Free Dead Peasants by Larry D. Thompson Page B

standing out with its red granite exterior, massive columns at the top of the steps and domed roof, complete with a clock.
That’s what a courthouse should look like
, he mused.
People should feel a certain sense of awe as they climbed the twenty steps to seek justice.
    Jack drove around the courthouse and crossed another bridge over the Trinity as he descended from the courthouse bluff to the river bottom below. The area on both sides was run down. About the only businesses were a couple of bars, a topless club and some bail bondsmen. That changed as he approached the stockyards. Abandoned and in disarray for many years, some far-sighted citizen saw the potential of a tourist attraction among the ruins. In a matter of years the covered pens became shops. A tourist train weaved through the area. Steak houses and Mexican restaurants sprang up. “Billy Bob’s Texas” billed itself as the world’s largest honky-tonk, attracting some of the best singers that Nashville had to offer. Cowboys were hired to stall their horses there and ride them among the tourists, pausing to pose for photos and accept a tip for their efforts. Every afternoon the cowboys drove a small herd of longhorn cattle through the area, emulating the cattle drives of another era. The folks in Fort Worth liked the stockyards because they served to remind visitors that Cowtown really did have its roots in the old West.
    Beyond the stockyards there was little more to see. A couple of car dealerships had been abandoned, brought down by the great recession. When he got to Meacham Field, once Fort Worth’s commercial airport but now used only by private aircraft owners, he turned and headed back south. Once past the stockyards, he noted a cop shop, the Stockyards Police Station, on the right. A few blocks later he spotted an old fashioned ice house at the corner of Refinery and North Main. Beside it was a vacant lot where he parked and walked the property, using his cane to pick his way among rocks and debris.
Big enough,
he thought. He looked up to see that the lot was served by electricity. When he got to the back, he looked over the fence to see a neighborhood with homes barely fit for habitation. The roofs on most were patched. Old cars appeared abandoned in front yards. The streets were filled with potholes.
These people could use a good lawyer,
Jack mused.
    Jack walked to the front and studied the ice house. It, too, was a throwback to days gone by. With rusted metal walls, it had two garage doors in the front that were opened on warm days. A couple of old wooden tables, each with two chairs, were on the concrete apron in front. With no air conditioning, ceiling fans stirred a decent breeze. Jack stepped across the threshold. To his right were four old men drinking beer and loudly slamming dominoes on a table. A worn and scarred bar ran across the back. Three barstools had seen better days, maybe twenty years ago. Jack limped a little, having twisted his knee in the vacant lot, as he took a seat on one of the stools. The bartender had a fringe of gray hair and a black handlebar mustache.
    “What can I get for you?” he asked.
    “Lone Star. Coldest one you got.”
    “They’re all cold, my friend. I still ice them down every morning. No refrigerated coolers in this place.”
    Jack nodded his appreciation as he downed half the beer and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. “Wow, that’s good. Can I ask you a question?”
    “Fire away.”
    “Who owns that lot next door?” Jack nodded in the direction of his pickup.
    “Was owned by an investor who thought that the stockyards tourist area would eventually move this way, but I hear that the bank just foreclosed. You got any interest in it?”
    “I might.” Jack finished his beer and put three dollars on the counter. As he rose, he stuck out his hand. “Name’s Jack Bryant.”
    The bartender shook it and said, “Moe.”
    Jack nodded, paused to watch the domino game and then went to his