Chapter 1
Mike Carson’s head snapped up when the brunette started mewling. Two guys had her pinned against a pinball machine in the corner of the bar, trying to remove her T-shirt. Mike had been bourboning his way through a Rolodex of regrets when the gang of twenty-somethings whacked through the double doors like they owned the place half an hour earlier. Loud and lewd. There had been an edge to the air ever since.
“Just show us the damn tattoo,” one of them demanded, hauling at the flimsy fabric.
“Stop it, Karter, please.” She was getting desperate. The girls in the group looked away in embarrassed silence as the guys started to chant.
“Show it, show it!”
Mike looked around the bar. Everyone acted as if nothing was happening. He stood and walked over. The brunette was blush red and crying, sensing the battle for her dignity would soon be lost.
“OK now,” Mike said, “let’s take it easy and settle down.”
“Get lost,” the Karter kid said, looking up at Mike, “and mind your own goddam business.”
“Look, some of us are here for a nice, quiet drink. Why don’t you knock it off?”
“Do you know who he is?” said one girl, a small, feisty redhead.
“Sure, he’s the bully, trying to humiliate this young lady, who clearly doesn’t want to show off her tattoo right now.”
“You’ll stay out of this, if you know what’s good for you,” Karter said.
“Yeah? Well… no.” Mike stepped forward and snapped the kid’s wrists from the brunette, turned him sideways and pushed him away. He straightened to his full 6’2” and squared off against the Karter kid, who nodded to Mike’s right with a sly smile. There was a blur of movement in Mike’s peripheral vision, and then something hit him in the head. Hard. It seemed a long way to the floor. He was surprised when it arrived so quickly.
“Oh my god, Jess..” One of the girls.
“Screw him, he shouldn’t mess with us.” Jess presumably.
“You could have killed him.”
Mike started to get up when a pair of tan cowboy boots filled his vision.
“That’s enough, leave it, Karter,” the Jess’ voice said.
“No way.” One boot connected with Mike’s jaw, and the darkness enveloped him.
He came to in custody, arms pinned behind his back, handcuffs biting into the flesh. Two uniformed cops hauled him to his feet, marched him to a police SUV and eased him into the back seat. He looked to his right at the line of young, taunting faces in the window of Gold Spurs Bar and Grill as Karter and the red head shot him the finger. The brunette was nowhere to be seen. The officers climbed in, and the SUV pulled away.
“Am I arrested?”
“Yessir,” said the cop in the passenger seat.
“What for?”
“Assault for starters and whatever else comes up.”
“Assault? I was hit in the head and kicked in the face.”
“We heard. Self-defense, according to the witnesses. Probably best not to say more till we get to reading you your rights at the station.”
“I want a lawyer,” Mike said.
“I’ll bet you do.”
They hustled him through a side door when they got to the station. A sleepy civilian receptionist looked up in surprise.
“Chief here yet?” asked the chubby driver.
“On his way,” she said.
They moved him into a gray, institutional interview room, sat him on a metal chair, removed one handcuff and refastened it to a metal table which was bolted to the floor.
“You have the right to remain silent and refuse to answer questions. Anything you say may be used against you in a court of law. You have the right to consult an attorney before speaking to the police and to have an attorney present during questioning now or in the future.” The passenger said. Mike now saw he was a sergeant called Green.
“I would like an attorney present during questioning.”
“What attorney?” said the driver whose name tag said Brown. Green and Brown, both white.
Mike was stumped. He didn’t have an attorney here. “John McKinney.”
“Honest John,” both officers laughed. “OK, we’ll see if we can find him. He’s not always in his own bed this time at night, if you know what I mean.” Brown winked. It didn’t suit him.
Honest John McKinney had to stoop low to enter the interview room. Taking off his hat would have spoiled the image. He arrived around 2:30 in the morning. Underneath the Stetson was his usual attire, a gray western suit with black suede front yokes. His starched white shirt and longhorn bolo tie completed the image. He was somewhere in his sixties and looked like he could be related to Ray Benson from Asleep at the Wheel. Mike had seen Ray’s huge cardboard cutout beside a little restaurant in the Austin airport as he headed toward arrivals just forty-eight hours earlier. Doing great, he thought, only took you two days to get arrested. Honest John looked him over.
“Chief tells me you’re Tom Carson’s son.”
“That’s right.”
“I went up against your pappy a time or two. I’d say we came out even in the end, though he’d say he had the edge. Never met you, I don’t think.”
“No, we’ve never met.”
“So how come you asked for me?”
“I saw your face on that billboard outside town and I don’t know any other lawyers here. Been gone a while.”
Honest John smiled.
“Honest John McKinney for All Your Legal Needs. Nice to see the power of advertising making a return on investment. Well, let’s say I agree to represent you.”
He pulled out the other metal chair and sat sideways at the table because his knees would not fit under. He took some reading glasses from his inside pocket. They looked small on his head as he opened a brown folder.
“Let’s see now.”
His finger moved down the page from a worrying distance.
“Assault, battery, disturbing the peace, drunk and disorderly, public nuisance, resisting arrest. Someone has been busy.”
“This is complete bullshit. They were molesting a young girl, trying to haul her T-shirt off. I went over to help her and got cold cocked for my trouble and then kicked in the face.”
“So, you started the fight.”
“I pulled the guy’s hands off her and pushed him away.”
“That’s the assault and battery and disturbing the peace. How about the drunk and disorderly? Could you have passed a sobriety test?”
“I wasn’t driving.”
“Check that box too, then.”
“I’m the one who got assaulted.”
“By whom?”
“I didn’t see who hit me in the head, but I heard the name Jess. The guy who kicked me in the face was called Karter.”
“Oh, see now, that’s bad. Probably Karter McMillan. We could press charges, kinda like a counter suit, but I wouldn’t recommend going up against the McMillans.”
“As in Duke McMillan?”
“You know the McMillans?”
“My brother Andy was best friends with Zane, never heard of a Karter.”
“Younger brother, different mother. Anyway, my advice is the same. Best not to go up against the family.”
“So, what are my options?”
“These are all just misdemeanors, but you don’t want them on your record. Maybe if you were to apologize and be on your merry way back to New York City, they might all just go away. That’s where you live, right? According to your driving license.”
“I can’t go back to New York right now. Unfortunately, I need to be here for a while.”
“I see.”
Mike wasn’t sure if it was the kick in the head or the bourbon that fogged him, but the haze suddenly cleared.
“Wait, a second. They mirandized me, but I haven’t been charged with anything.”
Honest John smiled and closed the folder.
“Right. These are charges they could bring if they want to.” He got to his feet. “I’ll just go talk to them and get some clarification.” He paused at the door. “Just what is a New York Chronicle investigative journalist doing back in little old Taborville? You here for a story?”
“A story here? Hell no.” Although he needed a story — desperately. A big national exclusive might just…
“What then?”
“I’m just here to sell my uncle’s house and mind my own business.”
“Doesn’t sound like you did a good a job of that tonight.”
He was released an hour later. Charges were not being brought at this time, but could be filed at a later date. Police Chief Walter E. Gates, according to the nameplate on his office door, issued a warning.
“It would be best if you stayed out of trouble.”
“I’m sure my client will be careful.” Honest John assured him.
Outside, he offered Mike a ride in his silver Cadillac, but Mike said he needed a walk.
“Where do you want me to send the invoice?”
“1927 North Street.”
“You living there?”
“No, but it’s where I get mail.”
With a tip of his Stetson, Honest John folded himself into luxury and glided away.
Mike began to walk as a cruiser screamed past him, lights on, siren wailing. The officers looked worried.
Chapter 2
Mike knew he should have walked straight from the police station to the welcoming sheets of his bed at The Holiday Inn, but, in spite of his pounding head, made for Uncle Harold’s instead.
The old part of town was a strange mix of nineteenth and twentieth century. Single story, stone-fronted ranch houses, dating from the 1970s, squatted low on their concrete slabs between the scattered, antebellum two-story mansions.
It was election season and little yard signs were everywhere, declaring support and allegiance. There’d be knocks on doors soon, flyers shoved into mailboxes and poorly attended public forums. Taborville wasn’t known for the excellence of its political discourse. There was a quaintness about it, Mike thought, a far cry from the vicious and moneyed knife-fights he’d reported in New York.
It was still cool when he got to Uncle Harold’s. The house dated back to his great grandfather Jeremiah Carson, Town Constable of Taborville, in 1901. It was a corner plot, just over half an acre. Jeremiah’s grandfather had built a dogtrot cabin there. ‘Cedar logs and sweat,’ Uncle Harold used to say, ‘and a large helping of belief.’ The dogtrot was demolished and, in its place, Jeremiah had a Sears Catalogue home assembled. Plans and all materials delivered to the frontier for $872. A single-story structure with six rooms and a front porch.
These days it was ideally situated on the corner of North and Live Oak, diagonally opposite the Cornerstore, a short walk for farm fresh eggs and bacon by the slice. Even in the early light, Mike could see the decay. The house had inherited Uncle Harold’s cancer and was now in need of urgent care. Or hospice.
He sat on the front porch steps. A chubby squirrel scampered across the lawn and stopped, rose on hind legs to study the new occupant, but found him uninteresting and gamboled on.
The town slowly blinked awake. Trucks, SUVs and the occasional sedan rolled by — commuters on their way to jobs in San Antonio. Every driver’s head turned in his direction as they moved out of the four-way stop.
Another police siren shattered the early morning birdsong. The cruiser flashed by, barely pausing at the four-way stop, and screamed on up North Street. Mike’s hand automatically went for his phone, to find out what was going on, then dropped back into unemployment. He sighed and climbed off the steps, stretched, and walked around the outside of the house. The head-jerking scent of skunk hurried him on. A missing inspection hatch gave free access to the underside foundations. God only knew what else was in there. The corrugated roof was almost all rust now, paint peeled from every wall.
When he graduated from the University of Texas with his journalism degree, Mike had called on Uncle Harold to say goodbye. He was on the porch swing, monitoring the Cornerstore across the road, ever vigilant for a story.
“I think they’re dealing drugs over there. Lot of kids going in and out.”
“The new high school is just around the corner,” Mike said. “Maybe they’re just getting a Coke before they go home.”
“Oh yeah, and Clinton did not have sexual relations with that woman. Give me a break.”
They sat in silence for a few minutes, watching the comings and goings. A lifetime of smoking Camel cigarettes had taken its toll. Uncle Harold’s breathing was a constant rasp. There was a hesitancy to it, as if he could not afford to cough.
“Dallas Morning News. Ain’t you the great I am?”
“I’m very lucky, Uncle Harold, and I owe so much to you.”
“No. You worked your ass off for that degree. You deserve it. I’m proud of you. Now lookie here. You tell me that’s not someone who just bought drugs.”
Two young guys were walking away from the store, hoodies up despite the heat, hands stuffed low in pockets, in case their genitals snuck away. Mike didn’t buy it. It was just kids trying to act cool. After a few minutes, Uncle Harold asked him.
“Are you getting any good with your hands?”
“Why?”
“Because I’m going to leave this place to you one day and it needs some fixin’.”
Sure does, Mike thought, sitting on the same porch swing. Can’t sell it the way it is. He pulled his phone and started googling contractors as an ambulance, fire truck and a third police car screamed past. What the hell was going on?
Chapter 3
Visible power in Taborville was displayed every morning at Longhorns Grill. The farmers were gone by 7.15 a.m. having traded stories about prices and the weather. The good ole boy table was strategically placed front and center of the restaurant and had seating for eight. Occasionally, someone might pull up a chair and sit on a corner, but it was a rare indulgence, and always generated gossip. Half the table was occupied by bankers and developers, Duke McMillan, chief among them. Politics and the law occupied the other half — City Council Members Xander VanDorn and Isaac Brook sat with County Commissioners and Police Chief Wally Gates. Gates was always last to arrive and first to leave.
The combined wealth at the modest wooden table ran to eight figures most days. Today, the table was muted, anxious even, as speculation slithered round the restaurant about the murder north of town.
“Anyone heard from Gates?” asked Duke McMillan, rising from his half eaten breakfast. “No? Well, I guess he’s still at the scene. I’ve got that chamber opening. Need to prep a few remarks.”
“Don’t know why,” VanDorn scoffed. “You say the exact same shit every time.”
“Just like your campaign speeches, I guess.”
Duke stood to one side of the speaker’s podium and tried to look modest. He remained in the shade. The President and CEO of Taborville Chamber of Commerce, was giving her usual ribbon cutting speech, hitting all the Chamber talking points. She was well upholstered, Duke thought, bouncy. After a few Pinot Rigio's at Chamber functions, she got a little flirty, and sometimes he wondered if she would, or if it was just tease. The husband was never around — so maybe. Not that Duke would. Probably.
Fidelity was not something he expected of himself. His first wife hadn’t been a looker, but she was a catch. Her family had a lot of acreage — enough for her father to have people manage his interests while he ran for the State Senate. He enjoyed the corridors of power and the status it gave. The Senator loved Duke, who flattered and listened as the single malt whiskies leaked insider information the Duke could profit from.
Duke’s tolerance of his wife, whose temperament was volatile at best, reached breaking point when she got pregnant with Zane. She became impossible to deal with but, fortunately, Duke had accommodating lady friends, women who knew men and their needs, in ways his wife never could, or would.
Zane was six when his mother left. Duke had dismissed the gossamer thin rumors of his extra-marital exploits during those years, blaming the suspicions on her delicate state of mind. But being caught in flagrante, with the nanny, could not be denied. Zane’s mommy had run home to daddy. His daughter’s diagnosis of bipolar disorder and several of her more deeply embarrassing incidents tempered the Senator’s desire to crush McMillan.
Duke scanned the audience and smiled. What you knew about who you knew was a key component of his success. It surprised him how many people thought their dirty little secrets would never be discovered.
“And now, before I ask the Mayor to cut the ribbon on Dolly’s Allsorts Candy Store, it is my distinct pleasure to introduce the man who has made so much of our downtown revitalization project possible, Mr. Duke McMillan.”
There was a smattering of polite applause from the small crowd on the sidewalk and on the street.
“Thank you, madam president, for that lovely introduction, but honestly, I am the one who should say thanks. Thanks for all the opportunities this wonderful town has given me. It is my pleasure to invest in these fine old buildings, bring them up to date, without losing their heritage, and make them available for exciting new retail outlets like Dolly’s. It’s my pleasure to join with the City, and the Chamber, to breathe new life into our downtown, and make it thrive. Thank you.”
Mayor Bill Pryor posed with a giant pair of scissors, next to the red ribbon strung across the front door, until all the photographers settled.
“Ready?” He sliced through. More applause and everyone moved into the store. Chamber staff had erected portable tables in the center of the store, and laid out the obligatory champagne.
