Shoveling Smoke (11 page)

“Bevo got his start
out at the sale barns, kiting cows,” said Stroud.

“Kiting cows?”

“It’s like kiting checks,” Wick explained. “You go to a livestock auction, buy cows with a check at one barn, take them to another barn and sell them for enough money to cover the check you just wrote at the first barn, with maybe a little bit of a profit. At barn two you buy more cows, load ’em up, take ’em back to barn one and sell them there to cover the check you wrote at barn two.”

“Again with a little profit?” I asked.

“That’s right. Back and forth. You do the same thing at barn three, barn four. You’re kiting cows. A pro can do it all day. He never actually has any property at any of these sales, yet he’s always rolling in money. Everybody thinks he’s a wheeler-dealer because he’s always got a bunch of cows, herds of ’em.”

“And that’s Bevo Rasmussen?” I asked.

“That
was
Bevo,” Stroud said. “Until he got ambitious and decided to move up to horses. Mr. Parker, do you know anything about horse trading?”

“Not very much.”

“As a country lawyer, and this being East Texas, you will have to learn something of the horse trade.”

“It’s a different world, Clay,” said Wick, shaking his head. “People in the horse-trading business, they’re not even human. I don’t mean all of them, of course. Just the bad ones. The bad ones are some sort of crawling bug. You pick up a big rock and look under it, you’ll see some horse traders there. We’re talking the ass end of America, Clay. The fucking ass end.” From the look on his face, I had a hunch that Wick Chandler had had dealings with horse traders.

Stroud ordered another round of beers, which Boo brought over. “You boys talking about Bevo?” Boo asked, clearing away the plates.

“Boo here is a relative of Bevo’s,” said Wick.

“I’m his great-uncle,” Boo said. “At least I think that’s what I am. See that gal over there?” He pointed to Betty, who smiled at us from behind the counter. “That gal is Bevo’s grandmother’s youngest daughter.” He laughed. “Now, me being married to her, what does that make me?”

“An upstanding citizen of Claymore County,” Stroud replied.

“You boys going to make our Bevo a rich man?”

“We’ll be lucky to keep him out of prison, Boo,” Wick said.

“Well, don’t feel bad about it,” said Boo, walking away. “Prison might be just the thing that boy needs.”

“Spoken like a member of the family,” Wick said.

Wick continued his description of the horse trade. “Horse traders make screwing each other a way of life, and they all expect it, and they all lie, all the time. They’re goddamned vultures. They’re worse than you can imagine, Clay. Would you agree, Mr. Stroud?”

Stroud took a long pull from his beer, his Adam’s apple jerking up and down his scrawny neck. “I would say you are being kind, Mr. Chandler.”

“It’s so bad that they talk to themselves in a kind of code, because they know that no matter what a person is telling them about a particular horse, he’s lying. Everybody connected with these guys is the same. The veterinarians are crooked. The people who document pedigrees are crooked. They manufacture bloodlines. They make up horses, down to the last details. They make millions of dollars with imaginary horses. They’re artists, Clay. They’re the goddamned Vincent van Goghs of the maggot world.”

“But it’s a step up from the cow-kiting business?” I asked.

“That’s what Bevo thought,” Stroud said, taking up the story. “Our Mr. Rasmussen wanted to graduate from the cow business to the horse business. But it’s a big jump and, snake though he was, Bevo was a schoolboy compared to the horse crowd. But he was in a hurry to learn, so he apprenticed himself to a master of the crooked horse trade.”

“Who?” I asked.

“Nyman Scales,” said Wick.

“Sally’s father,” I said.

“Yep,” said Stroud, his eyes shining. “Bevo’s alibi for the night of the fire. And the man who sold Bevo the horses in the first place. He even loaned Bevo a quarter of the purchase money. And I would bet my partner’s last dime that Nyman Scales fully expected Bevo to burn his horses and split the insurance money with him.”

“It is widely believed that Scales sells horses to crooks who burn them for the insurance money,” said Wick.

“So Scales is a crook?”

“Oh, Nyman Scales is not your run-of-the-mill crook,” said Wick. “You recall what I said about breeders being artists? Scales is like that. Only he’s better than an artist. He’s a goddamned magician.”

According to Chandler and Stroud, there was no moneymaking scam concerning horses or cattle that Nyman Scales hadn’t run. Like Bevo, Scales had got his start running cow scams. One of his scams, the one that made him rich, had become a legend among local dairy felons.

Some years ago the government decided that there was an undesirable surplus of milk in the country and that the prudent way to end subsidies to dairies was simply to buy the dairymen out. Learning of the government program, Nyman Scales went to fifty or so different livestock auction barns and worked up a giant cow-kiting scheme, so that he accumulated a huge number of sales receipts on cows. With these receipts Scales convinced the government that he had a huge dairy, and so the government bought him out, paying the highest recent market price for all of Nyman’s cows, not one of which had ever actually set foot on Nyman’s farm. At the same time the government was buying Nyman’s cows, he was still kiting them, so Scales was actually making money two, three, even four times for the same cow.

“All this for beasts he’d never pulled a tit of milk from!” laughed Wick. “Now, there’s an artist.”

According to Wick, Scales used the enormous profit he made from the government buyout program to buy more cows, with which he set up a
real
dairy in order to receive the government subsidies that were still being doled out to the few dairies that stayed in business.

“How could he do that?” I asked. “Didn’t the government catch on?”

“You got a mighty high opinion of our government,” said Wick. “Nyman’s no fool. One requirement of the government program was that once you’d sold out of the dairy business, you had to promise not to go back into it for a period of five years, or else the government would put your ass in jail. So Nyman put all his dairy cows in the name of his daughter.”

“In Sally’s name?”

“That’s right.”

“So Sally Dean owns the largest dairy in the country?” I asked, astonished.

“She did,” Stroud said. “But she gave it up. She got us to void the agreement for her. She disinherited herself.”

“That’s true,” said Wick. “Scales had to hunt up some cousin from out of state to take over the dairy. As far as I know, nobody has ever seen this cousin. You ask me, he doesn’t exist. It’s just another one of Nyman’s scams.”

“That dairy must be worth a fortune,” I said. “Why did Sally give it up?”

“Because she’s through with her father,” said Stroud.

So Sally really was the daughter of a country gangster! Rasmussen had been right about that. I began wondering all over again how much else of Bevo’s crazy story was true. “She seems to have turned out pretty well,” I said.

“She has indeed,” Stroud replied.

“There was a time when nobody would’ve thought that,” said Wick. “Old Nyman had her running scams like you wouldn’t believe. Like she was born to it. It was his idea for her to become district coordinator. He thought she could slip him useful court information, maybe make sure he had a favorable judge if any of his schemes came to light and he went to trial. He bought off a couple of retired judges on Sally’s list—just insurance, you understand. Nyman Scales thinks of everything.”

Stroud hoisted himself to his feet. “There is
no evidence
that Sally Dean has ever once accommodated her father in that way, you son of a bitch!”

“Just because there’s no evidence doesn’t mean she hasn’t done it,” Wick replied. “I don’t have the faith in our Sally that you do, Gill. Blood will tell.”

The old man swelled up in a trembling rage, and for a moment I thought he might attack his partner. Then the air seemed to go out of him, and he sat back down and stared at the table.

“Let me get this dairy thing straight,” I said. “Scales got the government to buy out an imaginary dairy and then used the money to build a real dairy, for which he’s getting government aid?”

“One of the biggest dairies in East Texas,” said Wick.

“Where does Bevo Rasmussen come into all this?” I asked. We were on our fourth round of beers, and I was beginning to feel a buzz.

“I’m getting there,” said Wick. “As big a success as Nyman was in the dairy business, he became an even bigger success as a horse breeder and trader. Scales found that he could insure horses for huge amounts of money and collect on them if they died accidentally. All he had to do was figure out a scheme to use on the insurance people and then create an accident. It didn’t take Nyman long to work out the details. He buys big-money horses—we’re talking fifty thousand, a hundred thousand a horse sometimes—and farms them out to his hands or his business associates. He makes it look as if the men are actually buying the horses from him, but they’re just a front operation. Nyman’s really selling them to himself.”

“I don’t get it,” I said.

“It is not difficult to figure out,” Stroud replied. “Scales really does everything. He helps finance the horse, then works a side deal with the buyer to get more money when the horse dies.”

I was feeling queasy, having eaten too much barbecue and drunk too much beer. How ironic that for the first time since my arrival in Jenks, my new associates were having a serious talk with me—were not trying to scam me in some way—and I was becoming too drunk to follow what they were saying. Once again, two steps too slow.

“So you’re saying Nyman Scales set Bevo up with horses in order for Bevo to kill them and collect the insurance, some of which would go back to Scales?”

“That makes the most sense, Clay,” Wick replied.

“But something’s gone wrong, and the insurance company isn’t paying off.”

“Yep,” said Wick. “It’s my bet that Bevo bungled the kill. Did something to make the adjusters suspicious. The whole deal depends on the insurance company not making any trouble. If they stall, and the claimant is a small-time operator, like Bevo, in bad need of the insurance money, he can have some real debt troubles.”

“And now Bevo’s bank has sued him for the quarter million it loaned him for the horses.”

“It never rains but it pours,” said Stroud.

At that moment the door opened and five men walked into the Singing Pig dressed in army camouflage outfits, their faces streaked with sweat and with green and brown paint.

“Jesus H. Christ!” cried Wick Chandler. “Walking shrubs!”

“They look like frogs from Mars,” said Stroud, his eyes glowing with savage glee. The camouflaged men stood inside the doorway, scowling at us.

“We didn’t hear you drive up,”
said Wick. “Did you arrive in one of those Stealth bombers?”

“Don’t just stand there, Jack,” Stroud said, “come on in. Frogs have to eat, too.” Stroud turned to Boo behind the counter. “Boo, fix up a mess of flies for Captain Jack and his amphibians!”

The ex-pilots sat down at a couple of tables next to ours. Despite their high-tech outfits, only one or two in the bunch looked as if they had kept themselves in good shape. Captain Jack was short and thin, with tufts of yellow hair curling out from under his camouflaged bill cap and a yellow mustache that glowed against the paint on his face.

“Are you boys practicing for Halloween or just the end of the world?” Chandler asked.

This was not the tack I would have taken. Chandler and Stroud, however, were having fun.

“We’ve come to use your phone, Boo,” Jack said. “Our vehicle broke down a few miles back and we need a tow.”

“The Range Rover?” Wick asked. “I hope it’s nothing serious. You should see their car, Clay. My, it’s a fancy one. It’s all camouflaged, too, just like the boys here. When they stand in front of it, you can’t see them.”

“What happened to the car, Jack?” Stroud asked. “Maybe we can help fix it.”

Captain Jack started to say something, then stopped himself. “Forget about it, Jack,” said another commando. “Tell them the good news about Red.”

Jack smiled at us, placing his hand on the shoulder of the ex-pilot sitting next to him. “That’s right, you boys haven’t heard. Red here’s going to be made a deputy.”

“That is big news,” Stroud said. “Is it a county in Texas that’s doing that, Red?”

“This one,” said Red. “I’m going to be your new deputy, Stroud. Starting Monday.”

“Well,” said Stroud, “I know we’ll all sleep better at night, Red. Knowing you’re out there driving around looking for trouble.”

“first thing I’m going to do Monday,” said Red, “is file a report on Jack’s Range Rover.”

“The one that’s broken down?” asked Wick.

“It didn’t break down,” Red said. “It was vandalized.”

“Vandalized?” said Wick. “While you boys were driving it? Now, that’s a feat. I suppose you got a look at the vandal?”

“We’ve got a pretty good idea who it is.”

“Well, I wish you luck catching the scoundrel,” Wick replied.

“Now that your buggy’s been vandalized, Jack,” said Stroud, “you aren’t thinking of going back to riding motorcycles, are you?”

Jack came halfway out of his chair. Red grabbed his arm and pulled him back down.

“You should’ve seen these guys on their big old Harley-Davidsons a couple of years ago, Mr. Parker,” boomed Stroud. “Ripping and roaring all around, running into trees, falling in the bushes...We had to take them to court to save their lives. Those motorcycles would’ve finished them off.”

Captain Jack leaned forward on his chair and began to speak in a hoarse voice. “Tell you what we’re gonna do,” he said. “We’re gonna wait till the bombs fall, and civilization goes to hell, people screaming in the streets, government a thing of the past. And we’re gonna find all the lawyers and put ’em in a big fucking stock tank. And we’re gonna fill that stock tank with gasoline, and then I’m gonna light it. And we’re all gonna dance around the fire.” He smiled a wicked smile at us.

“Where will you be waiting?” asked Wick Chandler, leaning toward him.

Confusion flashed through Captain Jack’s eyes. “What?”

Stroud’s deep voice kicked in: “You said you’d wait till the bombs fall. Mr. Chandler here is asking where you’re going to be waiting. Will you wait out in the woods?”

The ex-pilot chewed on his mustache. “Yeah,” he answered. “We’ll be out in the woods.”

Wick Chandler leaned even closer, until he was face-to-face with Captain Jack. “Because, I mean, if you’re going to be out in the woods, I just wonder who’ll be looking after Shirelle. Hell, Jack, that wife of yours is a real screamer, and if you’re out Rambo-ing through the woods waiting for the bombs to fall, well...” Wick whispered something in Jack’s ear, making an obscene gesture with his hand.

For a moment the survivalists stared at Wick’s pudgy fingers. Then Captain Jack launched himself at Chandler. Before he could reach Wick, the air was sliced by that silent, brain-scraping screech I remembered from the morning before in the office. It cut through my senses like a cry sent up from the ghosts of a billion locusts, and the thought flashed through my mind that I’d hit the end of the trail—brain tumor! aneurysm!—but then I saw that Captain Jack was affected, too. His head jerked as if an invisible mallet had come down on it, and instead of connecting with Wick’s throat, he landed on top of our table, scattering the empty beer bottles. With amazing agility, given his bulk, Hardwick Chandler slid sideways out of his chair like a matador, and Captain Jack skidded across the table and onto the floor. Before the little man could get up, Boo and a couple of the ex-pilots had hold of him.

“You boys better git,” said Boo to us. “You can settle up the bill later.”

In seconds, Stroud’s big Lincoln was spewing gravel out of the parking lot of the Singing Pig. In the driver’s seat, Wick Chandler powered his window down and whooped in the wind.

“Did you see me move?” he cried. “I’m a fucking ballerina. I’m James Bond!”

“It was nobly done,” Stroud told him. From a chain around his neck he picked up a small silver whistle, streaked with white flecks. He must have been wearing it inside his shirt, because I had never seen it before. He blew the whistle, and again invisible locusts swarmed inside my head, and my vision blurred with the ghostly vibration.

“Son of a bitch!” I said. “Cut it out, Stroud!”

Stroud squinted at me, then nudged Chandler. “Our boy hears it!” the old man said. “He’s got the call! I told you, Hard-dick. Dogs, morons, and the pure in heart.” He studied me, wicked merriment in his eyes. “Which are you, Mr. Parker?” he asked.

“What the hell is that thing?”

Stroud held it up on its chain for me to see: a short, thin tube of silver, randomly inlaid with what looked like ivory chips.

“It’s the voice of doom,” he explained. “It’s the final trumpet. You are privileged to be able to hear it. I can’t, and neither can my esteemed colleague here.”

“Captain Jack got an earful, though,” Wick said with a laugh. “Caught him right between the eyes.”

We were passing a yard with a couple of hounds lounging in it. “Slow down, Wick,” Stroud said. He blew the whistle, and the dogs went crazy, scrambling against the chicken-wire fence, barking and baying.

“Jesus!” I said, clapping my hands to my ears as the big car resumed its speed. “Stop that!”

“Time’s wingéd chariot,” said Stroud, “at your back. Gaining on you. That’s what you hear.” He rolled the whistle between thumb and forefinger. He looked at me again, a fierce light in his eye. “The readiness is all, son,” he said.

“You’re scaring the new man,” Wick Chandler told him.