom snorted. "That a promise, you old buzzard?"
His father saluted him with his beer bottle. "You can bet your best bull on it, boy."
The banter was light and practiced, but Tom seemed uneasy and the old man's voice had a ragged edge. I won-
dered what kind of conflict was hidden under the camaraderie. How often did the father worry that the son would let the family bank fall into the hands of the massive multinational financial corporations that have already grabbed up so many small-town banks? How often did the son threaten to sell out and move back to the city after the father was dead?
The meal arrived, we dug into our food (mine was more than passable), and the subject of the conversation shifted.
"Tom tells me you've got a place of your own over in Pecan Springs," Tom Senior said. "You like bein' in bid-ness for yourself?"
"Most of the time." I thought of the recent Christmas rush and my feelings of being swamped under a tide of too much to do. "Sometimes it's a lot to handle." In a burst of ill-advised candor, I added, "Pecan Springs is getting too big and touristy. Sometimes I feel like finding a quieter place. Like Carr. You've got a pretty town here."
"Glad to hear you say that." Tom Senior beamed. "Yep, real glad. You own your shop?"
I nodded, and went on saying things I shouldn't have. "The building as well. Right now, I rent out half of it, but I've got to figure out what I'm going to do with-" I was about to say that I had to make a decision about the tearoom when Tom Senior interrupted.
"Well, it's easy enough to relocate. Let your tenant take over the building. Or sell. Price of property in your part of Texas has gone up like a hot-air balloon in the last few years. You'll make out like a bandit, moneywise. Movin' won't cost you much, either."
"It's a nice idea," I said, "but I really don't think-"
"Why the hell not?" the old man demanded. "You said it yourself, Carr's a real purty town."
"It certainly is, but I'm not-"
"Sure you are, girl. We need women like you here. Anytime you're ready to make your move, I'll see you get what you're lookin' for."
Tom leaned forward and put his hand on his father's arm. "Hold your fire, Dad," he said. "You promised you wouldn't-"
"Caroline!" The old man raised a hand to the cowgirl waitress. "How about a cup of coffee?" He turned to me, disregarding his son. "Carr's a fine little town, China. Sure, it's underdeveloped compared to where you are now, but that's a plus. Anybody who can tell a widget from a whang-doodle can see the potential here. You sign on with our outfit, girl. The best is yet to come."