Blind Tiger by Sandra Brown

Not, however, from the old man, who spat into his coffee can. “You can have Ranger,” Hiram said. “But I want Breckenridge and any other boom towns that spring up between here and the Red River. You can have anything south of here.”

“There won’t be any boom towns south of here because there’s no oil south of here. Not for hundreds of miles. As you well know.”

“West then,” Hiram said. “Show him the map.”

A man in greasy overalls stepped forward and passed Bernie a faded map. He studied the lines that had been drawn on it to demarcate territories. “This is attractive to me. They’re already drilling out there west of Abilene, around Odessa.”

“So more than fair, I think. Take it or leave it.” He spat again.

“If I take it, it amounts to a cease-fire. Agreed?”

“Agreed.”

“And it goes into effect immediately?”

Hiram nodded.

“Splendid.” Bernie stepped forward, right hand extended. With an evil gleam in his eye, the rotting son of a bitch wiped tobacco spittle off his lip before clutching Bernie’s hand. Despite his revulsion, Bernie gave him an enthusiastic handshake.

“I was so optimistic about the outcome of this meeting that I brought you a gift, Mr. Johnson.” He signaled Hennessy, who’d been waiting out on the porch. “I’ve brought you a case of Kentucky bourbon, direct from my most trusted bootlegger in Dallas and Fort Worth.”

Oohs and ahhs of appreciation rippled through the compacted gathering of bodies as the case was carried in and set on the floor in front of that putrid foot.

“Enjoy.” Bernie’s leave-taking was unceremonious. It was barely even noticed. Hiram was already swilling from a bottle of the whiskey. His relatives were greedily converging around the case.

Together Bernie and Hennessy walked toward the town car. Looking back over his shoulder at the party underway, Hennessy asked, “How long before the poison works?”

“I’ve decided it takes too long. Did you bring along some of your toys?”

“Always, boss.”

Bernie grinned as he climbed into the driver’s seat. “Give me ten minutes to get to the highway, then light her up.”





Fifty-Four



Bernie entered his house through the front door, and automatically locked it behind him.

He had driven himself from Hiram’s house to the intersection with the highway, where he’d gotten to enjoy the fireball. When Hennessy caught up with him, the Irishman had taken his traditional place in the driver’s seat while Bernie got into the back and savored his success during the trip into town. The Johnsons not blown to smithereens in the blast would have been cooked to well done in the fire.

Both he and Hennessy were confident that they hadn’t been followed. Hennessy had waited to be certain that Bernie made it safely inside his front door, then struck out on foot. He lodged in a seedier part of town. He didn’t fear that on his walk home anyone would be fool enough to accost him.

Through the side window on the front door, Bernie checked the street one last time. It was empty, nothing moving save for Hennessy, disappearing into the downpour.

Tomorrow, when Mayor Croft was told the shocking news of the conflagration, he would publicly attribute it to a lightning strike. The old Johnson place would have been a tinder box, he would say. The poor souls inside, a great number of the legendary clan including the patriarch, had stood little chance of escaping the flames.

For the town’s biweekly gazette, he would wax poetic about the tragedy. He would milk it for all it was worth. But now, as he collapsed his umbrella and hung his hat on the coat tree, he wanted to cackle with delight over his triumph. He stepped into the parlor and reached for the light switch.

“Leave it.”

Bernie fell back against the doorjamb and clapped his hand over his heart. “Jesus, Chester.”

“Why, Mr. Mayor. You jumped like someone with a guilty conscience.”

The darkness was relieved only by light from a streetlamp shining through the front window curtains. Bernie’s eyes adjusted. Landry was sitting with his typical indolence in an easy chair, legs crossed.

He said, “Where have you and Hennessy been off to tonight?”

Bernie went over to a cabinet and took out a bottle of bourbon and two glasses. “A better question would be what are you doing inside my house at this hour, sitting in the dark?” He poured an inch of bourbon into each glass and carried one over to Landry.

“Thank you.” He clinked his glass against Bernie’s but didn’t drink from it.

Bernie settled himself on the divan facing Landry’s chair. “Well?”

Landry propped his drinking glass on his knee and stared into it for a moment. “My welcome in your little burg has worn thin, Bernie.”

“You’re leaving?”

“Tonight.”

Bernie’s eyebrows shot up. “Tonight? How long do you plan to be away?”

“Forever. I’m severing our partnership. As of now.”

This was an unexpected turn, but not at all disappointing to Bernie. Landry’s welcome had been wearing thin with him, too. Initially, he’d needed a man like Landry to grease the skids into the bootlegging trade.

But Bernie’s own contacts in the cities were well established by now. The value of Landry’s usefulness had decreased. It certainly wasn’t worth the percentage he demanded. If Landry wanted out, Bernie wasn’t at all sorry to bid him farewell.