Hog Heaven (5 page)

She had to hope nobody else had beaten her to it. Five thousand might seem small in comparison to other offers he might have received.

The boy said, “Whoa.” He was attempting to hold back a grin, but he could not. She now knew she was the first to make this sort of offer. He obviously found it enticing, but still he shook his head. “Five thousand bucks. Man, I don’t know...”

She waited again.

He said, “I appreciate it, but I don’t know if I should do that. Isn’t that against the rules?”

“Who will know except you and I? I will tell no one. It will be a secret we share, yes? This is the way it works with other players. You would be foolish to decline.”

He took a deep breath—almost there, but he needed something more. She stood. Now she towered over him. She said, “For you, I will add something extra to the offer.”

Very slowly, and with great nonchalance, she began to unbutton her blouse.

His eyes sprung open wide.

She finished with the lowest button, removed her blouse, and laid it gently on the tabletop.

His mouth fell open.

She stood there in her bra—red lace with black trim—letting him enjoy the view for a long moment. Then she said, “My final offer. You use the Twitter—make the verbal commitment to OTU—and I will remove the bra for five minutes.” That was as far as she ever took it—no touching of any kind—and it had never failed. Not once.

He gulped. His eyes were riveted. “Plus the money?” he asked.

“Yes, plus the money.”

He began to nod. Slowly at first, then rapidly.

Like many homeowners, Dexter Crabtree always kept a supply of latex gloves on hand. Not because he might decide to undertake some messy chore, such as cleaning the barbecue grill or changing the oil in his lawnmower, but because the idea of sticking Adderall tablets into his anus with his bare fingers was, quite frankly, disgusting. So he kept gloves handy in various locations throughout the house, and also in his Mercedes Benz.

Crabtree had just entered the bathroom of his eight-thousand-square-foot Highland Park home and had snapped on a glove—it was almost Pavlovian how the feel of the latex gave him a giddy rush of anticipation—when his phone alerted. An incoming text.

Crabtree followed various high-profile recruits on Twitter, and he received their tweets as texts. Most of it was useless crap, of course—to be expected from teenage boys who thought the world needed to hear their every waking thought.

This particular tweet was from a UMT recruit in Blanco. The kid named Colton Spillar, who’d prompted Crabtree’s discussion with Adrian Lacy. Spillar would really make a difference on the offensive line next year. Could be
the
difference.

Crabtree opened the text.

He read it. Then he read it again, to make sure he hadn’t misread it the first time.

“Son of a bitch,” he mumbled.

He felt the heat rising in his face.

“Son of a bitch!” he screamed.

He had to resist the temptation to smash his phone on the Italian marble floor.

The flower guy drove a light-green Toyota Prius, which didn’t surprise Red at all. The car was parked on the street, under some shade, looking about as homosexual as a vehicle could look, when Red arrived at Betty Jean’s at ten till four.

“There’s Armando,” Billy Don said.

“I sorta pieced that together,” Red said as he parked in the driveway and killed the engine. They both climbed out of the truck and walked a few paces toward the street.

Red could see a young Mexican guy inside the car, having an animated conversation on his cell phone, gesturing with his free hand. Red didn’t want to be here, but Billy Don had said that Red needed to meet Armando. He wouldn’t say why.

They waited some more. Armando made the gesture again, a short backward flip of his wrist, like he was waving away a bug.

“Think there’s a mosquito in there with him?” Red asked.

Billy Don didn’t say anything. They waited some more. At one point, Armando made eye contact through the windshield and held up one finger, meaning “give me just one more minute.” Several minutes passed. Red was getting fidgety.

Then, finally, Armando put his cell phone away and stepped out of the Prius. “Oh. My. God! That woman! Don’t even get me started!” Apparently, he was one of those people who launched right into a conversation instead of saying hello. He walked up the driveway toward them, saying, “That client—remember the one I told you about, Billy Donald?—now she’s saying she ordered daffodils, but I have my original notes and it was clearly orchids from the beginning. Not that we can’t change the order, because we can, but hello? Can’t she just be honest and admit that she screwed up instead of blaming me?”

Red was thinking: “
Billy Donald”? Did this guy just refer to Billy Don as “Billy Donald”?

As Armando approached, it was fortunate that Red had a few seconds to adjust to what he was seeing. The florist was wearing very tight slacks featuring a snakeskin print, and his shirt wasn’t really a shirt, but appeared to be more of a blouse. A woman’s blouse. A bright-red silk blouse. That kind of get-up would never fly in Johnson City, but Armando was from Marble Falls—population six thousand—and Red knew that big cities were more accepting of Armando’s type.

“Orchids?” Billy Don said.

“Yes!”

“Those are so last year.”

Now Red was thinking:
Did Billy Don just refer to orchids as “so last year”?
This all had to be a practical joke, right? Or maybe Red had inhaled too many gas fumes when he’d filled up the truck on the way over here.

Armando said, “Oh, I know! But at this point, I just have to give her what she wants, right? It’s that or have an aneurysm.” Suddenly Armando turned and focused his attention on Red. “You must be Red. I have to say, I think you and Billy Donald will make a wonderful couple, and I support your relationship one hundred percent.”

Red’s face instantly became warm, but before he could reply, Armando let out a sharp little bark of a laugh.

“I’m just
playing
with you, honey,” he said. “Don’t get so freaked out.”

“Yeah, Red,” Billy Don said. “Don’t get so freaked out.”

“The look on your face was priceless!” Armando said. “You’d think I suggested a threesome.”

“Red can’t even count that high,” Billy Don said.

Red didn’t like the way this was going. Not even a little bit. Billy Don wasn’t usually a smart-aleck like this. Armando was clearly a bad influence. And it wasn’t over yet.

Armando said, “Well, anyway, Billy Donald has told me a lot about you... and I’m surprised you’re not in prison.”

Red said, “I will be if you both keep teasing me.”

“Oh, he speaks!” Armando said, sounding positively gleeful. “And quite the charmer, too!” Red had had enough. He was balling one hand into a fist when Armando added, “No wonder Billy Donald wants you to be his best man!”

Red stopped. Relaxed his hand. Took a deep breath.
Best man?
Okay. About damn time.

“Oops!” Armando said, looking back and forth between Red and Billy Don. “Did I let the cat out of the bag?”

“Naw, that’s okay,” Billy Don said. “That’s why we’re here. Red, Armando has volunteered to give us some advice on picking out tuxedoes. He said he needed to get a feel for your body type.”

“And don’t worry,” Armando said. “‘Get a feel’ is just a figure of speech. I promise not to touch. Somehow I’ll restrain myself.”

“So what do you say?” Billy Don said. Now he was getting down on one knee, hamming it up, pretending like it was a proposal. “Will you be my best man?”

Billy Don and Armando burst out laughing.

Red’s face was flushing again. He didn’t like being made fun of, especially by a total flamer and a halfway illiterate cedar chopper. “Y’all are hilarious,” he said. “A real comedy team.”

That only made them laugh harder. When they recovered, Billy Don stood up again and Armando said, “So... I understand you’ve been out hunting pigs. Did you catch anything?”

Red gave a derisive snort, trying to make it obvious that he thought Armando was an idiot. “You don’t
catch
pigs, you shoot ’em.”

“Unless you’re hunting with Red,” Billy Don said. “Then you wonder if there’s a living animal within fifty miles.”

Red glared at Billy Don, but the big man didn’t notice.

“
Au contraire
, I caught a pig once,” Armando said. “Caught him with my boyfriend! They were both pigs, to be honest.”

Red was not at all comfortable with this line of conversation.

And then, without any warning at all, Armando switched gears and said, “In all seriousness, Red, I know that Billy Donald thinks very highly of you, and that’s why he wants you to play a special role in the most important day of his life. I’m certain you understand what an honor that is.”

Now they were both looking at him. Waiting for him to say something, but Red was at a loss. He wasn’t good at this stuff.

Armando ended the awkward moment by saying, “Well, I have no doubt you will do a fantastic job. If you have any questions, just ask me. Now about the tuxes. I’d say you’re about a 40 regular, am I right?”

“I wish I knew,” Coach Milstead said. “This whole situation really blows my mind.”

Marlin had asked if the coach had any idea who might be firing shots at Sammy Beech during a high-speed chase. They were seated in a pair of matching upholstered chairs around a coffee table in Milstead’s living room. Milstead’s wife, a quiet woman named Jessica, was attending a function at church.

Marlin said, “Did Sammy have any kind of disagreement or argument with any of his teammates? Anyone he didn’t get along with? Even kids on other teams? Fans? Anybody?”

“Nothing that I know about. Sammy was really easygoing and friendly. Everybody liked him.”

“What about the Ecstasy in his system when he died? Any idea who he might’ve gotten that from?”

“No. I had no idea he was into that sort of stuff or I would’ve put a stop to it. I mean, I understand that most boys his age are going to sneak a few beers now and then, but drugs? I have a zero-tolerance policy about that, and so do college coaches. A positive test for drugs at the college level and his career would’ve been over.”

“Who were his best friends? Who did he hang out with?”

Milstead mentioned some names and Marlin wrote them all down. He noticed that many of the boys on the list were the same boys who had taken part in the youth hunt with Sammy a few years earlier at Phil Colby’s ranch.

Then Milstead said, “You want my advice, you need to look outside Blanco County on this.”

“Yeah? Do you have someone specific in mind?”

“No, but—do you know anything about how players like Sammy get recruited?”

“I don’t follow that part of it real close. I played some ball for Southwest Texas State, but I wasn’t quite to Sammy’s level. Didn’t get recruited.”

“You were a walk-on?”

“Yeah.”

“What position?”

“Linebacker.”

“Okay, well, Sammy—as you know, he was as blue chip as they come. He could’ve picked just about any Division One school he wanted. Last I heard, he’d had something like thirty offers.”

“Scholarship offers.”

“Right. Let me back up. Coaches start going after some of these kids young—sometimes as early as their sophomore year, if they show a ton of promise. What a coach wants is for that kid to make a verbal commitment. Of course, my opinion, it’s all sort of a waste of time, because the verbal commitment isn’t binding. The kid can change his mind, and so can the coach, without any kind of penalty.”

“How often does that happen?”

“Often enough. And even when a kid does verbally commit, it used to mean other coaches would respect that decision and back off, but even that has gone by the wayside in the past few years. There is a tremendous amount of competition between schools to get their claws into a kid like Sammy. I mean, you can build an entire offense around a player like him. I’m sure you’ve heard stories about boosters, or even coaches, slipping cash under the table to these kids. Buying them cars, paying their rent, things like that. All illegal.”

“Does that still go on?”

“Some. And lately there have been more street agents around. You familiar with street agents?”

“I’m afraid not.”

“It’s a guy who pretends to be a scout or a trainer, or maybe he’ll even worm his way into some recruit’s inner circle, so he can claim to be a family friend. And then he’ll try to influence which school that kid picks.”

“For a price.”

“Exactly. Scouting is totally legal, but once you start acting as a middleman between a recruit and a school, then it’s crossing the line. It’s hard to prove, though, because the school will say they were only paying the guy to be a scout.”

“Pretty slimy.”

Milstead leaned forward and placed his forearms on his knees. “Winning ballgames is one thing, but recruiting is a game in itself. Schools will try just about anything that gives them an edge. You know about hostesses?”

“I don’t think so,” Marlin replied.

“Most of the big schools have a group of girls—gorgeous young ladies, to be blunt—whose job is to show recruits around when they visit campus. The coaching staff is only allowed to spend so much time with any particular recruit, so these hostesses step up and have a lot of contact with these boys and make sure their needs are taken care of.”

“The hostesses are an official school group?”

“Yep. Usually connected to the admissions office rather than the athletics department, but everybody knows their main task is to take care of recruits.”

“When you say ‘take care of’...”

“Use your imagination. Of course, maybe I’m generalizing, and I’d bet most of the hostesses stick to the job description, and that’s as far as it goes. But there have been some that have offered more than a tour around campus. Which is why a lot of these hostess groups have been disbanded in the past few years. Something that seemed quaint or charming thirty, forty years ago now seems pretty exploitive, doesn’t it?”

“Very.”

“Imagine being seventeen years old, having a dozen legendary football coaches interested in you, and when you show up to campus for a visit, you’re greeted by a couple of the most beautiful young women you’ve ever seen,” Milstead said.

“Hard to resist.”

“Exactly, and sometimes a kid gets swept away by it all and makes a verbal commitment he later regrets. So he ends up changing his mind, like Sammy did. You have to wonder how many people that pissed off. That’s the point I’m making.”

“Did you advise him on all this stuff? His choices?” Marlin asked.

“In hindsight, I wish I’d butted in a little more. Some high school coaches are very protective of their players, and others prefer to stay out of the recruitment process entirely. I guess my style is somewhere in the middle. I let my boys—and their parents—know that I’m happy to give my guidance, if they want it. If not, that’s fine too.”

“I remember that Sammy committed to UMT back in the spring, but I never heard that he changed his mind.”

“That’s the other reason I’m bringing all this up. The timing just seems suspicious to me.”

“How so?” Marlin asked.

“It wasn’t just that Sammy decided he wanted to go to OTU instead of UMT, it was that he announced it on Facebook just a few hours before he died.”

On his way through Johnson City after interviewing Milstead, Marlin spotted a cluster of trucks in the far reaches of the Super S Foods parking lot, out near the highway. Looked like an impromptu party—ten or twelve vehicles in total, with eighteen to twenty men seated on tailgates, leaning against fenders, standing in small groups talking.

Marlin switched lanes and pulled his green government-issued Dodge into the lot. He didn’t recognize any of the trucks, but most of them were small and foreign-made—jacked up, with big tires and four-wheel-drive for off-roading. Some of the trucks had gun racks mounted in the rear windows. Several had light bars on their grills and whip antennas for CB radios on their roofs.

As Marlin got closer, he saw that he didn’t recognize any of the men, either. They appeared to range in age from early twenties to mid-forties, and several of them discreetly held beer cans behind their legs as they noticed Marlin approaching. Some of them didn’t bother hiding their beers, and one man even held his can up in a lazy salute.

Anyone from the city would say this was a rough-looking crew. Redneck all the way. Scruffy. Most of them needed a shave and, in some cases, extensive dental work. A few of the men wore camo, but most were wearing pearl-snap denim shirts and worn-out jeans with Justin Ropers or snake boots. At least half of them had black felt hats on their heads, with a feather tucked in the headband. It was a signature look, and Marlin had already realized who he was dealing with. But the final tip-off was that there was a dog box—basically a big aluminum crate—mounted in the bed of nearly every truck.

Great. Dog runners.

That was the name given to hardcore hunters who used Walker and bluetick hounds, beagles, Jack Russell terriers, and a few other types of working dogs to chase deer in the Pineywoods of East Texas. The dog runners’ bloodlines usually went back many generations to the early settlers along the Neches River. Hunting with dogs was illegal, but it was sometimes hard to prove, because while a hunter couldn’t use dogs to
pursue
a deer during an active hunt, he could use dogs legally to
trail
a deer that was already wounded. Except in East Texas. The problem with dog runners was so prevalent, and so concentrated, in that area of the state, it was illegal to even trail a deer with a dog in twenty-two East Texas counties.

These dog runners were obviously here to try to collect the pig bounty, and Marlin wasn’t happy about it. Dog runners were notorious for breaking hunting laws. As far as the dog runners were concerned, they were just carrying on a tradition set by their daddies, and by their daddies before that, and so on. What right did the government have to tell them to quit doing what they had always done? It was their God-given right.

Not surprisingly, there wasn’t a dog to be seen. The types of dogs used to hunt wild pigs would instinctively separate one pig from the herd. That’s not what the hunters would want in this situation. They’d prefer to kill as many pigs as possible, as quickly as possible. So they hadn’t brought any dogs.

Marlin stopped about forty feet away and studied the group. They watched him right back. More accurately, most of them glared right back. A few of them laughed, as someone no doubt had just made some sort of wise-ass remark.

What Marlin needed to do was get out and talk to them. Ask if he could join the party. Be friendly—but make his presence known. Get a good look at their faces. Take note of any names he heard. Sometimes these informal visits went just fine, other times he found himself in the middle of a pack of first-class assholes.

Just as he reached for the door handle, he happened to glance in his rearview mirror. Behind him, on the other side of the parking lot, was a similar cluster of trucks. As he was craning around to look, he saw several more trucks across the highway, parked in front of a convenience store.

He knew right then it was going to be a long night.