Free Buck Fever (Blanco County Mysteries) by Ben Rehder Page B

that's what!” Garza stared at Combes, but the kid wouldn't meet his eyes. “All right, Willie, last question: Where did you get the pot?”
    “Aw, man…”
    “I'm not kidding about this. Tell me where you got it or I'll take you in right now.”
    Willie sighed and finally said, “His name is Charles Walznick.”

 
    THE COLOMBIAN MAN had been in Texas several times, but he had never been to Johnson City.
    And from what he had seen so far, he had already made a vow not to come back. Nothing but pickup trucks and rednecks, as far as he could determine. Couple of mom-and-pop restaurants, nothing that looked too promising. The obligatory Dairy Queen. Even a couple of small hotels on the main strip. Every building in town could use a coat of paint, except for the courthouse. It was made of stone. Just like other small towns in Texas, hardly more than a wide spot in the road.
    The man pulled into Big Joe's Restaurant, hoping the crowded parking lot was a sign of good food. He hated the thought of having to sit down and eat in the midst of a bunch of yokels, but he was getting hungry and couldn't wait any longer.
    He squeezed his rented Cadillac between a rusty Ford truck and a Chevy Suburban. Tight spot. He was already picturing how he'd have to fuck up some hick if he came out and found a scratch on this nice car.
    He walked through the door and a cute brunet girl was waiting for him, asking if it would be just him for dinner. She sat him down at a small table and gave him a big smile. He smiled back. Maybe this wouldn't be all that bad. He felt pretty sure she was impressed by his linen jacket, which was imported from France. Nice Italian shoes, too. Slicked-back hair with two-hundred-dollar shades perched on his head. Impeccably groomed mustache. Sure, there was plenty for a girl to smile about.
    Scanning the menu, the man started to groan inside. Christ, don't they have anything here that isn't fried in fat? Chicken-fried steak. Chicken-fried chicken. Deep-fried okra. He imagined they'd fry the pecan pie if they could find a way. When the brunet girl came back, he ordered the chicken-salad sandwich.
    “Thass not fried, ees it?” he asked, flirting a little, thinking the girl might like his accent. He was a regular Ricardo Montalban.
    She didn't catch the sarcasm. “No, sir. But you might want to try the chicken-fried steak. Best in town.”
    He told her he'd stick with the sandwich and a glass of iced tea.
    The man glanced around the dining room and observed the crowd. Lots of guys in jeans and boots, colorful pullover shirts and cowboy hats. Plenty of women and young girls, too, dressed for a night on the town, it looked like.
    The brunet brought his iced tea and he asked if something was going on in town.
    “Big volleyball game tonight against Marble Falls. If we win, we take district.”
    “Don’ you play volleyball?”
    “I did, but I graduated last year.”
    “Bet you were the star player, with long legs like that.” The man looked her up and down and the girl gave him an embarrassed smile.
    She was about to reply when a young man, barely drinking age, caught her eye from a few tables over. He was shaking an empty beer bottle at her, asking for another round. She excused herself and went into a back room.
    The man glanced over at the impatient customer's table. Four local men—boys, really—were hunched over plates hidden by enormous slabs of chicken-fried steak. They all wore workshirts and boots. About a dozen beer bottles were assembled into a pyramid in the center of the table.
    The girl came back with another round for the young men. The one who had shaken his bottle at her—Mr. Impatient—said something to her. The Colombian man couldn't hear it, but he could sense tension between the waitress and the young punk. The customer said something else and then glared over at the Colombian.
    As the man ate his sandwich, the crowd thinned. Nearly eight o'clock, time for the game. By the time he was done,