Page 27 of Lone Star

Darla stood, suddenly, and took Michelle’s plate. “Here, hon, let me make you some toast for your tummy.”

“I had toast for breakfast,” she said, a little numb. To Jenny, she repeated, “What?”

“Nothing,” Jenny said, with a look that tried very forcefully to assure her that everything was alright.

Again, Michelle felt that tug of impulse, that urge to call Fox.

Again, she pushed it down.

Fourteen

Candy might have been president these days – but that was Amarillo president. Ghost still had final say-so over certain business practices, more unrelenting than ever, now that the club had a wealthy, connected dealer at the helm of their drug dispensary business. About a year ago, each chapter of the club had cleaned house. Any dealer who used his own product, who talked too much, who treated it anything less than the business that it was, had been purged. The result was a fleet of dealers who blended well with local crowds; regular guys on the outside, polite, responsible, clean and inconspicuous. Sales numbers were up, and customers were satisfied.

But the purge had left some really nefarious characters really pissed with the Dogs. No wars had broken out – most of the jilted dealers were too high or drunk to do anything but curse them to perdition. But Candy had been waiting, breath held, for a blow-up from someone.

He really hoped this nasty business with the killings wasn’t just such a thing.

They rolled their bikes up to the chain-link gates of Patty Sutherland’s “auto-shop,” a more generous title than the place deserved. Set well back off the road, beneath the shade of scrubby, drought-stunted mesquite trees, the “shop” was more of a shack, pieced together from a dozen different varieties of siding, with large swaths of tarpaper showing through. House on one side, complete with falling-off shutters and sagging porch, and a long, three-stall carport on the other. He had a lift that didn’t work, and at least a dozen rusting, disorganized tool chests, wrenches and bolts and myriad parts spilling out onto the dirt floor. The yard was crammed with the stripped corpses of every kind of car; one old Mustang had been in a fire, a ruined black husk, and Candy had never understood what could possibly be salvaged from it.

Patty had dealt pot and a little coke for them up until seven months ago.

The gates were secured with a length of heavy chain, glittering silver in the sun, the cleanest thing on the property, a fat new Master lock holding it in place.

Candy killed the engine and swung off his bike. Took off his helmet and went to present his face to the camera that peered down at them with vulture-like judgement. “Pat,” he said into the lens, raking a hand through his mashed-down hair. “It’s us. We just wanna talk.”

The yard was totally still, save a few flies droning in a sun patch. A crow croaked from one of the mesquite trees; a soft rustling of feathers against leaves.

Behind him, Jinx observed, “His car’s here.”

It was: the old white-walled Buick sat nosed up to the porch, just enough room around it for a three-point turn to get pointed back toward the gates.

“Doesn’t want to see you, though.”

Candy glanced back over his shoulder. Jinx sat forward, feet braced flat on the ground, forearms leaned on his handlebars. His eyes were shielded by his sunglasses, but the rest of his face was smoothly impassive. Candy knew that look well: his best friend’s detached sort of judgement.

“Yeah,” Candy said, dryly, turning back to the camera. “I figured that one out. Patty,” he said, louder, into the lens. “You can hate me all you want, but.” He fished into his back pocket and came out with a money clip that he waved slowly back and forth in front of the camera. “I’ve got some questions, and some cash if you feel like answering them.”

Jinx snorted.

A moment later, the screen door on the front of the house eked open, and Patty came slouching out.

Patty’s problem, when he’d dealt for the club, was that he didn’t keep track of the numbers. He was a pothead, plain and simple, high seventy-five percent of the time. It turned him mellow, and careless, and accommodating, and he forgot to keep up with his ledgers; forgot to measure out what he sold to customers; forget to collect money at all, sometimes. Candy had always felt sorry for him – he had a whole tragic backstory that would have softened the hardest of hearts. But he was like a slow leak in a pipe: the drips and drabs individually didn’t seem to make much difference, but over a period of years, you had a big stain on your hands, and a mess to clean up.

He didn’t look high now, though, as he approached the gate. His knobby frame was half-bent at the waist, his head on a swivel, gaze sweeping back and forth, like he was looking to see if anyone lurked in the scrub growth on either side of the driveway. When he finally reached the fence, and met Candy’s gaze, his own was sharp, and mistrustful, his mouth a compressed line of displeasure.

“Hey, Patty,” Candy said, easily.

Patty said, “What do you want?” in a voice totally unlike himself.

Candy only just masked his surprise. “You doin’ alright?”

“What do you want?” Patty repeated, brows lowering, and executed another furtive scan of the immediate area.

All the alarm bells were clanging in the back of Candy’s mind. He peeled a handful of twenties off the money clip and held them up to the chain link. “If you’re nervous about something, we can go talk inside?”

Patty’s gaze narrowed in on the cash for a few long beats, then his hand darted out, pale and flighty as a startled bird, and snatched it up. He stuffed it in one grubby jeans pocket and said, “Whatever you gotta say, say it out here.”

Jinx’s boot soles scuffed softly on the dirt of the driveway as he swung off the bike and took a few steps toward them. “Who’s out there?” he asked, voice tight, and a glance proved that he was surveying their surroundings, searching for boogeymen. “Who’s watching you, Pat?”

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