Saturday, August 18
1130 hours
Lawton, Oklahoma
As soon as he turned around and saw that trooper strolling in through the door, Sonny knew he and Lucas should never have brought Lyle into it. Lyle was family, for one thing, and it split a man’s concentration to have family around when guns were going off. Also, Lyle had a tendency to talk down to people, even to Sonny, who may have been younger but who was a hell of a lot bigger. Lyle would say things like: They had no right to shoot someone just because the man didn’t want to let go of something they were trying to steal.
Sonny would let out a long breath and wait a bit and then he’d say—looking into Lyle, as if by the force of the looking he could get some part of this man back into the world—Lyle, we got the weapons and the guy doesn’t, so while that may not be right, it sure as hell is something the guy has to consider, and if he considers that somebody’s property is more important than his life, then the guy is out of touch with what’s real and it could be argued that he ought to get shot just for being so damn contrary and bloody-minded. Lucas Poole would just sigh and drink his beer.
But Lyle would just stare out into the middle distance, as if he could see things Sonny couldn’t, and say: Well, drawing down on a man didn’t have anything to do with rights, and Sonny’s argument was tautological and anyway robbery was more of a privilege, like drinking single-malt or being born in Charleston.
The whole debate bothered Sonny, because he wasn’t the kind of man who liked to shoot people either. He would if he had to, if somebody was shooting at him, or if a little surgical gunfire could increase the overall level of cooperation in a payroll office or some such. Sonny had hoped the issue wouldn’t come up in this particular operation, but of course it did as soon as that trooper went all slitty-eyed and started digging down into his holster for a sidearm the size of a Sunday pot roast. Cracker farmboy, the poor bastard—Oklahoma being your mainly agricultural state—and of course there he was, old Lyle the Philosopher, having his metaphysics put to the question, standing there in the middle of the First Commercial Bank on Cash Street with farmers and office clerks lying every which way on the floor, and Lyle holding this big black German assault rifle called an HK-91, the kind of piece that looks like you could stitch your name into the belly of a full moon with it, but Lyle was just standing there holding it like it was something you got for opening a savings account, his suntan disappearing into his shirt collar and spent .308 casings lying around his feet like peanut shells.
Fortunately for Lyle’s spiritual growth, Lucas Poole, the back-up man, stepped around from behind the vault door and regretfully blew the trooper out of his snakeskin cowboy boots, and a couple of minutes later they were flying down Six Killer Road in a powder-blue Chevy pickup.
Eufemio Broca was at the wheel, a Tex-Mex half-breed with a poorly developed sense of self-preservation, and Lyle Beauchamp crouched down on the passenger seat thinking about those two weasel-slim lawyers back in Charleston who’d slipped his used-car dealership right out from under him, which was how he had gotten into this situation. In back was Sonny and next to him Lucas Poole, down on their bellies in the flatbed, peeking out now and then over the tailgate at ten miles of two-lane blacktop toward Lawton, Oklahoma, with the road as shiny as a lizard-skin belt under that blue-white Oklahoma sun and the hammered-flat red dust farmlands stretching away all around.
Lucas Poole was a friend of the Beauchamp family going all the way back to their Charleston days, a big, black, slab-sided man with eyes that turned down and some gray in his short cut, forty-two now, old for a professional in his field. Sonny was waiting for Poole to say something about Lyle. After they had figured out they were pretty much alone on Six Killer Road, Poole leaned across toward Sonny to say a couple of things on that topic over the wind rush and the howl of the truck tires on the blacktop.
“A full clip of three-oh-eight, Sonny. Took him a full clip to shoot out the camera back there. Man, I got to ask you, why’s he here? He has money problems, you lend him some. Lyle’s not suited to this kind of work.”
Sonny looked past Poole’s shoulder. Was that a road over there, across the field? Looked like it could be a road, next to a line of sagebrush about a hundred yards off to their right.
Sonny knew Poole was right about Lyle. Back in Lawton, Lyle’s only job was to take out a video camera with his Heckler & Koch. It was a job that Lyle had lobbied for and gotten. He had practiced with the thing out in the back country north of Lawton. It should have been a simple job.
But Lyle had emptied a full magazine in three-round bursts, hitting the camera on the last round. At less than thirty feet. Man. Somewhere there was a videotape that would give the FBI a good laugh, Lyle shooting away, with his piece jumping around in his hands like a pike he couldn’t get into the boat. Sonny looked over to the rear window of the pickup. Lyle was staring back at him, his mouth and his eyes doing disconnected things, his pink skin going red as he watched Poole and Sonny talk, guessing the issue, his thin blond hair slicked back with Dippity-Do.
“Lucas … I give you my word: Next time, he’s in the car or something.”
Poole’s face got more creased.
“Sonny. You don’t need this boy diddy-bopping around in our lives. He’s no help to anybody and he’s just embarrassing himself. You’re not helping this man here. You’re just going to make him think he’s an even—”
Poole’s face went through a couple of changes and his skin went from black coffee to coffee and cream. A small red poppy-flower appeared on the front of his white polo shirt, an inch to the left of the little alligator. There never was the sound of a shot, Sonny was sure of that. Poole came forward into Sonny’s arms. Across the flatbed there was a ragged round hole in the steel sidewall. Far across the field on their right, a white car was racing parallel to them, sunlight glinting off something. Then the passenger window blew in, spraying Lyle and Eufemio with bits of glass, and Sonny saw a puff of smoke coming from the white car.
That’s shooting, thought Sonny, dragging Poole toward the front of the truck. A hundred yards if it’s forty, and a moving target. Poole was on his face now in the dusty bed of the pickup, his big hands caught under his belly, looking up at Sonny with one clear brown eye, a little blood running like syrup from the side of his mouth. Eufemio Broca turned to look at Sonny through the rear window. His thin Indian face was tight and hard but he was calm. He was saying something, but the wind was making too much noise. Sonny crawled over to the window just as another hole appeared in the side of the truck with a sound like somebody hitting a garbage can with a ten-pound sledge. Lyle ducked down into the passenger footwell, leaving nothing between Broca and that sharpshooter in the chase car but dusty air. Poole was still looking up at Sonny, his teeth red with blood, his lips moving. Broca reached down between his legs and brought up a massive Smith & Wesson revolver, aiming it out the side window over Lyle’s hunched back. An impossible shot, thought Sonny, but full marks for balls.
There was another lick of red flame from the far side of the field, and the rear window exploded out in a web of glass powder and tiny rainbows. A second later Broca’s Smith went off with a solid bass boom, driving his shoulder back.
Broca put out three more rounds, not hurrying, using his right thumb to cock the piece, getting his sight picture lined up. Squeezing it off. Each time the Smith fired, dust would jump off the dashboard and the roof of the cab. Finally, Sonny remembered the Heckler rifle down behind the front seat and he got up on his knees to fish for it in the well, scraping his forearm on shards of glass in the window frame. He saw two more puffs of flame out of the corner of his eye and all the nerves along his right side tightened up. The chase car was matching speed with them to give the shooter a steady target. A hole appeared in the passenger door and a shred of blue denim flew off Broca’s right shoulder.
He shook his head a little and squeezed off two more rounds. Sonny scuttled back to the rear of the truck, dragging the assault rifle and the canvas bag full of magazines.
Poole levered himself up on his left elbow, his eyes half closed, his hard black face looking gray and wet. One hand came up, away from the wound, five fingers spread, the red stain shining against the pink palm.
The gesture made Sonny smile. Five bucks he couldn’t make the shot. He grinned at Poole and slammed the magazine home.
There it was. A patch of white paint about the size of his thumb, a good hundred yards off to the right, racing along a dusty side road, matching their speed. Something tan-colored was sticking up on the far side of the chase car. The guy was probably sitting up on the passenger window ledge, his leg wrapped in the safety belt, his gun sling twisted around his left forearm, using the roof to steady his shooting. Another flicker of red from the tan smudge, and another sledgehammer strike somewhere up front. Maybe a lever-action Winchester.
Sonny got up into a crouch, taking the swing and jolt of the road in his knees, bringing the Heckler up to his cheek, getting the sight picture. He set the butt hard into his shoulder and let out a slow breath, trying to get it right. Broca had stopped shooting and was busy keeping the truck on a solid line. For Sonny, the world got very silent. It narrowed down to a red spike in a black iron channel and a blurred tan patch. Slow. Squeeze.
He fired. In three-round bursts. The white patch disappeared in a haze of muzzle gases and flame. The rifle kicked a little. Four more bursts. He rolled away to the front of the flatbed, braced to take return fire. He could see the white patch waver. It slowed, jumped some obstruction, flew into the air. Dust hid the rest.
Broca hit the accelerator hard. Nobody else did anything for a minute. Sonny lay on his back in the truck bed and watched a bank of high clouds wheel into the east. Poole lay down again and closed his eyes. Lyle pulled himself up into the passenger seat and looked down at his brother. Sonny’s shaggy blond cowhand moustache was white with road dust, his blue eyes rimmed in red. Sonny smiled back at Lyle and pulled himself to the window.
“Eufemio, you can get to the Red by going through the Double Dee at Devol. We have to get under some trees—there’s a chopper at Fort Sill and they’ll have it up by now.”
He could feel Lyle’s silent reproach but he ignored it.
“Lyle, you turn around and watch for the side road. It’ll be nothing but a cut in the brush, so look sharp.”
Lyle waited a bit, establishing his independence with a sullen twist in his lower lip. Then he turned away and stared off up the road. Sonny resisted the temptation to smack him in the side of the head.
Broca got them to the banks of the Red River. Off to the west the sun was huge and red. The cottonwoods by the river had shadows a half-mile long. They put the truck under a stand of cottonwoods and carried Poole down to the riverbank, where he could see across into Texas. Dry grass lined the banks. They stripped off Poole’s shirt and laid him down on his back in the cool mud.
Lyle stood back about thirty feet, up at the top of the slope, turning away and facing east. He had his hands stuck into his pockets so hard they jerked at his suspenders.
Sonny knelt down and looked at the hole in Poole’s chest. It was ragged and full of old blood. It looked like a well dug in black earth. When Poole let out a breath, the wound bubbled and sucked like a mouth. Over Poole’s head, Broca was looking grimly down at Sonny.
Sonny had taken a war-surplus field dressing out of the truck. He stripped it out of the net wrap and sprinkled sulfa powder into the wound. Then he pressed the thick cotton pad over the wound and Poole moved his hand to hold it down. He never opened his eyes. Sonny stood up and moved away toward Lyle.
Lyle didn’t turn around, but he knew Sonny was coming up. He spoke when Sonny was close enough.
“Well, we’re into it now, right, Sonny?”
“You could say. You all right, Lyle?”
“I feel a little sick. I could throw up but I don’t have anything in my gut.”
“That’s natural—it’ll pass.” Sonny wasn’t sure how to ask what he had to ask. He waited for a long moment. A slow wind stirred in the wild flowers at their feet. From the top of the slope they could see ten miles of prairie rolling away under a blue velvet sky. The air smelled of river mud and sweat and gasoline, but under it there was something cold and clear.
“How’s Poole?” asked Lyle.
Sonny shrugged. Lyle felt the movement in the gathering dark.
“Well, I guess I’m into it now, little brother. You got me fucked up real good there. Poole killing that trooper and all—”
Sonny felt the anger and tried to ride it.
“Lyle … as far’s the law’s concerned, we all of us shot that poor son of a bitch. And you ought to think about where you’d be right now if Lucas hadn’t done what he did. You’d be on your back in a tin bunk with nothing on but a toe tag and a shocked expression. Well … The question now is that I gotta know what you’re planning to do from here.”
Lyle turned to face Sonny. The setting sun shone on his face so that there was a hot yellow spark in his left eye but his right eye was black and empty, as if his brother were half skull.
“Ah, shit, kid. I know what a pain in the ass I’ve been. I know it was me who fucked up in Lawton.” A wetness came into the eye with the yellow spark, making it glitter like a tiger’s eye. Sonny felt a rush of affection and love for this puzzling man.
Lyle shook his head and laughed. “Sonny … I don’t know what it is with me. I’m just trying to get in step with the planet, you know. But I keep getting the wrong song. The song wrong? I guess I’m gonna go the distance with you, if I’m still welcome. I mean, with you, well, there’s always a chance we can work this shit out, right? Sonny?”
Sonny felt the weight again, the weight of Lyle’s hapless trust and his vulnerable bravado and the years they had seen come up and go down like a stand of winter wheat.
Sonny tapped Lyle on his puffy cheek.
“Yeah, big brother. We’ll ride this out. Frank and Jesse Beauchamp, right? You relax here. I gotta go see to Lucas.”
Lyle nodded, and as Sonny went scuttling down the slope Lyle turned back into the east, as if he were trying to see all the way to the Carolinas.
“That’s a through-and-through, Lucas,” Sonny announced, down on his knees at the riverbank, looking into Poole’s gray face. Poole inhaled slowly, testing.
“You’re a lying hound, Sonny. I can hear my own air hissing around. I got a sucking chest wound. Don’t talk down to me.”
“Hey, you just got a hole in you, neat as a cat’s asshole. Got your ticket punched there, Lucas.”
Broca was standing behind Poole with the Smith in his right hand, staring hard at the back of Poole’s head.
Sonny slapped Poole on the leg.
“Long way from Charleston, Lucas. Now, we can do a couple of things here. Eufemio can wait till full dark, take the truck into Burkburnett. He’s got some relatives there. He says we can stay with them a while, couple of weeks. Let the hounds run by. Get you healed up. His uncle’s a vet, used to working with animals like you. I’ve been through the bags. We got close to a hundred eighty thousand there, some bearer bonds, cash from the grain pool and the cattle auction yesterday. I say we cut Eufemio in for a full quarter. He’s been a good hand. You got any problem with that, Lucas?”
Poole grinned at Sonny.
“That greaser stands there behind me with that hogleg cannon in his tiny little fist and you think I’m gonna dicker with him? No. He’s in for a quarter and welcome to it. Now, Lyle I got a problem with.”
Sonny’s smile dropped a couple of degrees.
“Lyle’s a Beauchamp. He was in from the start. He got us into the accountant’s office in Duncan. He drew the map of the bank in Lawton. And he did take out that camera.”
Poole snorted and winced. “Eventually.”
Sonny put his head down, sighed, and looked past Poole to Broca.
“Well, he did take it out. You gotta admit, him standing there pumping away with that piece, it gave the customers something to think about. Anyway, we agreed up front to put him down for a full share. Job cost is sixteen thousand, plus I say we give another five to Eufemio’s family for putting us up. Leaves us maybe forty thousand each. Now … Lucas … we got to ask you a hard question.”
Sonny was silent for a long breath. The river beside them ran broad and brown and deep under the violet sky. A soft wind played in the cottonwood leaves. Poole’s eyes softened. He looked up at Sonny’s face and seemed to wait quietly.
Finally, Sonny spoke.
“Well … you got yourself a tricky wound there. It could go green on you. Eufemio’s uncle is a vet but there could be … It could come to it that you gotta go to a county hospital. We don’t know any tame docs around here. Some intern is sure to file on you. Now you know how pissed the local mounties are gonna be with us. They’ll be all over Tillman County, Comanche County, Cotton County, and north Texas, all pumped up with themselves and looking for some dog to kick. They catch you, you being a gentleman of color, well, they might be pretty bad-tempered with you. Give you a very bad time in some roadside toolshed. It happens. You remember what the Wisconsin troopers did to Charlie Delaney?”
Poole’s face shut down.
“You leave me with a weapon. They can take their chances. I’m not going in again. Not now. Not later.”
“You know, I figured you’d feel that way. But it could be, you’re not up to holding a weapon. It could be they’d get you while you had other things on your mind. You say you can take your chances with Eufemio’s uncle …”
Poole smiled at Sonny. “Or … I could stay here.”
“Yeah. By the river.”
Poole was quiet for some time.
“It’s a pretty spot, Sonny.”
Broca was right behind Poole, the Smith raised a little.
“Got to rest somewhere, sooner or later, Lucas.”
“Yeah … all God’s chillun.”
Two minutes passed. Lyle was watching them from the top of the riverbank.
Finally, Poole shook his head.
“I’ll tell you something, kid. No way I’m bailing out before I see Charleston again. Anyway, these cracker sons-a-bitches, they’d let their hounds dig me up and chew on me. I’ll take my chances with the Frito Bandito and his tio … but you promise me one thing, Sonny.”
Broca walked away and sat down under the trees.
“Yeah, Lucas?”
“We don’t do any more work around here. Let’s go north somewhere, back to civilization.”
“Anywhere in particular?”
“Don’t you know somebody in New York? Who was that guy, was in your block at Santa Fe? The Jew?”
“Myron Geltmann. He’s gone north. Got a job with his son-in-law. Industrial maintenance work. Strictly up-and-up, Lucas.”
Poole’s red grin was sly and slow.
“Industrial maintenance. Gets into a lot of buildings, does he? I’ll bet you my left testicle Geltmann’s been taking notes, has an easy three hits all lined up, just waiting for an enterprising bunch of guys to come along. Come on, Sonny …”
Sonny thought about it. Poole was probably right. Geltmann had spent a life in and out of prison, setting up jobs for other men to do, taking his share in foreign banks. He was an old man now and not likely to take well to working for his daughter’s husband.
Poole said, “I hear those New York cops can’t shoot for shit, either.”
Sonny looked up the bank at Lyle.
“We’d have to take him, Lucas.”
Poole groaned. “Why the fuck would we want to do that?”
“He’s a television star now. How long do you think Lyle would hold out with the federales? They’d hook him up to Ma Balls and crank out your mother’s name and the home phone of every guy ever gave us a drink of water from Arkansas to the Canadian border. Lyle comes with us.”
Poole looked at Sonny. Sonny stood up.
“Sonny, you should never have brought Lyle into this.”
“Yeah,” said Sonny, smiling to himself, his face hidden in the darkness. “I was just thinking that a while ago.”
Sonny looked up the riverbank where Lyle was standing with his hands in his pockets and looking out across the Red into Texas, his head cocked to one side, as if Lyle could hear something in the wind and the water that Sonny could never hear.
For a moment Sonny’s chest was full of a strange hollow fire and he could smell a salt sea and feel the spray and there was that old spice-ridden rot-scented wind from the breakwater and the sweet scent of the marshes, and in his mind the amber sun shone on the spires and roofs of Charleston in the late afternoon and there were lamps along the boardwalk and there were casement windows full of a warm yellow light and music came across the bay like goldfish rising in a pool.
Lucas was breathing hard.
“Yeah, Lucas. Maybe well go to New York. They’ve got an ocean there, don’t they? I’d like to see the ocean again.”