Heartwood bbh-2 Read online

  Heartwood

  ( Billy Bob Holland - 2 )

  James Lee Burke

  Heartwood

  James Lee Burke

  1

  It would be easy to say we resented Earl Deitrich because he was rich. Maybe to a degree we did. He grew up in River Oaks, down in Houston, in an enormous white mansion set up on a hillock surrounded by shade trees. Its size and seclusion separated it even from the Midas levels of wealth that characterized his few neighbors. But our problem with him was not simply his money.

  He was an officer, on leave from the army, when he came to the town of Deaf Smith, up in the Texas hill country, where the working classes wrestled drill bits and waited tables and the new rich chewed on toothpicks at the country club. He used his wealth to hold up a mirror to our inadequacies and take Peggy Jean Murphy from our midst, then brought her back to us as his wife and possession, almost as though she were on display.

  Peggy Jean Murphy, who was heart-breakingly beautiful, who lived in our dreams, who commanded such inclusive respect the roughest kids in the West End dared not make a loose remark about her lest they be punched senseless by their own kind.

  Earl Deitrich made us realize that our moments on the dance floor with her at high school proms and the romantic fantasies we entertained about marriage to her had always been the vanity of blue-collar kids who had never been in the running at all. Maybe even the high school quarterback she'd loved before he'd been drafted and killed on the Mekong had not been in the running, either.

  But that was a long time ago. I tried not to think about Peggy Jean anymore. She and Earl lived abroad and in Montana much of the year and I didn't have occasion to see them, or to regret the decisions that led me into law enforcement on the border and the months of unrecorded and officially denied nocturnal raids into Coahuila, where a playing card emblazoned with the badge of the Texas Rangers was stuffed into the mouths of the dead.

  But try as I might, I would never forget the spring afternoon when Peggy Jean got down from the back of my horse and walked with me into a woods above the river and allowed me to lose my virginity inside her.

  When I rose from her hot body, her pale blue eyes were empty, staring at the clouds above the pine tops. I wanted her to say something, but she didn't.

  "I don't guess I got a lot of experience at this," I said.

  She ran her hand down my arm and held my fingers. There were blades of grass on her shoulders and breasts.

  "You were fine, Billy Bob," she said.

  Then I knew she had not made love to me but to a soldier who had died in Vietnam.

  "You want to go to a movie tonight?" I asked.

  "Maybe tomorrow," she replied.

  "I like you a whole lot. I know when you lose somebody, it takes a long-"

  "We'd better go back now. We'll go to the movie tomorrow. I promise," she said.

  But no one competes well with ghosts. At least no one in our town did, not until Earl Deitrich arrived.

  Earl and Peggy Jean's house was rumored to have cost twelve million dollars to build. It was three stories high, concave in shape, inset in a scooped-out hillside, the yard terraced with tons of flagstone. The front was filled with windows the size of garages, framed by white-painted steel beams. Ninety-foot skinned and lacquered ponderosa logs were anchored at angles from the roof to the ground, so that at a distance the house looked like a giant, gold-streaked tooth couched in the hills.

  It was spring, on a Thursday, when I drove my Avalon out to their house for lunch. I had never felt comfortable around Earl, even though I did my best to like him, but she had left a handwritten note in the mailbox at my law office, saying they were back in town and would love to see me.

  So I drove across the old iron bridge on the river, back into the hills, then through a cattleguard and down a long green valley whose fields were covered with buttercups and bluebonnets and Indian paintbrush. As I approached the house I saw a sun-browned, blond man in khakis and scuffed boots and a cut-off denim shirt setting fence posts around a horse lot that had been nubbed down to dirt.

  His name was Wilbur Pickett and he had failed at almost every endeavor he had ever undertaken. When he tried to borrow money to start up a truck farm, his own mother told everybody in town Wilbur couldn't grow germs on the bottom of his shoe.

  He wildcatted down in Mexico and set fire to a sludge pit next to the rig, then the wind blew the flames through a dry field and burned down the local police chief's ranch house. Wilbur barely got back across the border with his life.

  In the Flint Hills of eastern Kansas, after a blistering 110-degree day, he unloaded an eighteen-wheeler full of hogs in rest pens without noticing the rails were down on the far side. Then watched them fan across the hills into three counties under a sky spiderwebbed with lightning.

  But when it came to horses and bulls, Wilbur could come out of a rodeo chute like his pants were stitched to their hides. He broke mustangs in Wyoming and went seven seconds with Bodacious, the most notorious bull on the professional circuit (Bodacious would pitch the rider forward, then rear his head into the rider's face and crush the bones in it). Wilbur's face had to be rebuilt with metal plates, so that it now looked chiseled, the profile and jawline faintly iridescent, as though there were chemicals in his skin.

  I stopped my car and waited for him to walk over to the window. His gray, shapeless cowboy hat was sweat-stained around the base of the crown. He took it off and wiped his brow and smiled.

  "I got a pipeline deal down in Venezuela. Twenty or thirty grand can get you in on the ground floor," he said.

  "I bet," I said.

  "How about sluice mining in British Columbia? I'm talking about float gold big as elks' teeth, son."

  "How's the weather up there in January?"

  "Beats the hell out of listening to rich people tell you how much money they got," he said.

  "See you, Wilbur."

  "Jobbing out like this? Temporary situation. I'm fixing to make it happen."

  He grinned, full of self-irony, and pulled his work gloves from his back pocket and knocked the dust out of them against his palm.

  Peggy Jean and Earl had other guests that afternoon, too-a United States congressman, a real estate broker from Houston, a member of the state legislature, their wives, and a small, nervous, dark-haired man with a hawk's nose and thick glasses and dandruff on the shoulders of his blue suit.

  Peggy Jean wore a white sundress with purple and green flowers on it. She had always been a statuesque girl and the years had not affected her posture or figure. There was a mole by the side of her mouth, and her hair was the color of mahogany, so thick and lustrous you wanted to reach out and touch it when she walked by.

  She saw me looking at her from across the room. I went into the kitchen with her and helped her make a pitcher of iced tea and a second pitcher of lemonade. She washed a bowl of mint from the garden, then trimmed the sprigs with scissors and handed me two of them to put in the lemonade. The tips of her fingers were wet when she touched my palm.

  "Earl's going to talk business with you," she said.

  "He can talk it all he wants," I said.

  "You don't do civil law?"

  "Not his kind."

  "He can't help where his family's money came from," she said.

  "You're looking great, Peggy Jean," I said.

  She picked up the tray and walked ahead of me onto the side porch, which was furnished and built to look like an eating area in a simple home of sixty years ago. The walls were unpainted slat board, the ceiling posts wood and lathed with bulbous undulations in them; the long plank table was covered with a checkered cloth; an old-time icebox, with oak doors and brass handles, stood in the corner; a bladed fan turned lazily overhead
. I stood by the open window and looked at Wilbur Pickett dropping a shaved and beveled fence post into a hole.

  "Last year I inherited half a city block in downtown Houston," Earl said to me, smiling, a glass of iced tea in his hand. He was a handsome man, at ease in his corduroys and soft burnt-orange shirt, his fine brown hair combed like a little boy's across his forehead. There was nothing directly aggressive about Earl, but his conversation always had to do with himself, or what he owned, or the steelhead fishing trips he took to Idaho or up on the St. Lawrence River. If he had any interest in anyone outside his own frame of reference, he gave no sign of it.

  "But it's my worst nightmare," he went on. "A failed savings and loan had the lease on the site. The government seized the savings and loan, and I can't do anything with the property. The government doesn't pay rent on seized properties and at the same time I have a six-figure tax obligation on the land. Can you believe that?"

  "This has something to do with me?" I asked.

  "It might," he replied.

  "Not interested," I said.

  He winked and squeezed my forearm with two fingers. "Let's eat some lunch," he said.

  Then he followed my gaze out to the horse lot where Wilbur was working.

  "You know Wilbur?" he said.

  "I've bought horses from him."

  "We'll invite him in."

  "You don't need to do that, Earl," I said.

  "I like him." He cut his head philosophically. "Sometimes I wish I could trade places with a guy like that," he said.

  I was soon to relearn an old lesson about the few very rich people I had known. Their cruelty was seldom deliberate, but its effect was more injurious than if it were the result of a calculated act, primarily because the victim was made to understand how insignificant his life really was.

  An elderly black man, whose name was John, went out to the horse lot to get Wilbur, who looked uncertainly at the house a moment, then washed his hands and forearms and face with a garden hose and came in through the kitchen. He pulled up one of the cushioned redwood chairs to the table and nodded politely while he was introduced, his shirtfront plastered against his chest, his neck cuffed with fresh sunburn.

  "Y'all pardon my appearance," he said.

  "Don't worry about that. Eat up," Earl said.

  "It looks mighty good, I'll tell you that," Wilbur said.

  But Earl was not listening now. "I want to show y'all a real piece of history," Earl said to the others, and opened a blue velvet box, inside of which was a huge brass-cased vest watch with a thick, square-link chain. "This was taken off a Mexican prisoner at the battle of San Jacinto in 1836. The story is the Mexican looted it off a dead Texan at the Alamo. I have a feeling this was one day he wished he'd left it at home."

  The men at the table laughed.

  Earl opened the hinged casing on each side of the watch and held it up by the chain. The watch twisted in a circle, like an impaired butterfly, a refracted, oily light wobbling on the yellowed face and Roman numerals.

  "That come from the Alamo?" Wilbur said.

  "You ever see one like it?" Earl said.

  "No, sir. But my ancestor is supposed to have fought at San Jacinto. That's the good part of the story. The bad part is the family says he stole horses and sold them to both sides," Wilbur said.

  But no one laughed, and Wilbur blinked and looked at a spot on the wall.

  "John, would you bring a second glass for everyone so we can have some wine?" Earl said to the elderly black man.

  "Yes, sir, right away," John replied.

  "Y'all have to come up on the Gallatin in Montana," Earl said. "We catch five-pound rainbow right out the front door."

  Wilbur had picked up the watch from the velvet case and was looking at the calligraphy incised on the case. Without missing a beat in his description of Montana trout fishing, Earl reached out and gingerly lifted the watch by its chain out of Wilbur's hand and replaced it in the box and closed the lid.

  Wilbur's face was like a pink lightbulb.

  I finished eating and turned to Peggy Jean.

  "I have to get back to the office. It was surely a fine lunch," I said.

  "Yeah, we'll talk more later about that real estate problem I mentioned," Earl said.

  "I don't think so," I replied.

  "You'll see," Earl said, and winked again. "Anyway, I want y'all to see the alligator I dumped in my pond," he said to the others. Then he turned to Wilbur and said, "You don't need to finish that fence today. Just help John clean up here and we'll call it square."

  Earl and his guests went out the door and strolled through a peach orchard that was white with bloom. Wilbur stood for a long time by the plank table, his face empty, his leather work gloves sticking from his back pocket.

  "You go on and finish what you were doing out there. John and I will take care of things here," Peggy Jean said.

  "No, ma'am, I don't mind doing it. I'm always glad to hep out," Wilbur said, and began stacking dirty plates one on top of another.

  I walked out to my car, into the bright, cool air and the smell of flowers and horses in the fields, and decided I couldn't afford any more lunches with Earl Deitrich.

  But the lunch and its aftermath were not over. At four that afternoon Earl called me at my office on the town square.

  "Have you seen that sonofabitch?" he said.

  "Pardon?" I said.

  "Wilbur Pickett. I put that watch on my office desk. When Peggy Jean's back was turned, he went in after it."

  "Wilbur? That's hard to believe."

  "Believe this. He didn't take just the watch. My safe door was open. He robbed me of three hundred thousand dollars in bearer bonds."

  2

  Temple Carrol was a private investigator who lived down the road from me with her invalid father and did investigations for me during discovery. Her youthful looks and baby fat and the way she sometimes chewed gum and piled her chestnut hair on top of her head while you were talking to her were deceptive. She had been a patrolwoman in Dallas, a sheriffs deputy in Fort Bend County, and a gunbull in Angola Penitentiary over in Louisiana. People who got in her face did so only once.

  I stood at the second-story window of my law office and looked across the square at the sandstone courthouse. High above the oak trees that shaded the lawn were the grilled and barred windows of the jail, where Wilbur Pickett had remained since his arrest last night.

  Temple sat in a swayback deerhide chair by my desk, talking about East Los Angeles or San Antonio gang-bangers. Her face and chest were slatted with shadows from the window blinds.

  "Are you listening?" she said.

  "Sure. The Purple Hearts."

  "Right. They were in East L.A. in the sixties. Now they're in San Antone. Their warlord is this kid Cholo Ramirez, your genuine Latino Cro-Magnon. He skipped his own plea-agreement hearing. All he had to do was be there and he would have walked. I picked him up for the bondsman behind a crack house in Austin and hooked him to the D-ring on my back floor, and he started telling me he was mobbed-up and he could rat out some greaseballs in San Antone.

  "I go, 'Mobbed-up, like with the Dixie Mafia?'

  "He goes, 'They're taking down rich marks in a card game, then messing up their heads so they can't report it. What I'm saying to you, gringita, is there's a lot of guys out there scared shitless and full of guilt with their bank accounts cleaned out. That ought to be worth my charges as well as something for me to visit my family in Guadalajara.'

  "I go, 'All you had to do was show up at your plea. You would have been out of it.'

  "He says, 'I had a bad night. I slept late. I didn't get paid on that last card-game score, anyway. Those guys deserved to get jammed up.'"

  When I didn't respond, Temple picked up a crumpled ball of paper from the wastebasket and bounced it off my back.

  "Are you listening?" she said.

  "Absolutely."

  "This is how it works," she said. "They bring the mark into the card game, at a hu
nting or fishing lodge somewhere up in the hill country. The mark wins two or three nights in a row and starts to feel like he's one of the boys. He even knows where the house bank is. Then three guys with nylon stockings over their faces bust into the game. Of course, one of the guys in a stocking is the thinking man's goon, Cholo Ramirez.

  "One by one they take the players into the basement and torture, and execute them. The mark believes he's the only one left alive. By this time he's hysterical with fear. He tells the three guys where the bank is. They clean it out and tell him one guy in the basement is still alive, actually a guy who was decent to him during the games. They take the mark down the stairs and make him fire a round with a nine-millimeter into the body that's on the floor. So now the mark is an accomplice and can't tell anybody what he saw.

  "A week or two goes by and the mark thinks it's over and nobody will ever know what he did. Except he gets a call from a greaseball who tells him he gave away the mob's money and he either writes a check for all of it or he gets fed ankles-first into a tree shredder.

  "Cholo Ramirez says they got one guy for four hundred grand and bankrupted his business."

  "The guns had blanks in them? They were all in on it?" I said.

  "Gee, you were listening all the time," she said.

  I looked at the tops of the oaks ruffling in the breeze on the courthouse lawn. The clock on the courthouse tower said 8:51.

  "The only reason I told you the story is it'll never see the light of day. The kid Cholo stabbed dropped the charges and Cholo's home free again," Temple said. "You going to take Wilbur Pickett's case?"

  "I think I ought to stay away from this one." In the silence, I could feel her eyes on the back of my neck.

  At nine o'clock I walked downstairs, out of the cool lee of the building into the sunlight, then up the shaded sidewalk past the steel benches and the Spanish-American War artillery piece on the courthouse lawn. The wood floors inside the courthouse gleamed dully in the half-light, the frosted office windows glowing like crusted salt. I walked to the elevator cage in back and rode up to the jail and stepped out into a stone and iron corridor that was filled with wind blowing through the windows at each end.