Dead Peasants (2 page)

3

The pool hall wasn’t much, but it was the only one Breckenridge had. Breckenridge was seventy miles west of Fort Worth. A quiet West Texas town of a few thousand people, about its only claim to fame was that it turned out some of the best high school football teams in the state. If
Friday Night Lights
hadn’t been written about Odessa, it could have been about Breckenridge. Most of the jobs in the area were in the oil fields or on the ranches. Men still gathered at the Dairy Queen every morning to talk about the price of beef, crops, weather and, of course, the football team’s prospects.

The pool hall didn’t really have a name. Instead it had a red neon sign in the window that alternately flashed “beer” and “pool.” It occupied a building close to the railroad tracks a few blocks from the town center. The Baptists would have preferred for it to be out on the edge of the town, or maybe down the road in Caddo or Albany. The big nights at the pool hall were weekends, excepting Sunday when it was closed in deference to the Baptists, and Monday during football season.

The man named Jim always sat at the bar where he could watch the football game as he drank Lone Star from a bottle and smoked Marlboros. If Marlboro had needed another model, he could have been their man. He wore Levis, a blue work shirt with “Jim” on the right chest and a Cowboys cap. He had worked as an auto mechanic for years until the recession hit, and he was laid off. Fortunately, the oil and gas business still had life; so he transferred his skills to repairing oil rigs and pump jacks. Jim was quiet and never had any company. He would reply if spoken to. Otherwise he was content to watch the game, sipping his Lone Star and grunting occasionally if something dramatic occurred.

One Monday night a stranger appeared at the door of the bar. He had brown hair down to his shoulders and a neatly trimmed beard. He wore a black leather jacket over a green golf shirt. Once his eyes had become accustomed to the dim light, he took a seat at the bar next to Jim and ordered a Coors Lite. He tried to strike up a conversation with Jim who answered in monosyllables and continued to watch the game. By the end of the third quarter other customers began to drift out when Tom Brady had put his Patriots up by three touchdowns. Jim and the stranger stayed until the final whistle. That told the stranger what he wanted to know. He paid his bill and left just as Jim was putting on his coat. The stranger noted Jim’s green Chevy pickup, the only vehicle remaining, was parked along the curb directly in front of the pool hall.

Two weeks later the clock ran down on another Cowboy loss. Jim pitched a twenty on the bar and said, “That’s downright embarrassing. Keep the change, Sam.”

Sam nodded his thanks as Jim put on a windbreaker and walked to the door. Sam followed him, locked the door, and unplugged the sign since the last of his other customers had given up on the Cowboys thirty minutes earlier. When Jim stepped out, he was confronted with driving rain from a storm that had blown in during the game. He pulled the jacket over his head and made a dash for his pickup. He had his keys in his hand as he rounded the rear of the truck and clicked to open the door. With the wind and the rain, he never heard a thing. And with the windbreaker pulled over his head, he never saw what hit him.

A white pickup had been waiting at the corner next to the pool hall, lights out while the driver listened to the last of the Cowboy game. When it was over, he started the engine and waited. He saw Jim’s lean body leave the pool hall and run to his pickup. The driver turned the corner and floored it, accelerating alongside Jim’s pickup, hitting him as he reached for the door handle. The impact knocked Jim fifty feet.

The driver started to leave Breckenridge, then had second thoughts. He had never killed someone this way before. So, he circled the block, and when he got to the corner next to the pool hall, he doused his lights again and looked both ways. The rain was now coming almost sideways from the west as a cold front blew through. Seeing no lights in either direction, he pulled in front of Jim’s pickup, retrieved a small Maglite from the glove compartment and climbed out. Pushing through the wind and the rain, he got to his victim and flashed the light briefly. Blood oozed from Jim’s ears, nose and mouth. His chest was crushed and both legs looked like broken pick-up sticks. The driver bent over and pressed his fingers against the victim’s neck. There was no pulse.

He walked rapidly back to his truck, checked again to confirm there were no vehicles coming from either direction and headed out of town. As he did, he retrieved his cell phone. “Boss, it’s done.”

4

Jack drove west on Camp Bowie Boulevard, listening to the clatter his tires made on the red brick paving laid by the Works Progress Administration in the Great Depression. Memories from thirty and forty years ago flooded back as he turned right on Hillcrest. After a block he saw Rivercrest Country Club and turned left on Crestline. He passed the clubhouse and drove slowly down Alta Lane until he spotted the house he wanted. Situated on almost two acres with giant pecan trees shading the front, it had six bedrooms, including a large master suite overlooking a heated pool and hot tub. The driveway circled the house to a six car garage. Sitting on a bluff above the Trinity River, the back yard sloped down the hill toward the river and the afternoon sun. In the distance was the old bomber plant, called various names over the years, including Convair and General Dynamics, but now closed. Jack’s dad had worked there for thirty years.

Jack stopped at the curb and listened for a moment to Willie Nelson warning mamas not to let their babies grow up to be cowboys. Then he climbed from his old red pickup and reached behind the front seat for his cane. His knee felt pretty good today, and he might not even need it. Still, he never knew when he was going to make a wrong step and have it collapse under him. He leaned against the front fender of Lucille, the name he gave his truck when it was new, and surveyed the house. It had a front porch extending the length of the house with a veranda of equal length above it. Both had elaborate wrought iron railing. He liked it. The realtor had told him it was unoccupied; so, he walked to the house, climbed the four steps to the porch and peered in the windows. The room on the right of the front door was the living room with a room of almost similar size to the left, this one lined with bookshelves. Behind the study was an entry into what appeared to be the dining room. He was standing at the top of the steps, leaning on his cane and surveying the golf course across the street when a green Lexus pulled up behind his pickup. Wow, he thought, as the realtor exited her car, Fort Worth could get more interesting in a hurry. The realtor’s biography on her website put her around forty, but she looked thirty. He guessed she was about five feet, four inches tall. Her short, auburn hair glistened in the afternoon sun. She wore blue pants and a long-sleeved white shirt open at the collar just enough to show a hint of cleavage. As she approached, Jack saw her eyes were emerald green, his new favorite color.

Colby Stripling glanced at the red Dodge Ram pickup as she parked. When she walked toward the house, she saw a middle-aged man wearing a white T-shirt, jeans, cowboy boots and a Texans cap.
Why am I wasting time on this guy? Maybe I can take him out west of town and sell him a tract house, something he can afford
, she thought. Still she put on her best realtor’s smile and reached out her right hand. “Good afternoon. I’m Colby Stripling.”

“Pleased to meet you, Colby,” Jack replied. “Name’s Jackson Bryant. Call me Jack. I’ve already taken the virtual tour of this place, and I like it. The owner willing to come off that five million he’s been asking for the past eight months?”

Colby decided to cut this showing short. “Look, Mr. Bryant, It’s tough to get a mortgage of any kind in this economy. Do you really think you can get one for a house this size?”

Jack grinned. “No, ma’am. I was just figuring to pay cash. Now can we have a look around?”

Still not sure if this guy was for real, Colby nodded and unlocked the front door. She stepped aside so Jack could get the full effect of the two story entry with its crystal chandelier and curving staircase to the second floor. Jack stepped in and nodded his approval as Colby turned to show him the living room. Next they entered the study and made their way back through a dining room large enough for a table for twelve. While Jack appreciated the kitchen, he was taken with the master suite across the center hall with French doors opening onto the back patio and a bathroom with a large flat screen TV and its own hot tub for two. They stepped through the French doors to the back yard where Jack admired the immaculate landscaping surrounding the pool and another hot tub.

“I’ll need that six car garage, and the concrete pad beside it looks just about right for my RV. I’ve seen enough. Offer four and a half, to close in two weeks.”

“Wait, wait, Jack,” Colby interrupted, deciding she wanted to be on a first name basis. “Don’t you want to see the upstairs?”

“No need to.” Jack shook his head. “I saw the upstairs on the virtual tour. Assuming the house passes inspection, I want it.” Jack glanced at her left hand and noticed there was no wedding band. “Now, how about joining me for a cup of coffee at the Starbucks over on Camp Bowie.”

Colby smiled and looked into his blue eyes. “I’d be delighted. Let me call and reschedule my next appointment.”

5

Jack led the way in Lucille and stood ready to open Colby’s door when she parked beside him in front of Starbucks. “What’ll you have?”

Colby shook her head. “No, this is my treat. After all, I’m trying to get your business.”

“Don’t worry,” Jack said. “You’ve already got it, but I’ll have a black coffee. I don’t speak Starbucks and just always ask for something simple.”

Jack stood beside Colby while she ordered his coffee and a grande skinny latte for herself. When they were seated by the window, Colby said, “I’ve sold a few big houses for cash, but not any lately. Mind if I ask what you do for a living?”

“Not at all,” Jack replied as he took the lid off his coffee and gently blew across the top to cool it a degree or two. Then he smiled and continued, “I’m now officially retired. Before that I robbed banks. Just kidding. Until last week I was a plaintiff lawyer in Beaumont. Got my last big verdict and called it quits.

Colby thought about what Jack said before she asked, “I think I understand what a plaintiff lawyer does. For good measure, can you explain?”

“Sure,” Jack said as he tried to take a sip of his hot coffee. “I usually represent the little guy or his family if he’s killed, someone who has been severely injured or killed because of the negligence of a big company. He couldn’t afford to take on a Fortune 500 company if he paid by the hour; so, I take those cases on a contingent fee. If we win, we both have a big payday. If we lose, I eat all my time and expenses. Fortunately, I carefully select my cases,” he said. “And I usually get a big settlement or a bigger verdict if I have to try the case.”

Colby absorbed all Jack said, already beginning to like the man across the table from her. “I think I follow what you’re saying. Why are you here in Fort Worth?”

“I grew up in Fort Worth and wanted to move back. I still have a few classmates here and my son, J.D., is going to play football for TCU.”

Understanding flashed through Colby’s eyes. “Oh, yeah. He’s a walk-on. The
Star Telegram
ran a feature on him. Came out of the Marines. Two tours in Iraq. Never played football in his life. Just showed up at Coach Patton’s door.”

“That’s my son. Pleased to know you follow TCU football. Maybe I can talk you into joining me for a game or two this fall.”

Colby paused before she replied, fishing for more information. “You must have a big family. That’s a giant house.”

‘Nope. Just me. J.D.’s mother and I divorced fifteen years ago.”

Colby took a sip of her coffee. “Still, why such a big house? I’m not trying to knock myself out of a commission, but there are plenty of smaller houses with similar features.”

“I’m buying it because I can afford it and I want people to know I succeeded. Look, I grew up on Byers, east of Clover Lane. I’m sure you don’t show those houses. Commission wouldn’t be worth your time. We had a two bedroom, frame house. Camp Bowie Boulevard was the dividing line. I went to South High Mount Elementary, Stripling Junior High, and Arlington Heights. The kids at Heights who lived on the north side of Camp Bowie treated the rest of us like we lived on the wrong side of the tracks. It pissed me off then and even now. Speaking of Stripling, you related to those Striplings?”

“Yes,” Colby replied. “My great grandfather started Stripling’s Department Store downtown near the court house. He’s the one W.C. Stripling Junior High is named after. My grandfather took over the family business. Unfortunately, times passed him by. Walmarts and Targets started springing up. He stuck to the old ways his father taught him and drove the business into the ground. He finally sold the store for about the value of the land. A developer tore it down and built an office building. I grew up in Monticello, not far from Rivercrest. I moved back into my family home after my parents died a few years ago.”

“I know where that is. Couple of my classmates lived there. I figured they must have been rich, living in a brick house with more than one bathroom.” Jack decided to be the inquisitor and asked, “Are you’re married?”

Colby had removed the lid from her coffee and looked down while she stirred it. Finally, she looked up. “I, uh, I’m seeing someone.” Obviously uncomfortable, Colby turned to look out the window and then changed the subject. “So you made a lot of money as a plaintiff lawyer. Why retire to Fort Worth? Why not the mountains or maybe an island in the Caribbean?”

Jack was puzzled by her change in demeanor but let it pass and answered. “Let me give you a little more background. Most of my classmates when off to college, Texas, A&M, Texas Tech, North Texas, some to the Ivy League. Quite a few stayed in town and went to TCU. My parents couldn’t afford to send me anywhere to college. So, I lived at home and commuted with three other guys to Arlington State. Joined Army ROTC to pay for my tuition and books. After I graduated I spent three years in the 101
^st
Airborne, mainly jumping out of helicopters. Then I talked my way into South Texas College of Law in Houston.” Jack paused as his eyes got a far away look and he re-lived his growing-up years in Fort Worth. “When I graduated, I moved to Beaumont, not because it was a paradise. In fact, it’s a polluted, mosquito infested swamp with a bunch of stinking refineries and a small port.” Jack smiled. “On the other hand, the United States Chamber of Commerce votes it a judicial hell hole every damn year.”

“I don’t understand,” Colby interrupted.

“Juries in Jefferson County and a few similar counties down along the Mexican border never met a big company they liked. They’re notorious for awarding giant verdicts to injured workers. I went there to get rich, and it worked.” Jack thought about what he just said and added, “Well, I did get rich, but over twenty-five years, I helped out a lot of folks who couldn’t afford justice if it hadn’t have been for me and lawyers like me. As to Fort Worth, I always loved this town even though I don’t have fond memories of a lot of my classmates, and now J. D.’s here. As to Rivercrest, a few of my classmates lived in those big houses. I just want to show them that you don’t have to be a member of the lucky sperm club to buy one.”

“Do you mind if I ask about your cane?”

“Not at all. I thought my military service was behind me. Then President Bush, the first one, decided he needed me in Desert Storm. I wasn’t there three months before I took some shrapnel in my left knee. Gave me an early out and I returned to Beaumont. The knee works pretty well most of the time. Then for no good reason it goes out on me. That’s when I need the cane. Otherwise, I’ll fall on my ass.”

Colby figured she had enough information. She looked at her watch. “I gotta get out of here. I’m already late for my next appointment.”

Jack nodded his understanding. “And I’ve got to meet J.D. for dinner. I’m staying at that Residence Inn on Seventh across from the old Monkey Wards. At least that’s what we called it when I was growing up. Now I see it’s been turned into lofts. Anyway, I’ll be there until I hear back on the offer. You’ve got my cell.”

As they walked out into the sunlight, Colby eyed his pickup and asked, “I gather you’ve got other vehicles. Why do you drive that old Dodge?”

They stopped at her Lexus while Jack answered. “Good question. There’s a lawyer in Palestine, Texas. Old friend of mine. Name’s Johnny Bob Tisdale. I referred him a case a few years back and we both made a nice fee. Along with my cut, he gave me this pickup. I’ve got a bunch of other vehicles, but I’ll drive this until the wheels fall off. Come around here to the back. I want to show you something.”

Jack led her around to the rear of his pickup and pointed to the license plate. The frame announced,
My Lawyer Is J. Robert Tisdale
. “Next to me, he’s probably the best plaintiff lawyer in the state. Hell, he may even be a little better.”

Jack extended his hand and Colby shook it. Jack waited for her to back out and drive away. As he watched the Lexus disappear to the west, Jack decided he was definitely taking a renewed liking to Fort Worth.