The Other Side of Bad (The Tucker Novels) (18 page)

Just when I had everything situated and was ready to shoot, a Cadillac went flying by, honking as it passed.

There was no sound for a half a minute. I hadn’t moved. I was still holding the shotgun, full of double ought buck against my shoulder, the blowing hot dry wind, itching as it rippled the sweat streaming down my face.

We both jumped, as the quiet was assaulted by the loud squelching of the CB, and Good Buddy’s voice, “Bet that made your assholes pucker . . . over,” followed by raucous laughter.

He added, “We followed them after they passed us long enough to see it was just a couple out on a late date . . . over.”

Robby picked up the mike and said, “Naw, we thought it might be you guys coming up because we’re getting close to Laredo, then the Caddy was by us before we knew it . . . over.”

After a moment’s silence, a disappointed, “Oh.” There was no . . . ‘over’.

Robby turned on the interior light and turned his head to look at me. I still hadn’t moved from my ‘ready to rumble’ position.

“Motherfucker!,” he yelled, laughing maniacally and pounding the dash. “What a fuckin’ rush. What I’d tell ya. Look at you. No one’s gonna get the drop on us. What a fuckin’ trip.”

After rolling up the window, I moved the bags from in front of me, realizing that the gym bag full of ammo was one of the bags I was hiding behind. I set the shotgun over on the front seat and climbed over.

“Man, that was so fine,” Gray said. “You were like behind cover and everything. If those would have been hijackers, you would have blown the shit out of them. You were fast. Fast and smart. You’re my man!”

He was bouncing up and down like a hyper-active kid waiting for ice cream. He really loved this.

“Yeah, right,” I said, opting not to mention the bag of ammunition I was using for a bulletproof vest. I’d have to work on the smart part.

Fifteen minutes later we passed a sign that said Casa Blanca Lake, then a road to the north. I saw more light ahead, then a sign signifying the turn to the Laredo Airport. Almost directly across from the northbound turn to the airport, we turned south on Bartlett Avenue, went to the second red light and turned west on Guadalupe. It was one-way, and up ahead on the right was the sign for the motel.

We pulled into the parking lot of the Holiday Inn at 1:45 in the morning. We had a little over 13 hours to get rested before the deal was to go down.

Stopping under the overhang leading to the lobby, Robby said, “You stay here, I’ll check us all in.  Keep your eyes open, I don’t see no fat lady.”

While I was still looking for a fat lady, he came back and started the car.

He mikes the CB and says, “We’re in rooms 156 and 158, in the very back, they’re down and out…over.”

“Roger that…over,” came the reply.

We pulled around to the rooms. There were only a few cars in the lot and none around the rooms. Laredo was a real center of activity. It was perfect.

After parking the car, Robby said, “We’ve rented four rooms, we have 154 and 160, too. We’ll leave them empty for a buffer while we rest and stuff.”

I liked it, showed planning, I was starting to feel better about this.

“And stuff?” I said.

“I’ll tell you later, after we’re all together.”

“So, I get to meet ‘Good Buddy’?” I said.

“Ohh yeah,” he exaggerated, then grinned an ‘I’ve got a secret’ grin.

He gave me the room keys and said, “Go open one. I’ll get the money.”

After putting my .45 behind my back, I got out and opened room 158. A minute later, he came in behind me. He closed the door, then threw a medium-size duffel bag on the first of the double beds. It was filled to a bulging rigidity.

“I won’t even ask how much that is,” I said.

“You know I trust you, Tucker. But this is your first trip and there are some rules we have to stick to.”

“Don’t worry about it. I’m not.”

He smiled, opened the door and looked out for a few seconds then said, “I’ll be right back, watch the bread.”

He came back a minute later with our clothes, my shotgun wrapped in the blanket, a bottle of Jack Daniels tucked under his arm, and an unlit joint hanging out of his mouth.

“I don’t know about you, but I need to wind down before I can go to sleep.”

“Looks like you’ve got what it takes,” I said, as he handed me the shotgun. I unwrapped it and laid it on the bed with the money.

I’ve never been much of a whiskey drinker. Being only 22 I hadn’t had a chance to develop much of a taste for it. Also, the Tuckers had a history of becoming a little ornery while inebriated on whiskey, so I had mostly stuck to beer. But, tonight I might make an exception to the rule, the blood in my veins was amped with a few hundred volts.

Robby unscrewed the cap on the whiskey and took a long pull. He handed me the bottle. I didn’t hesitate. I took a swallow, just one.

“I’d rather have a beer,” I said, tears blurring my vision. I couldn’t understand how anyone enjoyed the taste of whiskey. My face must have said what I was thinking. Robby laughed.

He lit the joint with a Zippo, took a hit, and passed it to me. I started to take it but in the mirror saw the reflection of the money bag and shotgun on the bed.

I handed it back and said, “I’ll pass.”

“Cool, more for me,” he said, taking another toke.

I wanted to tell him to cool it, but, my instincts said not to. He was older and had done this before, and I had to trust he wouldn’t get so stoned as to endanger me. My sole focus was to get out of this in one piece, without getting busted, and with 10,000 dollars.

“I need to call Margie,” I said.

“No calls, until this is over,” he said.

I quietly said, “I’m going over to that telephone and call my wife collect and tell her I’m here safe. If you don’t like that, make a move.”

It became very still in the motel room. The only movement was the marijuana smoke floating between us.

“I’m not going to let you make that call, Tucker.”

I walked to within a foot of him. I looked down and said, “I’ve seen you in action, Robby…but…”

“But what,…boyo?” he interrupted.

“So far, you and I have been friends, but don’t let your alligator mouth overload your mocking bird ass,” I said, smiling.

We locked eyes. I could see him thinking, weighing the probabilities. I let him.

“You must really love her.”

“You can’t imagine.”

“She is beautiful . . . and sexy,” he said.

“You can’t imagine.”

“I’d be afraid to,” he said, then ginned and took another toke.

“Just don’t let me know when you do,” I said. The tense moment had passed and now we were both smiling.

I picked the phone up to call.

“Don’t mess with the collect thing,” he said.

After going through the hotel long distance rigmarole, I heard her voice.

“Hello,” she said sleepily.

I wanted to curl up next to her.

“Hey Baby,” I said.

“I’ve been worried about you,” she said, more awake now.

“No need to do that, everything’s cool.”

“I miss you. When are you coming home?” Her husky sleepy-voice always excited me.

“A couple of days, and when I get there, you’re gonna need to find something to hold on to.”

“Come’re,” she said, breathlessly. It’s what we said to each other when we wanted to make love.

“Go back to sleep, Baby, I’ll be next to you before you know it. And after I’m through with you, we’ll go out and celebrate.”

“When I get through with you, you’re not going to be able to go anywhere,” she whispered.

“I love you,” I said. My heart was hurting.

“I love you more,” she replied.

“Bye-bye, Baby.”

“Bye, Tuck, be careful.”

“See ya soon,” I said and hung up.

I knew I wouldn’t survive if anything ever happened to her. I’ve loved her since the moment I met her. I was 13 years old. But, we both knew that if anything was going to happen to one of us, it would be me.

“Cool,” he said, looking at me with what looked like amazement mixed with envy.

“What?” I asked.

“Nothing, just cool,” he said, taking another hit.

“Robby, when do we get paid?” I asked, sitting down on the bed next to the money.

“I was wondering when you were going to ask. Our money’s in there,” he said pointing to the bag. “Already separated. You’ll have it in your hands by the time we leave Laredo.”

That surprised me, but, before I could say anything, there was a knock on the door, to the rhythm of ‘shave-and-a-hair-cut-two-bits’.

I grabbed the shotgun and held it in my right hand, out of sight below the edge of the bed. Robby saw this and grinned, put up his hand, signaling it was all right, walked over and opened the door.

Phil walked in and behind him was a familiar face, Allen Tucker, my first cousin. Allen’s about five years older than me, the son of my father’s oldest brother, Roy.

So, Allen was ‘Good Buddy.’ Allen is also a cop in Alexandria.

“Hey, Cuz,” he said, grinning. “Close your mouth before something flies in it.”

I surmised Allen was the mutual acquaintance Robby said we had on the Alexandria Police Department.

Allen was carrying a six-pack of Budweiser. He too, I knew, stayed away from the hard stuff.

“Allen’s been on my team from the beginning,” Robby said, through a cloud of reefer madness.

I stood up when they came in and was still holding the shotgun.

“I told you,” he said, slapping Phil on the back. “You’re not going to slip up on Tuck.”

He knew better than to call me by my first name.

I threw the shotgun on the bed and walked over to shake his hand.

“I’m speechless,” I said, while we were shaking. “A little shocked.”

“Not as shocked as I was when Robby told me you were coming in on this. I’m glad to have you and your gun with us, Tuck. I had Robby come down to Alec to watch you shoot. Then you and Margie moved to Shreveport and look at us now.”

Allen and I had hunted together as kids, but as adults we more often than not saw each other  at the gun range. He and his wife, Lorna, lived in a nice house in the country outside Alec; too nice for a cop’s salary. I always assumed Lorna came from money. Maybe not.

I was feeling much, much better about this deal. I had family here. I knew Allen would answer any questions I might have, and he wouldn’t lie to me.

He saw the Jack Daniels on the dresser and made a disapproving face, looked me in the eyes and shrugged while winking. He threw me a beer, and a church key to open it with.

Allen was typical for a Tucker, good looking, muscular five-nine and about 185 pounds, brown hair with blue-green eyes.

I was taller, but I wouldn’t want him mad at me.

He said, “Let’s relax a bit and find out what’s going on.”

He looked questionably at Robby. That told me he didn’t know much more than I did. The ‘much, much better’ was just reduced to ‘much’.

I opened my beer and tossed the church key back, which he deftly caught.

He read my face and said, “Tuck, after what happened to the last team, things had to change, for security. We decided it best if Robby kept the plans of this trip to himself until we got here.”

The seriousness of his demeanor just reduced it to, ‘a little better’.

Phil hadn’t said a word since arriving. He was standing by Robby, sharing the joint, watching the reunion. He didn’t seem as antagonistic towards me. He was looking at me like he’d just met me, but this time, liked me.

“Tucker,” he said, walking over with his hand outstretched, “I would like to apologize for being such an asshole. If we’re going to be working together, we need to be friends. Allen’s told me a lot about you on the way down, and I’m glad you’re with us.”

As I shook his hand, I said, “Thanks, Phil, but I’m probably still going to be a smart ass.”

Everybody laughed, and Phil said, “Yeah, Allen told me that was your nature, but you could back it up.”

“Yeah, my mouth has gotten me into trouble a few times.”

Allen said, “I told them about the pennies.”

“Great,” I said dryly.

When I was 16, I was running with a rough crowd of older guys, between 18 and 20. I had a reputation for being tough, but, these guys were the real deal. We were sitting at a table in a bar called ‘The Drive-thru’, when in walked Richard Bardwell from Pineville. Richard was about 19 and also had a reputation. We almost got into it one night at a dance, but the cops showed up. I remember being relieved. Anyway, after he walked in and bellied up to the bar, I said, “For 2 cents, I’d get up and whip his ass.” I suppose I was feeling like I needed to be tough.

The pennies hit the table bouncing and spinning, making a racket before settling. The guys I was sitting with had just called my bluff. They were not smiling. I remember instead of feeling tough, I felt stupid, and afraid. Richard Bardwell was a mean mother.