Mendocino Jones in No Place for the Weak at Heart

I'm Good

The Watsons left. Mendocino returned to Tillie, explaining the situation. He called Amos, filling him in on the plan. Less than an hour later, Mendocino and Tillie got out of an ambulance at Watson's private airstrip. A jet was waiting, along with Hank, Bobby, Tom, and Margie.

"Tell the pilot where you want to go." Bobby squeezed Tillie's hand and smiled. He didn't linger over her anymore.

Mendocino kissed her, stroking her hair. "The next time I see you, all of this will be behind us."

She nodded. "Please be careful." She touched his face and kissed him goodbye, then boarded the plane with her sister, still wearing her hospital gown. No time to go home and get clothes. Margie would buy her something to wear when they landed. Tom would drive their car back to Houston, an eight-hour trip. He'd leave the next morning.

"April!" Bobby glanced at his watch, then at his father. "I haven't had time to think about her all day. She'll be crazy mad. She's going to be full of questions."

"You've got to hold her off one more night," Hank whispered. "For all we know, she's giving Sartain his marching orders."

Hank motioned for Mendocino to follow him into the hangar office, where he accessed Bar W personnel files on a computer, scrawled out Frazier's address, and handed it to Mendocino. "How do you want to do this?"

"I don't know yet. I'll figure it out. Where do I bring him?"

Hank rubbed his chin. "Office is too public. Line camp is too far. Don't want him in my house." He glanced around the hangar office. "I guess, this is it."

***

Rex Frazier lived on the second floor of an aging apartment complex in Alpine, the kind that looks like an old straight-line two-story motel. Tan-brick apartments, each with one wide window facing the balcony. Black metal stairwells at either end needed painting and a potholed parking lot along the street could use attention. The stairwells were poorly illuminated. Maybe every third apartment door light was either out or flickering. Good place for a mugging.

Midnight neared when Mendocino knocked on Rex Frazier's door, the apartment dark. He waited. No answer. He rapped again, harder, with his fist. "Rex! Rex Frazier!"

A woman stepped out of the unit next door. Mendocino saw her silhouette in the porch light behind her, her face shrouded in darkness. A long-legged girl wearing shorts and a T-shirt, her hair was spikey and short.

"He's not home." She sounded young, with a nasal Texas twang. Backlit as she was, he couldn't see any facial features.

June bugs and moths swarmed the porchlight, and she drew the door almost closed.

"Is this Rex Frazier's place?" Mendocino stepped toward her.

"Yeah." She smacked gum, waving at the flying bugs.

"Do you know where he might be?"

"Dollar Bill's. Or Lone Star Saloon. Rex shoots a lot of pool. He's good, you know."

"Yeah," Mendocino said, "Me too. Haven't seen him in a while."

She asked, "What's your name? You want me to tell him you came by?"

Mendocino nodded. "Yeah, tell him Jeff came by. Does he still drive that old GMC truck?"

"Rex? No. He drives a Harley."

"That's new. I'll hang around, and see if I can run into him. Army buddy. Passing through, wanted to look him up."

"I'll tell him when I see him. You wanna come in and wait?" She nodded toward her apartment, still smacking that gum. "I got beer."

"No, thanks. I'll check out Dollar Bill's."

The girl went back inside.

Mendocino walked back to Bobby, conflicted over his own ability to deceive. It came easy at times like these. You just had to make sure you used it professionally, not personally. Some cops battled that line, especially on cloudy days.

Bobby waited outside the Land Rover a block away, leaning his back against the vehicle, the night air surprisingly cool with a slight breeze.

"He's not home." Mendocino got into the passenger seat as Bobby got behind the wheel. "Neighbor said he rides a Harley. Might be shooting pool at Dollar Bill's or Lone Star Saloon."

"You talk about cockroaches. I'm not going in either one of those places," Bobby said.

"Too late, anyway." Mendocino clicked the seat belt, leaning into the seat. For the first time, he was tired. "We need some sleep. Take me back to my truck. I'll be back here at first light and get him before he goes to work." They drove in silence a while before Mendocino asked, "Did no one ever question why John David was alone at the line camp, so late? I still think that's key to understanding this."

"Line camp's just a place to get in touch with our roots," Bobby answered. "It's where everything started for us. The place my great, great granddad built." He spread his right hand wide. "Built it with his own hands." Bobby's face was illuminated by the blue hue of the instrument panel. "Sometimes me and Pops, John David, and Gust would go there for a weekend; get drunk, play cards, watch ball games. Leave women and the world behind." His tone turned wistful. "I never questioned why he was there. It was the first place I went to look for him."

Mendocino tried to imagine how he'd react if he found his brother as Bobby found John David—butchered. He couldn't. His mind resisted the vision.

Maybe the blue instrument lights acted as a clarifying filter. Or maybe he'd just traded his wide-angle lens for a zoom. Either way, Mendocino saw Bobby with unexpected empathy. Amos once told him there was no boohoo in Apache. There wasn't any boohoo in a Watson, either. "I misjudged you," he said.

Bobby glanced sideways. "Yeah, well..." He shrugged, meeting Mendocino's direct gaze. "I was an ass. Seeing you and Tillie...surprised me, that's all." His focus shifted back to the road. Later, he looked back at Mendocino. "I'm past it. If you're past it."

Their gazes held.

Mendocino nodded. "I'm good."