THE WIND DIED AND AS daylight faded the dogs began their anxious barking at real or imagined threats lurking on the mesa. Walker sat in the willow chair on Mother’s porch, feet propped on the railing, smoking, and sipping whiskey on the rocks. Full darkness set in and the dogs shut up, scampering off to greet someone approaching from the workshop. Walker kept quiet as Lee Ann walked quickly to her house.
He’d give Keith some time to enjoy Plank’s Plot, zero in and make the sale and haul ass out of here, cash in hand. Within a week every last one of them would be on his ass, teeth gnashing, CBs on, pistols loaded—Lyle, with deputies Jeremy and Lewis, Ralph Archuleta and a couple of officers from the state police, Owen, Danielle, and Eugene. You bet, Eugene. They’d call Ted Bowles at his law office in Socorro and check the legitimacy of the quitclaim deed, agree it was legal, and grumble about the stupidity (or senility) of the old man falling for the scam of a convicted criminal, a man Ross knew to be a con artist from the day he was born. They’d call Border Patrol, expecting him to head to Mexico, but he’d travel in the opposite direction, to Michigan’s Upper Peninsula, where he and Pat Merker had plans to meet in a town called Paradise.
He lit another smoke and drank from the plastic cup that rolled around the floor of his pickup. Coming home after Mother went to bed and taking off in the morning before Grace arrived prevented getting trapped in matters of consideration—consideration of Mother’s routine, feelings, and needs. Truth was, she was just a shell of her former self and probably didn’t understand or give a damn about all the fuss over her wellbeing.
The full, white moon inched over the mesa and traveled its path over the northeast end of the house, shining in Mother’s window. If she woke up, she’d be helpless, unable to call someone to close the curtain. Hell, in her shoes, he’d as soon give up food and water and be done with life in three short weeks. Poor Mother couldn’t even tell her Christ-loving daughter to quit saving the dying, quit being a martyr, leave a worthless old woman’s life alone, get on with her own.
Black walnuts hit the roof. Bonk. Bonk. Bonk. When Dad plucked that young tree from the forest and planted it out back, Mother had warned the nuts would become a problem—not a problem really, but something that might take getting used to. Dad had laughed, saying that’d be years away. When the nuts began to fall, they’d all grown used to the tree, welcomed its summer shade and by unanimous decision agreed to let it grow, although they half laughed, half grumbled about the concert every fall.
He poured another drink, and another. An owl hooted from the cluster of cottonwoods by the creek. Small rodents scratched under the porch. Past midnight, light hit the trees and Danielle’s jeep slowed to a stop. He sat there until the last minute, and hop-skipped down the steps.
“Lady deserves an escort to her new home,” he said, opening the car door. He sniffed for hints of sex on her, but liquor and cigarettes overpowered anything else. She wobbled against him and straightened.
“I’m fine.”
“Sure you are,” he said, clutching her upper arm. “Now we’re going to tiptoe down the hall and tuck you into Lee Ann’s bed.”
Her tee shirt was inside out, lipstick gone, liner smeared into dark smudges under her eyes. Her feet dragged across the floor, and she held onto the wall as they made their way down the dark hallway.
He flipped on the light, shoved the pile of clothes to one side and turned down the covers. She dropped on the mattress like falling timber. He pulled off her boots and drew the quilt over her.
“I hope you got somewhere with the old boy,” he said.
“Oh, we got somewhere,” she said, as if in a trance.
“I’m talking about the land, the good deal we’re going to offer him.”
“He was interested in only one thing.” She smiled. “You men are all alike.”
“Christ, Danielle. You got to remember our purpose here.”
Her tongue moved in and out like a turtle’s, suggesting obscene, intimate acts and her eyelids closed over eyeballs rolling this way and that, dreaming about sex with a capital S. Her skin was pale, sort of the color of those piglets, and a spot of saliva collected in the corner of her mouth. Sober, she might hang onto their objective, steer every conversation with the vet toward the purchase of Plank’s Plot, but drunk she’d throw a fortune away for Keith’s prick inside her. She used to call Walker’s cock Little Man. His ears turned red. The schemes he concocted and his own internal dialogue were way more interesting than sweaty encounters with women. Flirting served to sharpen his skills. He could do without the heavy breathing and wet stuff.
He checked the amount of cash in the cookie jar and carefully replaced the lid. The ceramic pig had sat beside the Folgers coffee can containing spatulas and wooden spoons as long as he could remember, hell, probably as long as Mother could remember, the glaze on its green bandana worn thin, only faint touches of pink still coloring the inner folds of his ears. Walker touched the pig’s snout. Stay right there, Tubby. Hold onto what’s inside you for a couple more days.