The first thing I did when I got out of the hospital was to buy Sughrue a new pickup. A loaded Dodge Ram 4x4 with a club cab. I hadn’t been gut shot as badly as Sughrue, but I had been gut shot and couldn’t help them load the truck; I supervised as he gathered his goods and family to head back to Montana, their Texas experiment over. Katie rode along to take care of Lester and, as she said, “Check out the broads in Montana.” Whatever Sughrue planned, I could tell that he was finished with this part of life.
Suzanne has disappeared again. Even before her father’s funeral. They buried the old bastard with full military honors at the Fort Bliss cemetery. Hell, Ollie North walked on Iran-Contra, so why shouldn’t a dead man? Maybe we shouldn’t teach our soldiers how to smuggle.
Of course, Suzanne has the formula for the Kaufmanns’ super drug and her witchy ability to become anyone she pleases, so I fear the world hasn’t heard the end of her. She also has the real copy of the Puntarenas tape, which I suspect implicates her father as much as Emilio Kaufmann.
As far as Dickerson can tell, neither Kaufmann nor the General will be much missed in the drug trade, and nobody seems even vaguely interested in revenge. Maybe they’re just happy for the opportunity. Such is life along the border. Another kingpin smuggler slips into place as easily as a snake sheds its skin.
Dickerson has postponed retirement to fight what he thinks is the good fight at the border. I tried to talk him out of it over several dinners, but he’s a good cop and refused all my arguments. The lost war goes on. Greed beats good sense every time.
As soon as I was out of the recovery room after they dug the little .32 slug out of my viscera, Sam Dunston was standing at my bedside. Because I’d made Sughrue call him. For a piece of the movie, I provided enough money to finish the shooting and postproduction. Sam was as happy as I’d ever seen a man. Unfortunately, the old bastard died three weeks later of heart failure in the middle of a shouting match with the assistant director. Roy Jordan brought me one of the old man’s favorite bolo ties, the braids of dark sweaty leather held together with an obsidian spear point. He thanked me for making the old man’s last days happy.
Of course, the preppie kid took over the movie, cut a politically correct piece of shit out of it, and somehow I lost the money I put up. But it wasn’t exactly my money anyway. I understand that’s how Hollywood works.
And once they removed the clips from my belly, I settled my affairs in El Paso. I shared a bottle of tequila with the Soames brothers over Rocky’s grave.
Then in Austin I had many drinks with Carver D as I told him the promised story. He thanked me, then told me he had no place to publish it anymore, even if he could. “I’m sorry,” he said. “Someday the bastards will own it all.” I didn’t have to ask who the bastards were. The fat man seemed hugely sad as I left, and I promised to come back.
Outside the beer garden Hangas climbed out of the Continental to let me know that all was not lost just yet. His boss had put most of the money from the sale of the Dark Coast into a foundation for alternative newspapers and investigative reporting.
Then it was time to heave my sorry ass into the Beast and drive to Blanco. Take the long chance.
Maybe Sheba heard the Beast rumbling over the last cattle guard. Or maybe Betty heard it. They never told me. But they met me at the last locked gate, Sheba prancing in the bright morning sunshine of the open winter, the tennis ball in her teeth, and Betty Porterfield with a small but true smile on her face.
“Hey, bud,” she said, “you look rode hard and put up wet.”
“Right,” I said. “Remember I told you I’d been shot at but never hit?”
“Yep.”
“Can’t say that now,” I said.
“If I’d known you were coming, bud,” she said, “I’d have fixed breakfast.”
“It’s not too late,” I said.
“I guess it’s never too late,” she said, then opened the gate.