Blanco County 04 - Guilt Trip (4 page)

“Damn shame,” Tyler Hobbs said.

Lance Longley said, “A deputy called me this afternoon, wondering if I knew where he was.”

“Me, too,” someone added.

As it turned out, all of the men had been called.

Longley had a sarcastic grin on his face. “I imagine it’s tearing you up inside, huh, Chuck?”

Some of the men laughed softly

Hamm smirked and said, “Yeah, Lance, it’s breaking my heart.”

More quiet chuckles.

“Okay,” Hamm said, “we’ll say a prayer for Vance and all that crap, but that’s not why we’re here. Herzog came to see me yesterday, and it looks like we’ve got a little problem.” As he began his tale, he studied the faces of the men around him. Like most of them, Chuck Hamm had come by his Hill Country ranch the old-fashioned way: He had inherited it. His great-grandfather had purchased the ranch at the turn of the twentieth century, and now Chuck Hamm was the fourth generation to steward the rolling land in eastern Blanco County.

Much as it had been a hundred years ago, the two-thousand-acre Hamm Ranch was still dotted with thick copses of oak and elm, prickly pear, sycamore, and cottonwood. The clear water of Yeager Creek still ran as cold and pristine as the day Chuck’s daddy was baptized in it as a boy.

But one thing had changed dramatically

Whereas the three Hamm men before him had managed a comfortable lifestyle by raising cattle, Chuck Hamm had found that that particular well had run dry in the past decade. With the price of beef nowadays, the profits were simply no longer there. No matter how many backbreaking hours he put in each day, it was a losing battle. So, in the early nineties, Hamm came to a conclusion many of his ranching brethren had already reached.

He could make a hell of a lot more money off white-tailed deer than cattle.

Deer hunting was a two-billion-dollar-a-year industry in Texas. Hunters bought rifles and ammo, camouflage clothing, blinds and feeders, boots and knives. They built hunting cabins and financed shiny new trucks to get there. And—the most important thing, the part that interested Hamm—the hunters were willing to plunk down thousands of dollars in hard-earned cash for a shot at a trophy deer.

Hamm, despite his rural upbringing, hadn’t done much deer hunting. Never had the time for such things. But he had plenty of friends who hunted, and they were quick to fill him in on the basics. One of the first things they told him was, there are two types of deer hunting in Texas: behind a “low” fence made of regular barbwire, or behind a “high” fence, meaning a game-proof eight-footer.

Now, the low-fenced properties, they said, those are for your average Joe, a guy looking for some affordable hunting. Place like that might have some big deer on it, and then again it might not. You take your chances. The place might’ve been overhunted in years past, or it might be that the neighbors blast away at every buck they ever see, leaving you with slim pickings. There’s just no way to know for sure.

Then you got your high-fenced places, they told him. And
that’s
where you’re more likely to find yourself a trophy deer. With a high fence, Hamm learned, a rancher can carefully control the deer herd; he can practice “game management,” which was a big buzzword in the hunting world. The term implied a lot of things, but chiefly it meant the landowner could contain “his” deer within the fence while keeping other deer out. That way, the rancher could cull the bucks with lesser antlers and let the larger trophy bucks do all the breeding. As the years progressed behind a high fence, if you worked things right, you just naturally wound up with bigger, better deer. His friends assured him: When a high-fenced buck reaches maturity—with a big ol’ rack of antlers sprouting from its head—there were hot-blooded hunters all across the state who couldn’t wait to get a crack at it. For an enormous price.

Long story short, boy, were those guys right. After hearing all the facts, Hamm decided that high fencing was the way to go. First, though, he had to grin and bear the high price. At two dollars per linear foot, and nearly four miles of exterior fence line around Hamm’s ranch, it was a hell of an expense. But it was an investment that eventually paid off handsomely. Whereas a low-fenced ranch in the area might bring a thousand dollars per hunter for an entire season, Hamm’s high fence allowed him to command anywhere from two to five grand (and sometimes more, depending on the size of the deer taken) from a hunter who might be on the property for
a single weekend.

In the end, no matter how you looked at it, it was deer hunting, not ranching, that had made Hamm a reasonably wealthy man. Sure, Hamm still ran cattle, but whitetails were the cash crop.

For obvious reasons, then, Chuck Hamm was an enthusiastic proponent of high fences, as were the board members of the Wallhangers Club, a hunting organization formed by Hamm ten years earlier. Each and every board member was in a position similar to Hamm’s, meaning they all made a small fortune off deer hunting. Each of them had a stake in the future of property rights in Texas, and those rights included putting up a fence however high the landowner damn well wanted.

Now, as Hamm described his meeting with Herzog, the room was beginning to buzz. These men were sharp; they knew something bad was coming. Hamm simply laid it all out for them—Herzog’s entire sordid tale, ending with the photographs.

Jaws dropped. Faces contorted in disbelief. Heads shook in amazement. Groans were heard all around.

Hamm set his glass of Crown Royal down and raised his hands for absolute silence. When everyone had grown quiet and Hamm was certain the news would be received with the gravity it deserved, he spoke again. “What the blackmailing sumbitch wants,” he said through clenched teeth, “is a goddamn law against high fences.”

FOR A MOMENT, nobody spoke. They were all too shocked. Then Lance Longley muttered, “You gotta be kidding,” voicing the thought on each man’s mind.

Other comments simultaneously filled the air.

“The guy’s lost his mind.”

“Not that horseshit again.”

“I’m not believin’ this.”

Hamm let the babble run for a minute; then he raised his hand again. “Now, understandably, our boy in Austin is a little upset by this nasty bidness. And I can’t blame him for that. But the question is, should we help him out?”

Seventy-year-old Dexter Ashby, seated in front of Hamm’s desk, said, “What, there’s an option?”

“The way I see it, yeah, there is.”

He took a long pull of Crown Royal as everyone waited.

Then he said, “I know this sounds a little cruel, maybe a little risky…but we could always just let him deal with it.” Hamm paused as everyone pondered that possibility He knew there would be discussion and debate, and when it was over, he could steer them in the direction he really wanted them to go. He knew he shouldn’t start out with a plan as abrupt as the one he was going to suggest.

“Let the photos come out?” someone asked.

“I don’t see why not. These types of things seem to be losing their shock value. It’ll be big news for a day or two, then it’ll pass. Chrissakes, even that blow-job queen in the White House is ancient history. And Herzog, hell, he’s nothing but a state senator. Low profile. Trust me, he could get through it no problem.”

“But hold on a sec,” Tyler Hobbs, one of the younger men, said. “What exactly is in these photos? You said Herzog’s been fooling around on his wife, but don’t you think we need to know exactly what we’re talking about here?”

Heads nodded in agreement.

Barry Yates, another old-timer, said, “Yeah, Chuck, I don’t know about this. We’ve sunk a lot of money into that boy over the years. He’s on the right committee and all. Hate to see it go to waste.”

“I understand that perfectly, Barry. I’m just saying it’s one way we could go.”

Lance Longley said, “Didn’t Herzog try to reason with this scumbag? I mean, shit, he might as well try and make it illegal to wear cowboy boots. Ain’t no way something like that’ll ever pass. We’ve been through all of this before.”

“Herzog said he told him that.”

“But what about the photos?” Hobbs asked again. “Do we know what they show?”

All the men looked to Hamm for an answer.

Hamm knew this was a delicate topic. “Well, no, not exactly.”

“What’s that mean?”

“Far as I can tell, there’s some nudie shots of Herzog and the woman. But, hey, at least it
is
a woman. Beyond that, he wouldn’t tell me.”

“Oh, man,” Longley said, shaking his head, “this could be brutal. For all we know, the guy’s into S and M or something weird like that.”

Barry Yates leaned toward Dexter Ashby. “S and what?”

Ashby shrugged.

No one spoke for several moments as they all pondered the predicament.

Then Longley said, “You think this has something to do with Scofield? You gotta admit, it’s pretty weird. Herzog gets this phone call, and then one of our former members—”

“Christ, Lance, don’t let your imagination run away with you,” Hamm said. “It was just an accident. Vance got stupid and tried to cross. So let’s get back to the original issue. What are we gonna do about the photos?”

The room got noisy as some of the men began to argue, offering differing opinions on the right course of action. Hamm decided the time was right, so he said, “There is something else we could try.”

Again, the men all went silent.

“Well…what?” Longley asked.

“It’s simple, really,” Hamm said. “We find out who the blackmailer is.”

Now the room was still. Nobody wanted to voice the next question, the obvious one. Hobbs finally spoke up. “Okay, so maybe we get lucky and track him down. Then what?”

Everyone looked at Hamm.

“Then,” he offered, “we firmly point out that he’s playing dirty pool.” Hamm gave a broad grin. “We convince him to be a nicer man.”

“We?” Longley asked, a trace of concern on his face.

“Well, to get technical, no, not us. But I happen to know a guy who can handle this kind of thing just fine.”

Longley said, “Someone you can trust? I mean, we don’t want this thing getting out of hand.”

“I agree,” Hamm said, nodding. “No, the man I have in mind is perfect. He has a delicate touch.”

Buford Rhodes hoped they wouldn’t have to turn the surgeon’s hand into a mangled stump, but you never could tell. Buford’s partner, Little Joe Taggart, was right there egging him on, but Buford knew he had to play it cool. Disfigure the guy, and then what? Guy can’t earn. Can’t pay back the money he owes. And then Buford’s client Emo—Fort Worth’s top bookie—would be pissed as hell. Yeah, there’s a certain satisfaction in enforcing the rules—especially when the client turns out to be a prick, like this guy—but you can’t lose your head in these situations. End up with a reputation as a hothead and then you’re screwed. Clients like Emo no longer want your services. Even the bail bondsmen Buford worked for on occasion wouldn’t want a guy who brings the skips back on a stretcher every time.

They were in the surgeon’s kitchen. Guy named Winsted. Buford didn’t know if it was the man’s first name or last, but he didn’t care. The critical fact was this: Winsted owed Emo seventeen five, and it was way overdue. According to Emo—telling Buford things he didn’t need to know—Winsted had had a nasty run of luck, but it was an over-under on a Cowboys/Eagles game that did him in. Dumb old Winsted had gone with the over, meaning the combined score had to total more than forty-seven. A late field goal by the ‘Boys brought the total to forty-five, but that was all she wrote. Game over.

“I know what this is about,” Winsted had said earlier, grinning, when they were still in the living room. Mr. Nice Guy at first. Invited them right in, like they were there to fix his toilet or something. He even made a pleasant comment about Buford’s suit, the light blue one with the silver studs. Then: “You’re here about the money, right?” Winsted said, all smiles. House like this—small mansion, really—the man could afford to be in a good mood.

“Yeah, we work for Emo,” Buford replied. Big smile right back at him. Not playing the hard-ass just yet.

“Damn straight,” Little Joe said, already swaggering, his eyes all jumpy. Buford gave him a quick glare.
Settle down.

“Yeah,” Winsted said, “good ol’ Emo. I wanted to talk to him about the situation. I was gonna call.”

Buford tipped his Stetson back, then made a gesture, spreading his hands, like
Hey, what’s there to talk about?
“It’s pretty simple, really. You owe him some money. We’re here to collect it.”

“Hell yeah,” Joe said.

Winsted frowned. Buford didn’t like that. Then Winsted said, “See, about that last bet. I’m not so sure I really owe anything for that one.”

Buford raised his eyebrows.
Explain, please.

“I was drunk when I placed that bet! That’s what I told Emo, but damn, he wouldn’t listen. He knows I drink too much sometimes. We talked about it.” Winsted was raising his voice now. Not a good thing to do. Buford figured, the way the surgeon was slurring, he was pretty smashed right now, too. And to think this boozer actually operated on people. Kind of shook your faith in the American health care system, such as it was.

“
Your drinking habits are not our problem,” Buford said.

“Hell no, they ain’t,” Joe added. “Want me to pop him one?”

Buford shook his head.

“Maybe we can work something out,” Winsted said, keeping an eye now on Joe. But he was starting to get a tone, like this was all a big inconvenience. “Damn, I need a drink,” he said, and proceeded into the kitchen. Never even offered his guests anything, which was downright rude. Buford and Little Joe followed right behind him.

In the kitchen—a room as large as Buford’s apartment—Winsted poured himself a glass of scotch. His eyes were still watery from the first gulp when he said, “Here’s the deal. You run on back and tell Emo I’m willing to pay half. I think that’s fair.”

“Run on back?” Buford said, not liking Winsted’s choice of words. Man had no negotiating skills at all.

“Yeah.”

Joe looked at Buford, a pleading look in his eye. “I could break his finger.”

Buford shook his head. “You’ll pay half? That’s your proposal?”

The surgeon nodded, his eyes still on Joe, but talking to Buford. “Better than nothing, right? Emo should be damn happy with it.”

Buford was thinking,
Don’t these shit-heels know they shouldn’t bet if they can’t afford to lose?
Now it was clearly time to put a scare into the guy, make it plain that his offer was completely unacceptable.

Buford liked kitchens because there were all kinds of handy devices in there. Interesting implements you could use to put pressure on a guy. Knives and forks, of course. Blender. Stove. Hell, even a cheese grater could do the trick if you used it right.

Buford chose the disposal.

In one swift move, he grabbed Winsted’s left arm and twisted it behind the man’s back. Then he took Winsted’s right hand and plunged it deep into the drain hole in the sink. Winsted had slender fingers and a narrow wrist. It was an easy fit. Little Joe was whooping and hollering. Winsted’s glass of scotch was on the floor now, ice skittering across the expensive tile.

“Christ! What the fuck’re you doing!” Winsted cried, groaning, straining to get away. But it was no use.

Buford nodded to a wall switch on the right side of the sink, and Joe eagerly covered it with his hand. “I’m gonna tell you how this is gonna go,” Buford said, “and I want to be absolutely clear on it just so there’s no confusion. So here’s the deal. I’m gonna ask you again, and you’re immediately gonna answer me. No lies, no bullshit, and no reason for me to turn your hand into hamburger. ‘Cause believe me, I’m prepared to do that. In fact, it really don’t make much difference to me either way. The only thing on the plus side is, I get paid more if you give me what I want. You follow me?”

Winsted grunted in pain.

“Good, then,” Buford said. “We have an understanding. But I should tell you—I’m not gonna ask twice. You get one chance, and one chance only. We clear?”

“Yeah, we’re clear.”

“That’s what I wanted to hear, Winsted. You’re doing real good so far. Okay, now, the big question. Where is our money?”

“I…I don’t have it!”

Buford knew bullshit when he heard it. Guy like this had to have access to cash somehow. Maybe not right here in the house, but somewhere. Bank account, safe-deposit box, something like that. “Don’t lie to me, Winsted.”

Winsted was stupid enough to say, “Fuck you.”

The man had balls, that’s for sure. “Pardon me?”

“You dress like a Nashville retard.”

Little Joe snorted and said, “Oh, mister, you done it now.”

Buford didn’t even have to think about it. He nodded to Joe again, and his partner immediately flipped the switch.

The light above the sink came on.

“Assholes,” Winsted giggled through the pain. “Disposal’s broken, anyway. Coupla fucking goons.”

“That’s quite an impressive vocabulary,” Buford replied.

“Daniel friggin’ Webster,” Little Joe added.

Buford didn’t have the heart to point out that Joe meant Noah, not Daniel.

He noticed another switch on the left backsplash, farther from the sink than the first one. He’d seen that before—some builder putting the switch more than an arm’s length away to prevent your average pinhead from accidentally maiming himself. “Try that one,” he said to Joe, nodding, ready to watch Winsted suffer, not caring about the money so much now.

Winsted’s body immediately tensed up.

“No, don’t!” the surgeon said. “I’ll pay. Just turn me loose.”

“All of it?”

Little Joe had his hand on the switch, all bright-eyed and ready to go.

“Yeah, I promise, all of it.”

“Where?”

“In a shoebox. Upstairs.”

“Okay, now we’re getting somewhere.”

“Let me go.”

“One last thing. Do you like my suit or not?”

“Jesus, what?”

“I mean, first you said you liked it, and then you call me a retard. Which is it?” Buford gave Winsted’s left arm an extra twist, the bone no doubt just millimeters from breaking.

Winsted wailed in agony. “Goddamn, I like it! I like it!”

“You think it’s snazzy?”

“Yeah, snazzy as hell.”

Buford eased Winsted’s hand out of the drain hole and patted him on the back. “That wasn’t so hard, was it? A wise man makes wise choices, Winsted, and I think you just made a good one. Trust me.”

As Winsted led the way to the staircase, Buford’s cell phone chirped. A familiar number on the caller ID.

“Uncle Chuck,” Buford said. “How’s it going?”

Driving home in the dark, eleven o’clock, John Marlin tried to remember Vance Scofield’s face. He had only met Scofield one time, in passing, at the hardware store, and that was before Phil Colby had filed a lawsuit against him.

Phil Colby was Marlin’s closest friend, and had been since grade school; both of them were Blanco County natives. Colby owned four thousand acres in the center of the county, a small spread compared to the original thirty thousand acres of prime ranchland purchased by Samuel Colby six generations ago.

Pieces of the ranch had been snipped off and sold over the years, a huge chunk auctioned during the Depression, and Phil Colby had actually lost the remainder for several years due to a problem with property taxes in the late nineties. He’d been struggling financially, beef prices in the basement, but now he was back on his feet. What he’d done was, he’d finally opened the gates to deer hunters willing to pay a fair price. That income boosted Colby’s bottom line considerably and kept the ranch solvent. He wasn’t wealthy—far from it—but he was able to live without the fear of losing the land on which he was so deeply rooted.

Then came the question of high fencing.

Colby knew he could charge the hunters higher fees to hunt behind a deer-proof fence—but Colby didn’t believe in high fences, feeling that they gave the hunter an unfair advantage on all but the most immense ranches. He went so far as to remove the high fence that had been erected when his ranch was temporarily out of his hands. It wasn’t just a personal decision; it was Colby’s opinion that ranchers with high fences were violating the law, restricting the movement of animals owned—according to the Parks and Wildlife Code—by “the people of the state of Texas.”