The Jealous Kind (Holland Family Saga 2)

“You’re pulling my crank?”

“No, that’s the truth, Loren. The Atlas family brought in a couple of Sicilian hit men to find it.”

He straightened his collar and glanced sideways down the street, his hair blowing in the wind, his shirt flapping. “Hopkins is dirty, isn’t he?”

“Corrupt? I don’t know.”

“He was a vice cop in Galveston. That means he was either on a pad for the Atlas family or he quit or got fired because he was on the square. Does Hopkins strike you as a guy on the square?”

“You think he knows these hit men?”

“A guy like that has his finger in anything that pays a buck. Did Bledsoe boost Harrelson’s convertible?”

“Ask him.”

“That’s what I thought. Okay, why hasn’t somebody picked him up and torn him apart? Why haven’t they torn you apart?”

“Maybe they’re fixing to.”

“Maybe. But why haven’t they done it so far? Wise up.”

“Somebody already knows where the convertible is?”

“See what a smart guy you are?”

“What do you think I should do?”

“Know what I learned at Gatesville? Stack your own time. Don’t let people know what you’re thinking. Silence scares the shit out of them. That’s why the hacks put guys in solitary. It’s the thing they fear most themselves. They’re always playing their radios or yelling at each other in a locker room. When they don’t hear sound, they’ve got to deal with their own problems.”

“What time is your performance?” I said.

“At seven. It’s at the Baptist campground. First I got to pick up all these kids on the bus. I read that book you gave me. The Song of Roland? It’s pretty good. Did all that stuff really happen?”

“It never stopped happening,” I said.

“You’re a weird guy, man. I mean deep-fried weird.”

I STOPPED IN A church on the way home and sat in a pew at the back, deep in the shadows. There was no one else there except a janitor knocking a push broom among the pews. I had come to believe that my spells were not simply blackouts but a way of hiding my true personality from myself. Amid the smell of incense and holy water in the stone founts and the candles flickering in their blue and red vessels, I admitted I wanted to kill Vick Atlas and his father and, for good measure, Grady Harrelson, and I wanted a divine hand to give me permission.

My thoughts seemed obscene, an offense to my surroundings and the powers I believe live on the other side of the veil. If I expected help with my request, it wasn’t there. I walked outside, blind in the glare of the sun.

Chapter

32

I ATE AN EARLY supper with my parents, then picked up Valerie and drove to the campground where Loren’s Baptist friends held their assemblies. A milky brown stream ran through it, and there were cedar and pine trees along the edges of the gulley, and swings and seesaws on a playground, and a big green ramshackle building with Ping-Pong tables and a basketball court inside. I had never been to a Protestant gathering. Back then, at least in the South, Catholics were often looked upon with suspicion. We in turn were taught to avoid regular company with the descendants of Martin Luther and John Calvin.

“I feel like I’m in hostile territory,” I said.

“Why should they be upset with you when they’ve got a Christ killer like me available?” Valerie said.

How do you argue with that?

An empty yellow bus was parked by the building among rows of pickup trucks and old cars. Loren was smoking a cigarette outside the bus door, wearing navy blue slacks high on his hips and a white long-sleeved cowboy shirt with a silver tie and clasp, his hair wet-combed over the collar. I parked by the bus and took my guitar case from the backseat and handed it to him. “There’re a couple flat picks and a thumb pick inside.”

“Thanks,” he said. He dropped his cigarette to the ground and mashed it under his shoe. Then he picked it up and field-stripped it and let the tobacco blow apart in the wind. He took a deep breath and worked his neck against his shirt collar.

“Nervous?” I said.