Chapter 28 Tex #2
He shakes his head. The picture of a weary uncle, burdened by family troubles, doing his duty.
He's so good at this that if I didn't know exactly who this man is and what he did, I might believe him.
That's the terrifying thing. He's completely believable.
The concern on his face is perfectly calibrated.
The weariness in his voice is exactly right.
He's done this before. He's stood in front of strangers and told this story.
They've nodded, felt sorry for him and helped him find the boy he was looking for because why wouldn't they?
He's the caring uncle. He's the family man doing the hard thing to help his sister and nephew.
"What's he look like?" I ask, taking another drink of water.
"Blonde hair. Real light. Thin, small build.
Twenty-five but looks younger. He was on a motorcycle last time we heard from him.
A Sportster, black. Stolen, actually, from a friend of the family.
The boy doesn't even have a license. My sister's been worried sick.
We tracked him heading south during the hurricane but lost contact when the phones went down.
We think he might have ended up somewhere along the beach. Maybe looking for day labor type work."
Every word is a lie wrapped in truth. The blonde hair is true.
The thin build is true. The Sportster is true.
Everything else is a fabrication so polished and so practiced that it slides off his tongue like scripture.
He's the deacon. He's the community man.
He's the concerned family member searching for a troubled kid, and the story he's built is designed to make anyone who's seen Stormy think oh, that poor family, let me help you find him.
"Can't say I've seen anyone like that," I say. "We get a lot of people through here though. Especially during the rebuild. Volunteers, work crews, drifters. Hard to keep track."
"I understand. I'm not trying to make trouble.
I'm just a man looking for his nephew." He reaches into his back pocket and pulls out a business card.
Hands it to me. RON JACKSON. JACKSON'S SALVAGE AND PARTS.
An address in Dale County, Alabama. A phone number.
"If you do see him, or hear anything, I'd appreciate a call.
His mama's been praying for him every night. I have too."
I take the card and look at it, then slide it into my back pocket alongside another paper with this man's name on it.
"I'll keep an eye out for him," I tell him.
"I appreciate that." He picks up his plate and gives me that church deacon's smile again. "I'm going to be in the area for a few days. Might stop back in. This brisket is worth the drive."
He walks back to his table. Easy, relaxed, a man enjoying a Saturday afternoon at a barbecue joint. He sits down and continues eating while his eyes continue scanning the lot. I stand at the grill with tongs in my hand and murder in my heart.
I wave Sheila over. She comes, wiping her hands on her apron.
"Blue button-down shirt," I say quietly. "Tan pants. Table by the street."
She doesn't look. She's smarter than that. She keeps her eyes on me.
"That's him. That's the man."
Her face doesn't change. Fifteen years of bartending have given her a poker face that could win tournaments. But I see her hand tighten on the towel she's holding.
"He's asking about Stormy. Using his real name. Calling himself Stormy's uncle. Go find Stormy and get him upstairs. Now. Don't let him come out of the kitchen. Don't let him see the parking lot. Don't let him put eyes on that man."
"Done." She turns and walks toward the kitchen, unhurried, natural, a woman going to check on the food. Nothing unusual. Nothing that would draw attention from a man who is watching the lot with the eyes of a predator.
I pull out my phone and text Mickey. Blue shirt tan pants. Table by the street. That's him. He's here. I need you. Right now. Not as a cop. As my friend to keep me from doing something I can't undo.
I glance up to see Mickey already moving. He picks up his beer and his plate and walks toward the grill, like a guy getting a refill. He positions himself between me and Ron's table.
"I see him," Mickey says quietly. "How long has he been here?"
"Ten minutes. Maybe fifteen. He gave me a business card and a story about his missing nephew with drug problems."
"Is Stormy—"
"Sheila's getting him upstairs."
Mickey nods and takes a sip of his beer. His eyes move to Ron and back to me. I can see the assessment happening, the cop brain running parallel to the friend brain, checking out the man, his position, the exits.
"Breathe, Tex. Don't let him fuck up your life. We'll find another way to handle this."
"I'm breathing."
"You're not breathing. You're white-knuckling those tongs and you've got a look on your face that I've only seen once before and it was right before you put Kenny Hollister through a bar window in 2019."
"Kenny deserved it."
"He absolutely deserved it. But this isn't Kenny. This is different, and you know it."
I force my hands to relax on the tongs. I turn back to the grill and flip the chicken because doing something normal with my hands is the only thing keeping me from crossing the parking lot and ending Ron Jackson's life in front of a hundred witnesses.
Ron finishes his plate. He stands and walks to the edge of the lot, drops the plate in the trash can, and turns back. He scans the lot one more time, slow and thorough, the way a man scans a room when he's looking for one single face in a crowd.
He doesn't find it. Stormy isn't here. Stormy is upstairs, behind a door, because Sheila is a warrior and she follows instructions.
Ron walks to his truck. A Dodge Ram pickup parked on the street. He gets in, but he doesn't leave right away. He sits there for a minute, maybe two, looking at the bar. Then the engine starts and he pulls away, slow, heading west on the beach road.
"Got the license plate," Mickey says beside me. He's already typing into his phone.
I watch the truck until it disappears. My hands are shaking so badly the tongs are rattling against the grill grate. I set them down before anyone notices.
"He said he'll be in the area for a few days," I tell Mickey. "Said he might come back."
"He will. This was a reconnaissance mission. He came to see the place, see the setup, see who's here. He's going to come back when it's less crowded. When there are fewer eyes on him."
"What do we do?"
Mickey doesn't look away from the lot. "Right now?
You run your bar. Serve your food. You act like nothing happened.
He can't know that you know who he is. The moment he realizes you're protecting Stormy instead of just some bar owner who hasn't seen the kid, the dynamic changes.
He becomes desperate. And desperate is dangerous. "
I nod. Mickey is always right about these things.
"I'm going to go check on Stormy," I say.