LITMIR.BIZ

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Teach Robert a lesson for leaving the keys in the ignition. His precious damn truck—and he always left the keys in it. Truly a wonder it hadn’t been stolen a long time ago.

      But the call wasn’t the news she was hoping for. They’d found the truck all right, cop on the phone saying it was unharmed. “Unharmed” like it was a person. Men and their goddamn classic cars. Now she’d have to find a way down to Corpus and drive the damn thing back here, the old truck riding like a buckboard. But Rachel knew how to make the best of things and soon was planning a day at the beach and a relaxing dinner alone where she didn’t have to watch her husband talk with a mouth full of food. And, who knows, maybe Corpus Christi nightlife had some surprises for her.

      Looking straight ahead out the sliding glass balcony doors in his hotel room, Sam Arndt could see the blue water of Corpus Christi Bay glistening in the sunshine. Turning his head to the left, the tops of buildings and the John F. Kennedy Causeway came into view. Gazing at the long metal span, Sam couldn’t help thinking that having a bridge named after you was insufficient compensation for getting your head blown to bits in a shitty redneck state like Texas.

      The Lone Star State.

      What did that mean, anyway? Only one star in the night sky? Obviously bullshit. Only one native Texan ever making it to the top level of the entertainment industry? Not accurate. More likely it was self-indulgent cowboys romanticizing their rugged-individualism bullshit.

      Lone Star State, indeed.

      Sam stepped out on the balcony and felt the breeze move his thinning gray hair. He looked at his cell and hit Jimmy Ireno’s number again. Having popped a pill immediately upon arrival in the room, Sam was impatient for the biting sand flies to retreat. At least far enough to allow him a modicum of comfort, comfort not being something he felt very often lately. With only three pills left, he was hoping beyond hope that this awkward situation could be resolved within the next twenty-four hours. He didn’t know what kind of withdrawal symptoms came on when you went off Xanax and didn’t want to find out, having seen an old woman in his building back home being carted off to the emergency room belted to a gurney, the poor wretch writhing and screaming in the throes of Valium withdrawal. The symptoms of which—the poor woman’s next-door neighbor told Sam as they watched the ambulance jockeys wheeling the old woman away—didn’t start until a few days after you ceased taking the little devils.

      Now there was something nice to look forward to.

      Sam tried to push down the growing belief that no amenable solution to this cash problem existed. Goddamnit, what the hell could anybody do? The money was gone. If you hunted down Jimmy and braced him hard to find out if he took it—which Sam doubted very much—and you discovered that the degenerate bastard really didn’t know what happened to the cake—then what? Well, Jimmy would get dead and Sam would probably follow him into the ground or the water or the mouths of flesh-eating beasts—whatever they did with dead bodies down here in Texas. Bob Ryan wouldn’t get his cash but everyone concerned would get the message that the big mick cocksucker was someone not to fuck with. One thing you could say about organized-crime people, they were consistent in their response to employee incompetence. Not necessarily creative, but consistent.

      And then Sam’s phone buzzed and it actually was the no-good-bastard Ireno: “Jimmy, is that you?”

      “Yeah it’s me, Sam. Who’d you expect, George fuckin’ Bush?”

      “Aha, very funny. Always the jokester, Jimmy. Even in the face of this catastrophe, you make with the jokes. Always pulling on old Sammy’s foot.”

      “Leg, Sam.”

      “Uh-huh—ah—what’s that again?”

      “Nothing Sam. Forget it. You down here in Texas?”

      “Yes, Jimmy, my friend, I am. And we need to talk. Very soon.” Talking down to Jimmy gave Sam some strength, the perception of Ireno’s weakness reviving him.

      “Isn’t that what we’re doing, Sam?”

      “We need to get up close and personal, as they say.”

      “Sorry if I’m not feeling the need, Sam. I kind of like my body in one cohesive unit, not a piece here and a piece there.”

      “What are you saying, Jimmy? That your old friend Sam would have you chopped up, like a dead chicken?”

      “Not you, Sam. I know you’re a teddy bear. But that Irish asshole you’re working for lacks your sensitive nature.”

      Teddy bear? Sensitive nature? Wasn’t that the same as calling you faggot? Weak? This shit made his blood boil, losers thinking he was soft. Someday all would learn that the snake inside the basket had fangs. Sharp ones. “We intend you no harm, Jimmy. We just need to be sure you didn’t abscond with the money and concoct this—you must admit—somewhat preposterous story.”

      “Would I still be here if I had that cash, Sam? You need to ask yourself that. I told you before that it was the fault of whoever fastened the plates to the van, which, by the way, was in the local paper this morning. I saved the article for my scrapbook.”

      “What is this? The mounter of the license plates was in the newspaper?”

      “Incorrect, Sam. Jesus, man, listen to what I’m saying. There was an article about the van being found. But there was no mention of any money in it. Strange, don’t you think?” And after a short silence, Jimmy said, “You sound a tad slow this morning, Sam, still into the downs?”

      “Maybe a little bit. But this isn’t your problem, Jimmy. You are the fucking problem here.”

      “Stick your problem up your fat ass, Sam.” Jimmy severed the connection.

      Sam listened to the emptiness on the other end of the line. Feeling the rage heating up his neck, he wanted to smash the goddamn phone but then the little bugger started vibrating in his hand. Looking at it, Sam discovered he had a text message, one of the few he had ever received. Sam didn’t like texts, believing they were never completely erased and remained forever in the ether as possible incriminating evidence.

      Text message was from Frankie Neelan:

      Ryan says Texas database currently lists our vehicle as abandoned on I-37 without license plates. Est worth 3K. No mention of $ found inside. Am in hotel pub waiting for u.

      Sam got a jolt to his solar plexus and felt the tiny sand flea teeth grinding away again; effectively eradicating the anticipation of relief he got from taking the pill. Goddamn kids with their goddamn smart phones. Always texting and emailing. Didn’t anyone use phones to talk anymore? Ah, but what the hell was the difference? NSA caught it all no matter what.

      Knowing he’d need to be talking soon and talking fast, and well enough to survive the day—or at least as long as it took him to figure out how to kill Frankie—Sam went to the bathroom and splashed water on his face, working on his story as he toweled off.

      * * *

      Sam went through the archway into the synthetic luxury of the hotel lounge and saw Frankie at a circular black table by the windows, the goon staring at his phone, legs stretched out in front of him like it was Club Med and he was waiting for a consort. Sam had his strategy together. He knew that a little truth helped lend credibility to a lie. And that talking too much or too little made you seem guilty. Sam was ready to slap the truth on a bare wall and see what transpired.

      Frankie got more intrigued with every text from Bob Ryan, the last one saying Ryan was booking a flight to Texas, ASAP.

      Frankie put down his phone and picked up the tall cocktail glass, saw his charge Sam Arndt stepping into the pub, the man like a cautious teddy bear, Frankie wondering if the old fuck was trying to work a scam. Wouldn’t put it past the smiley A-rab. Bloke as slippery as the slime on a snake’s belly.

      Arndt sat down at the table and Frankie put on an accusing look. “Yer not lookin’ too sharp, Sammy boy,” he said. “Lookin’ like a load of bad news, ya are.”

      “Bad

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