Heartwood (Billy Bob Holland 2)

“Yesterday you were threatening me in front of a church,” I said, and threw the envelope into his chest.

“This ain’t about me. Jeff Deitrich got her wired on leapers and married her in a chicken yard down in Piedras Negras,” Ronnie said.

“That’s not how she told it to me,” I said.

The skin on Ronnie’s face flexed against the bone. “You already talked to her? She says she wanted to marry Jeff?” he asked, his mouth slack.

“I went to see her because I think she’s getting a bad deal, Ronnie. Here’s the card of a bondsman across the square. I’ll be at her arraignment this afternoon. Use that money to work out something on the bail,” I said.

“Why you looking out for Esmeralda?” Cholo asked.

“Because she’s stand-up,” I said.

His eyes narrowed, as though there were a trick in my words. He wore a white undershirt and his shoulders and upper arms had the swollen proportions of a steroid addict. He stood in front of the glass wall case that contained the revolvers and Winchester rifle of my great-grandfather without seeming to have ever noticed it. His reflection wobbled between the glass and blue felt background like a man trapped under lake ice.

I waited for him to speak but he didn’t.

“A pilot named Bubba Grimes told me Earl Deitrich has a weakness for gambling. I hear you told Temple Carrol a story about turning over card games. Is there a connection there, Cholo?” I said.

“No.”

But Ronnie was looking at the side of Cholo’s face now.

“I said no,” Cholo repeated.

“You two guys build cars that belong on magazine covers. Why do you waste your energies with gangbangers?” I said.

Ronnie Cruise pointed the index and little fingers of his right hand at me, like devil’s horns. “Man, you’re a Heart only once. You got a tattoo on your throat like Cholo’s, you got shit in your blood and everybody on the street knows it. You were a Texas Ranger?” he said.

“That’s right.”

“Then you should understand.”

After they left I called Temple and asked her to visit the women’s section of the jail to ensure that nothing untoward was happening to Esmeralda Ramirez.

“I thought you already went over there,” she said.

“It doesn’t hurt to err on the side of caution,” I said.

“Is that the reason you called?”

“No. Have dinner with me.”

“I’ll think about it,” she said, and hung up.

I walked to the window and looked out on the square, at the blinding white reflection of sunlight on the cement and the deep green of the oaks moving in a hot wind. I tried to keep my thoughts straight in my head but I couldn’t. I kept thinking of both Temple and Peggy Jean Deitrich and wondered at how it was possible to feel trepidation, guilt, and attraction whenever the name of either one came into my mind. I heard the secretary’s voice, then the door of my office ease open on the rug.

Ronnie Cruise stood in the doorway, the envelope full of money stuck down in his belt.

“She told you she got married ’cause she wanted to? She wasn’t fried when she done it?” he said.

“I’m not her priest, Ronnie.”

“I was just clearing it up, that’s all. I’ll be at the arraignment. I got no beef,” he said.

I bet, I thought.

Esmeralda was released on bail at four that afternoon. Her brother, Cholo, and Temple Carrol and I walked with her toward Cholo’s car, which was webbed with dried mud from the tomato field she had plowed through. The late sun was like a yellow flame in the trees and she shielded her eyes and kept looking at the row of cars parked up and down the street.