

### THE DEVIL'S SHOESTRING

By Allen Nesbitt

Copywright 2015 Allen Nesbitt

Smashwords Edition

This book is available in print at most online retailers

"Don't tug on the devil's shoestring

It's bad mojo they say

He's gonna be haunting you

Every night and day."

Mississippi Slim

When the old man slowly shuffled along the downtown streets of Ft. Worth mumbling and shouting, the people that he encountered moved quickly past him. Some of them felt sorry for him, some wondered why the city didn't address the homeless problem and others ignored him.

But the old man's tortured mind held a horrible secret.

They didn't know. Only he knew

### Chapter One

### Home, Sweet Home

The hot air of the Texas night shrouded Xerxes Waller as he shuffled along the empty street. As he moved past the barbeque joint, the lingering scent of spicy meat formed a fragrant fog which seemed to cling to him. A block further down the street, a leaking sewer thrust a disgusting odor into the black air. He covered his face and tried to hold his breath until he was past the flowing gutter.

Suddenly he doubled over in a spasm of coughing. He spat onto the gray pavement, bloody mucus sliding darkly into dusty weeds. As he reached the end of the defeated street, a pungent stab of creosote and an oily curtain of diesel fuel invaded his nostrils.

He climbed the slight embankment of rocky ballast, scrubby weeds and trash. He crested into the edge of a railroad yard. He turned left and followed a rusty track. On his right was the large rail yard. The tracks of several railroads merged into an orderly web of iron rails and switches. Strings of freight cars slumbered in the summer night. Red signals pierced the clear night like bloody lasers. A lone switch engine shunted a string of cars along on an inside track.

Further south was the tower and the crossing where the east-west tracks crossed and converged. The throbbing of the diesel locomotives blended with the wail of the air horns. Hissing air connections, squealing brakes and the thud of slack pulling formed the night music of Waller's home.

When Waller had found the building, the cellar had been cluttered with trash and leaves. He purchased some heavy wire cutters and a roll of thick wire at a hardware store. He cut the fence above the stairs, then he cut the wire into lengths and bent each end to form a hook. When he left the cellar, or at night before he went to sleep, he would close the opening with the wire hooks. Only a close inspection would reveal the breach in the fence. He had removed the trash and leaves. He had stolen a broom from the bus station and swept one corner clean. Every day, he would sweep the floor before he departed.

Once, while in the library, Waller had read a story in the Star Telegram about his building. At one time it had housed a very successful wholesale operation. The aged owner had died. None of his five children had any interest in the company. They liquidated the operation and tried to sell the building. The location was not right for the price that they wanted. The family held out for over twenty years waiting for the land values in the area to increase. Finally, two of the siblings took sides and sued the others. The case was winding its way through the courts. It would be many years before resolution. So the old building continued to decay, and Waller continued staying there.

So on this hot July night, Waller slipped the pack from his back and walked carefully down the steps. He secured the fence back into place with the hooks. Then he removed an insulate pad from his pack and placed it on the smooth, concrete floor. He unrolled his sleeping bag and laid it along the wall in the corner. He removed his boots, wrapped his shirt around them and fashioned them into a pillow. He reached into the pack and pulled out a snub-nosed Colt .38 special and placed it next to his boots. As a long freight train labored into the yard, Waller dropped drunkenly into the velvet darkness.

The next day, Waller awoke slowly. He realized that he had not dreamed about it. That was always a relief. When he did dream of it, the tortuous nightmares shattered his rest and made him sweat and writhe in the night. He hadn't dreamed of it in many nights. He was glad for this respite.

On this summer day in July, Waller lay on his back and looked up into a blue sky framing the roof of the cellar. It was going to be another hot day. Waller wore no watch, but guessed it to be around six thirty. Hours, days, weeks and months all blurred into a succession of sleep, eat and drink. He began to stir.

Waller retrieved his boots, sat up and laced them on. He put on his shirt and buttoned it up. He replaced the pistol in the pack and rolled up his sleeping bag. He picked up his gear, climbed the steps and opened the fence. After he passed through the opening, he fastened it back in place. He shouldered the pack and walked to a tree and pissed onto the dusty soil.

He took inventory. The burning pain in his stomach had yet to surface. His breathing was raspy and his right lung ached. Waller pulled a ragged pack of Marlboros from his shirt pocket and lit one. The harsh smoke gave him a slight rush.

Waller ran a hand over his head, then through his beard. He decided to head over to the barbershop. He trudged toward the edge of downtown. It was still very early. The sound of the traffic to the south of him indicated that it was a weekday.

A passerby would take Waller for another unfortunate street person. Just an elderly, bearded fellow shuffling along, pack on his back, no future in front of him, commonplace in the nineties.

The more astute observer would note that the hiking boots were of top quality and the trousers and shirt were clean. The pack and sleeping bag would fetch top dollar in a sporting goods store. The observer would not know of the aged money belt under the denim shirt, which was stuffed with twenty dollar bills, or of the Colt.38 special inside the pack. Waller was not a typical street person.

Waller avoided contact with the other poor souls that aimlessly traversed the city.

Close to the Greyhound bus station was a small barbershop. It was a relic from the past. The two barbers were very old men. The shoeshine boy was even older. He was a Negro called, "Cigar John."

Waller was the first customer of the day. John greeted him at the door.

"Still wear'n dem boots. I can't shine no boots."

"Next time, I'll wear wingtips," smiled Waller handing the old man a five dollar bill and settling in one of the barber chairs.

It was a long-standing joke between them. Waller had been getting his hair cut and his beard trimmed there for almost thirty years. He eschewed the small talk and opinions of the barbers, or the occasional other customers. Clement would ask him how he wanted it cut.

"The usual," replied Waller and closed his eyes and dozed as Clement began to work. Clement would cut the white hair short, trim the white beard and hold up a hand mirror for Waller's approval.

"That will be eleven dollars, sir," the old barber said.

Waller pulled a roll of bills from the pocket of his faded pants and handed three five dollar bills to Clement. The old man offered four ones back and Waller refused them as always.

"Thank you, sir," the old man said. Waller nodded, retrieved his pack and walked out of the shop.

As he walked slowly away from the shop, he stuffed the roll of fives into his pocket. He liked fives. Lincoln was on the five. He smiled as he walked along the sidewalk toward the old YMCA.

Waller maintained three identical sets of clothes. One set he wore, one set was folded neatly in his pack and the third set was at the cleaners. Waller reached the YMCA building and walked inside. He went to the third floor men's locker room where he had a locker that he rented by the year.

Waller spun the combination lock and opened the door. Inside he kept a supply of shampoo, soap, deodorant, a comb, a brush and other sundries. Waller took the clean set of clothes from his pack and set them on a shelf in the locker. He placed the pack, sleeping bag and money belt into the locker. He stripped and put the dirty clothes inside of a plastic bag. He set them inside of the locker, shut the door and locked the lock.

He carried the shampoo and bar of soap to the shower room, grabbing a clean, white towel from a stack by the entrance of the large room. He headed toward a stall. A few businessmen who had just completed an early racquetball match had left the area steaming. Waller turned on the water full force and hot. He washed his hair and lathered with the soap. He let the heavy, hot spray cascade over him for a long time.

Finally, he turned off the water and toweled off. The other men had departed. Waller went to his locker and unlocked it. He applied the deodorant and combed his short hair. He dressed in the clean set of clothes. He circled the money belt around his lean waist and pulled the blue shirt over it. He retrieved his pack and sleeping bag. He locked the locker. He would return in a few days. The attendant sitting behind a counter nodded at Waller as he left the area. Waller ignored the man.

It was much warmer when Waller left the YMCA and headed toward a small diner on the next block. He had eaten breakfast there every day for a very long time. The faces of the employees and other customer changed, but his order was always the same; two eggs scrambled, sausage, toast and juice. Waller sat at the counter and ate with remote efficiency.

After paying his check, he walked to the cleaners. He turned in the plastic bag of clothes and picked up his clean set. He placed them inside of his pack. In addition to his clothes and gun, the pack held a rain suit with hood, a heavy parka for winter, spare socks and underwear, a ball cap, gloves and a woolen stocking hat. There was also a thick, waterproof bag inside.

Waller left the cleaners and headed to the public library four blocks away. The pain in his stomach grew fiery hot and ragged. Once inside the cool building, he went into a restroom. He sat doubled over on the toilet for a long time. Finally, he felt better. He went outside and had a smoke. Then he went back inside to the periodical section. He perused the Dallas Morning News and the Fort Worth Star Telegram for a while. Then he picked up a copy of the Wall Street Journal. He had never owned stocks or bonds, but he liked the crisp reporting and the lengthy paper consumed all of his morning.

The routine never varied. He would read until noon. The only exception was on Sunday when the library was closed. Then he would buy the Dallas paper and sit in the bus station.

At noon, Waller replaced the paper in the rack and walked outside. It was almost one hundred degrees and the heat slammed off the pavement. He walked two blocks to a small barbeque joint and ate a plate of brisket, sausage and beans. He washed it down with a mug of cold beer.

Waller went out of the dark place into the bright sunshine. He headed toward a small park that was along the river. Close to the park, he stopped in a small store and purchased several quarts of beer and a bag of ice. He removed the waterproof bag from his pack and filled it with the beer and ice. He ambled slowly to the park. At the edge of the river were some benches. Waller went to his bench and sat down. He removed one of the bottles from the bag and opened it. He took a long sip of the icy liquid.

The Trinity was a brown, smelly and unattractive river. The city had tried to make it more appealing by building several small parks in various spots. Because of this park's proximity to a side of the city that few people ventured to, Waller was usually the only denizen of the benched area.

It would remain light until almost nine o'clock, so Waller had many hours to while away. Not far from his bench were some bushes and a small grove of trees. Waller used this spot to relieve himself during the long afternoons and evenings. Seldom did anyone venture into the area. There was a jogging path a hundred yards behind his bench. Sometimes, a policeman on a bicycle or a horse would pass by on the path. They never bothered him.

Waller was convinced that the sun could heal any ailment. He let the hot rays burn across his chest and stomach as he reclined on his bench.

So he lounged in the summer sun, sipped the golden liquid and let his mind wander. Sometimes, he focused on one topic, other times his thoughts were all jumbled. In the late afternoons, when he was drunk, he would mumble and laugh.

Often he would think of situations and circumstances in which, had he made a different choice, a different decision, things would be very different today.

"What was the defining moment that had led him to this bench, drinking the day away, wandering the deteriorating blocks and sleeping in a cellar behind an abandoned building?"

But no one event could be blamed. It was a web of decisions and a labyrinth of choices, any one of which could have kept him from this place. So on this hot summer day, his mind wandered back to his earliest memories.

### Chapter Two

### Sweet Home, Alabama

Waller's earliest memories were of his childhood days in the hilly, green neighborhoods of Birmingham. The Great Depression had not touched his family or those of his friends. Now, the country was involved in a war and Birmingham was a beehive of activity. Iron was mined from the hills north of the city. It fed the huge steel mills. Long freight trains carried jeeps, tanks and munitions down to the Gulf for shipment to Europe. The "Pittsburgh of the South" was booming.

His house had a nice backyard with a swing set, but Xerxes and his pals roamed far and wide, climbing tall trees, wading in a creek and hunting rabbits and squirrels in a wooded area nearby. Two blocks away was a vacant lot that became a perfect baseball diamond during the long, hot summer days.

Around noon, someone would talk their mother into making peanut butter and jelly sandwiches and Kool-Aid. Then they would head off on their bikes to the old quarry to swim all afternoon, daring each other to dive from the high cliffs.

Summers were long and sweet. His school was a few blocks away from his house. During the school year, he would walk every day, meeting up with his buddies along the way. One kid had dug a cave in a hillside of his backyard. It was fun to stop and read comic books in the damp-smelling darkness by candlelight in the afternoons.

Waller was athletic and scrappy. He tanned well and at the end of summer, he was brown and battle scarred. He and his best friend, Gene, had explored some sewer tunnels, hopped a slow-moving freight train, climbed to the top of a church steeple and built a large fort from materials scavenged from the alleyways of the neighborhood.

Waller did well in school. He enjoyed learning and made excellent grades. He read many of the books in his father's large library. He especially liked ones about the medieval period in Europe.

Sometimes, he envied the other kids who had brothers and sisters. But he had much more freedom than most of his friends, having only to be home by dinner time.

His father, Madison Waller, had a rigid work ethic that mandated an early bedtime, and usually the old man was asleep by nine o'clock. Minnie, the cook and housekeeper, liked to talk on the telephone to her mother. She would retire to her quarters in back of the house after cleaning up the kitchen. So it was easy for Xerxes to slip away and join some of his bolder friends for night sorties. They would sneak into movie theaters, climbed a water tower, peek into the windows of high school girls or smoke cigarettes by the creek.

Waller's elementary school was one of four that fed into the junior high school. While the boys tended to stick together with their friends from their old school, the girls were a different matter. Xerxes was amazed to see so many pretty girls from other parts of the city. The girls that he had grown up with were merely buddies, but these girls seemed different somehow with their colorful dresses, pretty faces and flowing hair.

There was much discussion in Waller's gang of friends about who was going to get whom. It seemed that most of the girls had boyfriends from their old school. They were also targets of the ninth grade studs.

After a few weeks, it all sorted out. Xerxes succeeded in latching onto Amy, a pretty dark-haired girl who was soon elected class president. In the sweet darkness of the dances after football games and in movie theaters, Xerxes honed his skills. After Amy, there was pretty blonde Susie, then Marcia. Junior high was fun.

Waller played football, basketball and baseball. He was not a star player, but was a solid contributor to the teams. He was quick and coordinated. His grades remained good.

High school proved to be even more fun. Madison had given Xerxes his 1938 De Soto when he had turned fifteen. Waller spent many hours cruising the city with his friends. Gasoline rationing had ceased after the war had ended, so he could range far and wide.

Madison spent more and more time at his office downtown. When he was home, he secluded himself in his study working on cases. The brute weight of the workload seemed to help ease his pain and help him carry on. He and Xerxes seldom saw each other. Madison travelled often. He was establishing his firm's presence in England.

When Minnie, the aged Negro housekeeper and cook died, Xerxes was sixteen and Madison did not replace her. He gave Waller a generous allowance and Xerxes ate meals with friends or at local restaurants. A bowl of cold cereal or a ragged sandwich constituted his culinary efforts at home.

Madison's trips to England were anticipated eagerly by Xerxes and his pals. Legendary parties were held in the old man's absence. During one such event, Xerxes estimated that over one hundred kids were in the house or large backyard. It took him almost two days to clean up.

During the summer between his sophomore and junior years, his grandfather had gotten got him a job in Memphis on the Gulf, Mobile and Northern railroad. Thaddeus Hank was the president of the company which was headquartered in Mobile.

On a sunny Sunday, Waller boarded the Dixie Flyer for Memphis. When he arrived at the bustling station, he strode through the building and took a piece of paper from his pocket. He scanned the directions, then headed down the street. After three blocks, he located the railroad hotel. Waller entered, checked in and was told how to find his room.

"Lunchroom is open all of the time. Food is good too," the clerk said as he handed Waller a large key.

Waller went up a flight of stairs and found his room. It was small, but clean. Down the hallway, he found the shower room and the bathroom. He returned to his room and unpacked. Hank's secretary had sent him a typed list of what to bring. It was getting warm in the room. He found that the window could be opened wide, but the humidity and lack of a breeze was evident.

Waller went out, locked the door, and went to the lunch room. A waitress took his order for a burger and fries. He sipped on a soda as he waited for his food.

Memphis was a division headquarters, so the lunchroom was bustling at all hours. Crews from both freight and passenger trains changed here. Passenger train conductors, trainmen and brakemen in their navy blue uniforms with shiny buttons ate together. The engineers and firemen ate with the freight crews. In another lunchroom on the other side of the building, Pullman porters, cooks and waiters from the dining cars ate with the bartenders from the club cars.

The food came and it was good. He finished eating, wrote his room number on the bill and left a tip for the woman. The railroad picked up the food and room.

"Not a bad deal," he smiled. Then began to wonder what the work would be like.

Waller wandered outside. He noticed a group of Negroes standing at the far end of the building. He walked in that direction and noticed that there was another entrance to the hotel and lunchroom. A small sign over the door read, "Colored Only."

Waller was not surprised. He had first noticed this on a bus in Birmingham when he and Gene had ridden downtown one day to see a movie when he was seven years old. He figured that this was normal everywhere.

Waller continued walking through the area getting the lay of the land. He located a small laundry and a bank. Two blocks away, there was a movie theater. He had a light dinner in the lunchroom, took a hot shower and went to bed early.

On Monday, his alarm clock went off at five o'clock in the morning. He dressed in blue jeans, heavy work boots and a tee shirt. He went downstairs and ate a large breakfast. He had the cook make him a sandwich, which he placed in his new lunchbox. After he brushed his teeth, he stuck a large blue bandana into a pocket, grabbed heavy work gloves and a large straw hat. He left the hotel and walked three blocks to the freight station.

Several large trucks were lined up. Some contained new, black crossties stinking of hot creosote. Dump trucks were filled with white rock ballast. One truck had shovels, sledge hammers and all kinds of tools stacked neatly in the bed.

A group of Negroes stood by the trucks, talking quietly and laughing. A very large man with a red face who was wearing a white hard hat walked toward Waller.

"Waller?" he asked.

"Yes, sir."

The man stuck out a huge hand. "I'm Atterberry. I know who you are, but no one else does. You get no favors from me."

"I don't want any," smiled Waller.

Atterberry walked away and said, "Load 'em up."

Waller clambered up onto the bed of the tool truck along with the other men. The trucks rumbled off toward the river. The railroad was upgrading its industrial tracks that led from the wharves on the Mississippi River to the sprawling warehouses inland.

During the war, the maintenance had all been concentrated on keeping the mainlines in top shape to handle the tons of war materials flowing down to the Gulf to be loaded onto ships bound for Europe. Now the railroad was flush with cash. Thad Hank had been one of the first to see the value of the new diesel locomotives. He committed a portion of the profits from wartime to building a new fleet.

Now there was also time and money to upgrade the secondary tracks.

The trucks stopped alongside several warehouses. The men piled out and grabbed various tools.

"Grab a shovel, Waller," Atterbury ordered.

Waller picked up a large shovel and followed several of the men to the end of a track that was beside a row of doors in the side of a warehouse. The men began to shovel the rocks away from the rails. As they finished an area, they moved on down the line. Some of the men began to sing.

It was getting very hot, and the humidity was stifling. Waller wiped his face with the bandana often. Waves of heat radiated from the steel rails. The work was punishing. The Negroes laughed and sang and joked as they worked.

"Water break!" called Atterberry. The men walked slowly to the bed of the tool truck where several coolers were sitting.

"Whew, it's gonna be warm one," smiled a man named Lacawana Jones.

"Shit, already is," moaned a wiry man named Luke Best.

"Better than freezing our asses off in Belgium," said another man joining them as they headed toward some shade with their cups of water.

"Damn right," agreed Jones. "I still got no feeling in three of my toes."

"That why you walk like a duck?" grinned Best.

"I can still run faster than your skinny ass."

"Bet you can't out run Snowflake there," he pointed at Waller.

"Shit, I be twice as old as Snowflake."

So now Waller had a nickname. He smiled, shrugging it off with his easy, good humor as he headed back toward the track.

Once the ballast had been removed, several men came over with long crow bars and began removing the spikes from the crossties. Atterberry walked over with a large, empty bucket. "Fill this with the old spikes, Snowflake."

Waller filled several buckets with the old spikes and carried them to the truck that had contained buckets of new spikes. The buckets were heavy and he was getting very tired.

"Lunch time!" Atterberry barked.

The men laid down their tools, grabbed some water and sought shade to sit down in. Waller wolfed down his large sandwich as he leaned against the brick wall of the warehouse. He closed his eyes and dozed for a few minutes.

Soon, he sensed that the others were drifting back to the tracks, so he got up and followed.

"Start bringing down the new spikes," Atterberry called to him.

While he was doing this, a man attached a metal claw to the end of a crosstie and began to pull on it. As he did this, another man began to hit the opposite end with a sledge hammer. The crosstie slid from under the rails and was tossed aside. Soon there was a pile of old ties.

Atterberry had Waller and a man named Willie Bolden go to one of the trucks and begin taking the new crossties over to the track. Then they would pick up the old crossties and stack them into the truck.

"How much do these things weigh?" Waller asked Bolden.

"Eighty pounds, but by quitting time it'll feel like they weigh a ton," laughed Bolden.

After an hour, the truck was full of old ties and the new ones were spaced out along the track.

After a water break, the men began to slide the new ties under the rails. Two men carried an odd contraption from one of the trucks. It was metal tubing with four very small, steel wheels attached. They sat it down on the rails and slowly rolled it along. At certain points, Atterberry would stop them. A man with a long iron bar would push a section of rail inward, or another man would use a crowbar to move it out. When Atterberry was satisfied, a man would grab a new spike and a long pair of tongs and set the spike in the opening of the tie plate.

When the spike had been placed by the man with the tongs, another man came up and drove the spike about an inch into the wooden crosstie. Quickly, another man would swing his hammer and drive the spike into the tie. This team would move slowly down the track until one set of rails was spiked down. The hammers made loud metallic "bangs" as the spikes were driven in. Then they came back on the other rail until it was completed. The men grabbed their shovels and replaced the rocks. Other men pushed wheel barrows full of new ballast and dumped them for the men to pile over the roadbed. Atterberry rolled the buggy along the length of the track. Two men retrieved the buggy and placed it back into a truck.

Atterberry stood at the end of the line where the siding curved toward the switch. Waller noticed that there was one spike that had not been driven in. Surely Atterberry noticed, since he was standing close to it. Then the men formed a line along the rails from the end of the siding to the switch. Waller fell in line with the others.

A large man walked up to the end of the siding carrying a heavy hammer. He began to sing as he walked up to the next man in line and passed the hammer off to him, "Take this hammer, an' carry it to the Cap'n."

All the men began to sing as the hammer made its way to Atterberry who took it and smashed down the last spike.

"Good job, boys," he smiled. "Let's load up."

The men gathered all of their tools and climbed up onto the tool truck. The truck deposited them back at the freight station. It was five o'clock and very hot. The men climbed down from the bed of the tool truck. Several of them crowded into a few old jalopies that were parked next the freight station. A few shuffled off to a bus stop. As he staggered back toward the hotel, Waller noticed Lakawana Jones getting into a shiny car that was parked along the curb. Behind the wheel was a pretty, young Negress.

"No wonder he's always singing," chucked Waller as he slowly headed away from the station.

Waller staggered back to the hotel, went into his room, stripped off the soggy clothes and fell face down into the bed. He awoke to use the bathroom at eleven o'clock that night. He decided to shower and dress. He went into the bright lunchroom and ordered a steak, baked potato and salad. He drank several glasses of water. He returned to his room, undressed and was quickly sound asleep.

He was at the trucks before Atterberry arrived on Tuesday. When the man arrived, he glanced at Waller and waited for the others to show up.

"Load up, boys."

Waller had no idea how he made it through the week. He was sore and ached everywhere. He was sunburned as well. He slept late on Saturday, ate a big breakfast and spent the hot afternoon sitting in an air-conditioned movie theater. He had dropped off his sweaty work clothes at the laundry on the way. He had gotten paid on Friday after the crew returned to the station, so he had gone to the small bank and opened an account. He took out some cash as well.

On Sunday, he again slept late, ate then wandered down to the river and walked along. He ate an early supper and went to bed.

It got a little easier the next week. Atterberry had him doing every job on the crew. The Negroes laughed as his first attempt to drive a spike missed and his hammer clanged off of the tie plate.

"Strike one," yelled Bolden.

"Doan hit yo' foot," laughed Jones.

Waller concentrated and hit the spike flush driving it deep into the wooden tie.

"Home run," laughed Jones.

The men were easy to get along with. Mile after mile of crossties were replaced.

"My cousin, he work for the Illinois Central, an' they got machines do this shit,"

remarked Jones one day.

"We got 'em too," Bolden said. "But they's out on the mainline. We's got niggers for this section."

The men laughed. Atterberry strolled past seeming not to hear them.

One night as he lay on his bed, he could clearly hear the songs that the Negroes were singing out on the porch of their side of the hotel.

The next day, he heard Bolden singing one of the songs.

"Who sings that?" Waller asked.

"That be the 'Beale Street Blues Boy,' B.B. King from rat heah in Memphis."

Later on, Waller began to sing that song as he was driving spikes into the crossties.

"Snowflake, you can't sing worth shit," laughed Bolden.

"You're right," Waller said laughing.

After the first month, Waller noticed that he was able to make it through the hot days much easier. He could tell that he was adding heavy muscle to his shoulders, chest and back. His arms were hard and embedded with veins and sinew. The Negroes included Waller in their stories and jokes. Toward the end of his time on the section gang, he was one hundred eighty pounds of hard muscle. He could work all day in the hot, humid air of Memphis without breathing hard.

As August loomed, Waller noticed a new waitress on the early shift. She was much younger than the others and was very pretty. Waller began to sit in her area. One morning, as he was wolfing down sausage and eggs, she stopped by to refill his water glass.

"You keep on eating like that and you'll look like those guys," she nodded toward a nearby table where two burly switchmen were attacking a tall stack of pancakes.

"I'm a growing boy," he smiled flexing his bicep.

The girl touched it, "Ooh, I see," she laughed.

Waller watched her walk away. She had very long, light-brown hair and eyes that were emerald green. Her uniform fit her quite nicely. A name tag on her blouse read, "Lucinda Moore."

About a week later, she stopped by as he was finishing breakfast on a Friday morning. "You've been eating here all summer. How about a home cooked meal on Saturday?"

Waller figured she meant coming to her house and meeting her family. He wasn't too sure that he wanted to do that.

Lucinda took a piece of paper, wrote the address, drew a map and said, "About six o'clock."

Waller took the paper and smiled up at her, "OK, see you then."

After he got paid on Friday, he walked along looking at the map that she had drawn. It led to a neighborhood of small houses. But the address didn't make sense, until he noticed a garage with steps leading up to a second floor. The address was on a plate above the door. He walked back to the hotel and took a shower and ate dinner.

Waller slept late on Saturday, then walked down to the stadium and watched a minor league baseball game. He went back to the hotel, stopping on the way to buy a dozen roses. He showered, dressed, grabbed the roses and walked toward Lucinda's house. He knocked on the door at precisely six o'clock.

Lucinda opened the door. She was wearing tight red pants that stopped at mid-calf, gold sandals and a sleeveless white blouse. "Hi, come in, Xerxes!"

He handed her the roses. She thanked him and found a vase to put them in. The room was nicely furnished. A radio played low. The windows were open and a large ceiling fan slowly rotated. It was cool enough in the room.

"I know you are curious about my age. I'm twenty-one. So I can buy this legally," she laughed as she pulled a bottle of white wine from the refrigerator. "But you railroad men probably like a cold beer?" She raised one eyebrow and smiled.

Waller hadn't had a beer since a party at Gene's house the night before he caught the train to Memphis.

"Sure, sounds delicious"

She levered the top off of a bottle of Falstaff and handed it to him. She poured herself a glass of the white wine. She led him to a sofa and he sat angled toward her.

"I live here with my sister."

Waller looked around, half expecting another woman to enter the room.

Lucinda laughed, "She is in North Carolina. She got married to Bill before he shipped off to Italy. We bought this. Now he's back at Ft. Bragg. She lives on the base with him for free. The next time he goes overseas, she'll come back here."

Waller smiled and sipped the cold beer.

"I work at the lunchroom because jobs got real scarce after the war. I go to beauty school after I get off work. I plan to open my own shop soon with my savings."

"Umm, you've got the beauty part down," Waller grinned.

Lucinda smiled. "You don't seem like the rest of the railroaders."

"Can you keep a secret?"

"You can trust me."

"My grandfather is the president of the GM & N. He got me on here. No one knows at the hotel."

"Wow, couldn't he get you something easier?"

"Sure, but this has been good for me. I went down to the drugstore and weighed yesterday. I've gained almost twenty pounds this summer working on the crew. I'm in the best shape of my life. I can't wait for football season."

"What college do you play for?" Lucinda asked softly.

Waller turned red and began to stammer.

Lucinda turned and kissed him on the cheek. "It's OK honey, I figured you to be about eighteen."

Her perfume was enchanting and he caught a nice glimpse of round breast in the opening of her blouse. "Will be in a couple of years," Waller blurted.

Lucinda got up and took his empty bottle. She handed him another and poured more wine for herself.

"Let me check on the dinner." She opened the oven where a large ham was cooking.

"It's about ready," she smiled handing Waller silverware and cloth napkins. Waller set the table and Lucinda brought over the platter of ham, a bowl of sweet potatoes and cornbread.

The meal was delicious. Waller helped her with the dishes and they moved to the living room.

"Big football player have lots of girlfriends?" she reached up and grabbed his earlobe with her tiny, perfect teeth.

"Well, not like the quarterback, but I do OK for myself," he grinned.

He bent down and started a long, slow kiss. They moved toward the sofa together. Lucinda reached over and turned off the lamp.

Waller awoke alone in a strange room. He lay back and slowly the events of the night before filtered into his mind. He got up and found that his clothes were not in this room. He peeked out into the living room and spotted Lucinda in the kitchen. The smell of bacon filled the house. She was wearing a sheer, red gown. He grabbed his shorts and trousers from the floor by the sofa and put them on in the bedroom. Then he walked to the kitchen and put his arm around her soft shoulder. Lucinda turned and traced the line between his abdominal muscles with a long fingernail. "Good morning, sweetheart."

Waller gently kissed her and she turned back to her cooking.

As they ate breakfast, she explained her day to Waller.

"Meet my family at church, then Sunday dinner at my parents' house and maybe go to the graveyard to visit Grandpa. Then, it's back home and bed for me. It seems that I have to be at the lunchroom at four o'clock in the morning to serve the noble railroad men."

Waller must have looked sad because she smiled and said, "But next Saturday is open for my football star."

Waller blushed and muttered that it would be a long week.

He dressed and said goodbye to Lucinda who left him on the stairway with a long, sweet kiss. Waller walked back to the hotel and took a long shower. Sunday seemed to drag by. A big thunderstorm covered the city, so he took a nap, ate dinner and went back to bed.

They had three weeks before Waller had to return to Birmingham for football practice. Lucinda had an old Chrysler and she showed him a lot of the city that he had not seen before.

After his last day on the crew, he bade everyone farewell. Atterberry smiled as he shook his hand. "Good luck, Xerxes!"

Waller drew his final paycheck, cashed it at the bank and closed his account. He received a cashier's check for his balance. He found a small gallery and picked out a painting for Lucinda. It depicted a hurricane heading toward the Alabama coast near Gulf Shores.

Waller presented the painting to her on their last night together. They debated about where to hang it, rearranged some things and found a perfect spot. "I love it, Xerxes. I'll think of you every time I look at it, my Alabama boy."

When Waller finally said his last goodbye and received that last sweet kiss, he went down the stairs, walked to the passenger station and bought a ticket on the Rebel to Birmingham.

"What a summer!" he smiled to himself.

The train arrived in Birmingham on time and he walked out of the station and took a cab to his house. Madison was not home. He went to the garage and checked his car. Gene was supposed to drive it now and then to keep the battery charged. He got in and it started right up. He noticed that the gas tank was full. As he got out, he saw that it had been freshly washed and waxed. He went inside and called Gene to thank him.

"Good summer?" Gene asked.

"Fantastic!" Waller replied. "How was everything here?"

"Pretty slow. I got on a milk route. Early mornings. Didn't do much at night."

"I know the feeling," laughed Waller. "Hey, come grab a beer. We start training tomorrow."

"I'm on the way!" Gene said and hung up.

Football practice began and he impressed the coaches and won one of the starting safety positions. That fall, he became known in the conference as a fierce hitter and a far-ranging defender who could intercept the errant pass and change the momentum of a game.

Being a football star helped solidify Waller's stature in the junior class. He continued to make excellent grades and was popular with the guys. It also enabled him to move up to that highest echelon of girls, the cheerleader. Sweet, pretty Donna and Waller were quite an item that year.

After the season had ended, Waller was in the locker room to turn in his equipment. The large room smelled of sweat, soggy towels, mildew and liniment. After he turned in his gear, he started down a hallway when Hal Curry stepped out of his tiny office. Curry was the team's defensive assistant.

"Hey, X, come in for a minute."

"Sure," Waller entered the office.

Curry was a small, wiry man in his late forties. He was tan and fit. He rode an Indian Chief motorcycle to work and taught math.

"You've got the skills to play at the next level if you work at it. I'm going to run a PE program that will conform to the rules about no offseason training. You, Rod, Danny and some of the others should attend."

Waller smiled, "I play because it's fun. And there are fringe benefits. I'll think about it, though."

Curry got up. "OK. Let me know soon."

Waller walked out of the office and went outside heading toward the parking lot.

A new sophomore girl was walking toward the bus stop. Waller walked over to her. "Need a lift home?"

The girl looked at Waller who was wearing his letter jacket. "That would be nice." She joined Waller as he strode toward his car. He checked out the girl.

"Nice indeed," he smiled to himself.

The school year seemed to pass quickly. Waller gave up baseball to throw the discus and shot on the track team.

When school ended for the summer, Waller's grandfather got him on as a brakeman running out of Pensacola. This time, Waller drove his car over to the Florida city and got a room at the crew hotel next to the rail yard. Waller was usually called for the Lake City turn. The turn was a local freight train that set out loaded cars at sidings all the way to Lake City and headed back to Pensacola on the next day, picking up empty cars along the way.

Waller was given an odd looking key which was attached to a length of chain. At the other end of the chain was a clasp. Waller was instructed to attach it to one of his belt loops.

"It'll open any lock on the railroad," the tall, weathered conductor said. "Keep track of it."

The engineer chuckled. "It'll work on any railroad in America. One company makes all of the locks."

Unlike the Negroes on the track gang in Memphis, the operating men knew who Thad Hank was and were deferential to Waller. They tutored him in all aspects of operating the huge diesel locomotives. Many times on long, isolated stretches of the line, the engineer would let Waller run the train.

On one Saturday afternoon, Waller was called for an extra hotshot bound to New Orleans. He would go to Flomaton and return later that night.

As the long freight train rolled swiftly westward, it began to slow down. Waller looked from the bay window of the caboose down the track. The next signal showed red over yellow.

"Hitting the hole, we got the Wind on our ass," the conductor said.

Waller grabbed his lantern and walked to the steps of the caboose. When his train stopped, he walked back down the siding. The rules mandated that he stand as far as possible from his train and position the red light facing the oncoming train. The switch had been reset automatically by the dispatcher in Mobile. It was a sweet, hot southern night. Waller listened to the insects chirping. From far off, he heard the diesel engines throbbing, then the air horn blasting at a crossing. Suddenly, the Gulf Wind's powerful headlight tore through the darkness and the train hurtled past him carrying hundreds of passengers over to New Orleans.

Waller trudged back to his train watching the signal in front of his engine turn quickly from red to yellow to green. He clambered aboard and waved the green side of his lantern in an up and down motion. The hogger made two long blasts of his air horn and began to roll back onto the main line.

"Clear all the way to Flomaton," said the conductor.

Waller settled into his seat and wondered about New Orleans. He thought how he might want to be an engineer and run a hot train like the Gulf Wind at ninety mile per hour. He pictured himself in the engineer's seat as the miles passed by.

The hotshot pulled into Flomaton and the new crew got aboard. Waller and the rest of the crew stood on the platform in the warm night. The hogger smoked an ill-smelling cigar. Number 12 was on time. Soon it slid into the station and the crew got on and found seats. Waller soon fell asleep as the train rolled him back to Pensacola.

The Lake City turn didn't run on the weekends, and he was rarely called for extra runs. On Saturdays after checking the order board and seeing that he was free, he would drive the De Soto over to the sugar-white beaches. He would run in the loose, heavy sand and the surf to keep in shape. He did hundreds of pushups on the packed sand and swam hard out into the emerald green water. Then, he would drink some water and stroll along the beach. The girls took note of the tan, muscular boy as he walked along.

On a Sunday near the end of August, Xerxes was admiring a group of girls hanging out with some rangy, confident-looking guys. They were standing around a keg of beer and laughing and joking. The group had evidently been there for quite some time. They all spoke with an accent that was nothing that Waller had heard before.

"Hey, wanna beer," a dark-haired girl thrust a red cup in the direction of Waller who had been walking very slowly by the group. Crew members were not supposed to drink during the eight hours before a run, but he wouldn't go out until six o'clock the next day.

"Sure." He accepted the cup and drank deeply.

"I'm Peggy Sue," said the girl lighting a Lucky Strike and arching her back.

"Xerxes Waller," Waller said.

"Honey, is that a disease?" the group all laughed.

Waller learned that they attended the University of Texas and were enjoying a beach vacation before the fall semester began. Waller joined in with the conversations and enjoyed several cold beers.

"Ya'll really ought to come to Texas next year, sugar," a tall blonde with sparkling brown eyes said to Waller. "We have a ball every day."

Waller left the group at sundown and headed back to the hotel, stopping for a burger on the way. That night as he lay in bed, he thought about what the girl had said. He knew that he would go to college. Most of his friends would go to Alabama or Auburn. He wanted to get away and go to some place that he had never been. Madison had gone to Vanderbilt, but had never pushed Xerxes in that direction.

Soon afterward, Waller had to return to Birmingham for football practices.

When two-a-day practices began in late August, Waller learned that Curry had taken the head coaching job at a high school in Montgomery. The new defensive coach was a young guy who had played linebacker at Mississippi. He was busy establishing his career and didn't try to steer Waller toward playing football in college as Curry had. Waller felt relieved. He wanted to have fun in college. Early morning practices and running stadium stairs would be a thing of the past.

When Waller returned to school in September, he went to the library and read through the catalogue for Texas. He sent off for an application and received one promptly. He completed the application and mailed it in with the required fee.

"You're not going to Bama?" lamented Melissa when Xerxes told her.

"Need to expand my horizons," replied Xerxes remembering the beach party in Pensacola.

Senior year was fun and it went by very quickly. Waller had received acceptance at Texas in March. Thad Hank got him on at the district freight office in New Orleans for the summer. After graduation, Waller loaded his car and headed down to the Crescent City. He got a room at the railroad hotel. He went to the lunchroom and ate a po'boy sandwich. He thought about Lucinda.

He reported for work on a Monday morning. Compared to the other summers, this was a piece of cake. He worked regular hours in an office that had large fans and water cooling units in some of the windows. He sorted freight bills, bills of lading, vouchers and car tracing reports. It was easy, and he had his nights and weekends free to explore the legendary city.

He discovered obscure little places that served excellent food. He ate fewer meals in the lunchroom at night. He found small, neighborhood bars with live bands playing jazz and blues. Best of all, he discovered the carefree girls of South Louisiana. It was quite a summer.

Xerxes had to be in Austin in early September. On August 28th, he got word at work that his grandfather had had a stroke and died. Waller drove to Mobile. His grandmother had died several years earlier. There were several distant relatives that Xerxes could dimly remember. One of his uncles was in charge of the arrangements. Hank was prominent in Mobile and the service was packed.

Thad Hank left Waller a nice sum of money and his gold railroad watch. Waller had managed to save most of the money he had made over the previous three summers. When he went back to Birmingham, his father gave him a handsome check to cover his years at Texas. Madison had purchased a new Lincoln, so he gave his 1947 Mercury to Waller. Waller sold the De Soto to one of the junior boys on the football team.

Waller called a girl he knew who had been one year ahead of him in school. She now attended Alabama. One day, they drove to Tuscaloosa and shopped. She chose the clothes that the fraternity boys at Alabama favored. They returned to Birmingham with Waller's car loaded.

He was set. He went to his bank and got a cashier's check plus two hundred dollars in cash. Waller packed his car, bade his father goodbye and headed southwest from Birmingham. It was a sunny, hot day as he crossed into Mississippi.

### Chapter Three

### The Eyes of Texas

Xerxes rolled up the Colorado River valley into Austin on a very hot Friday in early September. The capitol building was gleaming in the sunlight. Waller drove north toward the campus and located his dormitory. A friendly boy helped him move his things into a small room that looked as if it had seen scores of freshmen come and go.

His roommate had not arrived yet, so Waller took the bed furthest from the door and set up shop. In the evening, he set out walking around the huge campus. He found a place to eat on the Drag and then returned to his room.

He sat on his bed and looked at the schedule for incoming freshmen. Fraternity rush began on Monday, registration was on Thursday and classes began on the following Monday. Xerxes leafed through the catalogue and marked some of the courses that he wanted to take. He walked down the hall and showered. Then he went to bed early.

He slept late on Saturday, then went out and found a diner for breakfast. He drove around the city, went out into the hills by the lake and then back to campus. More and more students were arriving. Parents were carrying boxes and hangers of clothing. Little brothers and sisters tagged along.

Waller went up the stairs to his room and found that his roommate had just checked in. He was a large, blonde boy named Frank Churak. His dad ran a cotton gin in Hubbard. Frank was a jovial country boy who had a black pickup truck crammed with fishing gear, camping supplies and food.

Waller helped him lug all of his stuff up to their room and get settled.

"Hear there's some big bass in the river, man. See ya later." The large boy ambled down to his truck.

Waller seldom saw Frank. He was always fishing, or camping or going back home to see his girlfriend. They got along fine, but Frank was definitely not into the college scene.

Waller was a wild card in fraternity rush. No one knew who he was. He was not a legacy of any fraternity, not from a high school in the state and had no connections in Texas.

But Waller was tall, muscular and tan. He had been around and done grown up jobs all over the South. He had an easy way with people. He was friendly, personable and intelligent. He made a good impression and several fraternities expressed interest.

On bid day, Waller chose Alpha Kappa. The fraternity had a Southern background, the guys were suave and cool, and the women that they attracted were legendary. So, in the fall of 1949, the tall, blonde boy from Alabama pledged AK.

The University of Texas proved to be more fun than the crowd on the beach had said that day. Waller liked his classes and his professors. He was popular with his pledge class. He was astounded by the beauty of Texas girls. Football games, parties and dances blurred through the autumn. Xerxes wrote his father on occasion and would receive in return a typewritten letter that rarely contained anything of interest. Waller was introduced to Mexican food, lake parties and midnight trips to Mexico where the brothers would down shots of tequila and tease the dark-eyed senoritas in the warm, smoky cantinas.

Waller survived Hell Week and became a member of Alpha Kappa in the spring. His grades were excellent and he made the Dean's List both semesters. Spring was filled with hot days at Lake Travis, fun nights and a flurry of parties before final exams.

Waller had no desire to return to Alabama for the summer. He knew that he could probably get on with the GM &N again, but he was a college man now.

A fraternity brother named Jim Rock invited him to spend the summer in Dallas with him. Rock's family had a very large house, and Waller was welcome to stay in a spare bedroom. Rock's father was a wealthy businessman, and he got Rock a job as a runner in his attorney's office. Then he got Waller a job as a runner at his bank.

It was an easy job carrying documents around the downtown area to brokerage houses, banks, title companies, and the courthouse and so on. Waller and Rock would go out for a beer at night and compare the secretaries.

"Man, you ought to see this girl at Merrill Lynch," Rock would smile.

"Hey, there's one in Judge Bartlett's office that you wouldn't believe."

It was a pleasant way to spend their week nights. On weekends, they would go out with UT girls who lived in Dallas. When Rock's parents were out of town, they had parties in the house as did several of the Alpha Kaps who were in Dallas for the summer. Waller met a lot of Rock's friends from high school.

One night while they were sitting in a small dark bar, Rock asked Waller why he was majoring in English.

Waller lit a cigarette and smiled, "I like it," as he gazed at the long legs of a waitress walking past.

"I've heard that it gets really hard when you get to be a senior. History. It's the easiest major at Texas," Rock advised.

Waller enjoyed history as well, so in the fall, he altered his schedule slightly and began to concentrate on history. He and Rock shared a room on the third floor of the Alpha Kap house that year.

Waller's sophomore year was even better than his first year had been. The crop of incoming freshmen girls was spectacular and seemingly endless. Music, smoke, drink and love blended into one long night. Waller felt like he could remain in this environment forever. He began to look more closely at his professors.

"This could be an awfully good life," he mused. "Teach a few courses, publish an article now and then and be in the campus atmosphere."

Rock's father had decreed that he attend law school. Waller could never be an attorney. He hated what he had seen of his father's work. It was so dry and boring. Nothing else appealed to him. He began looking at schools that had strong graduate programs in history.

He and Rock got a small apartment in Austin in the summer. They went to summer school in the morning and worked at a lumberyard in the afternoons.

During their junior year, they got more serious about school. Rock would need excellent grades to gain admission to a law school. Waller had managed to maintain his grade point average. They spent less time at the AK house. The parties that they attended were mainly on the weekends now, but the stream of girls was steady.

By their senior year, they seldom dropped by the fraternity house. They went to the big functions and let the younger brothers carry on the tradition. Rock gained acceptance to several law schools. He began acting much older. He often wore suits and began smoking a pipe. He now had a steady girl friend named Phyllis and he spent most of his time at her apartment.

Waller was accepted for a Master program at Wake Forest. The school year wound down. Formal graduation ceremonies were held in Gregory Gymnasium at the end of May. Rock's entire family, including cousins, and aunts and uncles came to Austin for the ceremony. Madison Waller was out of the country.

After the festivities, Waller packed up his car and bade Rock farewell. He made a leisurely drive to North Carolina, stopping in New Orleans for a few days. He visited some of his old haunts, but they seemed changed somehow. He realized that he was no longer an eighteen-year-old boy.

Waller arrived in Winston-Salem and found a small apartment to rent. He enrolled in the program at Wake Forest. He sometimes would drop by the AK house, but it was a different group entirely. Their idea of parties would be laughed at in Austin. The winter was much colder than he was used to, and he missed the sunshine of Texas.

In any case, Waller was there to gain the next stepping stone of his career. He occasionally dated a few of the underclass girls, but mainly concentrated on his studies and his thesis. He received his Master degree in May of 1954. He had been accepted in a doctoral program at the University of Mississippi, and had been offered an instructor position in the history department.

Waller traded his car for a new Chevrolet and drove over to Oxford. He located a small apartment near the campus and plunged into his work when the semester began. Occasionally, he would hear from Rock and some of the other guys from Texas, rarely from Gene and the guys from home and seldom from Madison.

Waller was surprised how much he enjoyed teaching. The students seemed to like him. He kept his lectures light and jovial, but fed them a steady stream of papers and quizzes. He pursued his doctorate with a determined enthusiasm. He usually got little sleep and spent much time in the library.

During his first year in Oxford, Waller had little time for play. He dropped by the AK house every now and then, and sometimes would date graduate students when time permitted.

In the fall of 1956, at the age of twenty-five, Waller had his PhD almost completed. His dissertation was coming together smoothly. He was enjoying the classes that he taught and liked living in Oxford. When the fall semester began, there were several new faculty members. Among them was a new assistant professor in the sociology department.

She was twenty-seven years old and had taught at the University of Georgia the past two years. Her name was Dee Jayson. Waller had met her at a faculty get-together at the beginning of the semester. Dee was tall and willowy with a cascade of brown hair framing her oval face. She had soft brown eyes and a dazzling white smile. Dee was from Macon, Georgia and had a soft, sweetly accented voice that was the closest thing to heaven that Waller had ever heard.

Dee was highly ambitious. Her Ph.D. was from the University of North Carolina, and she had her sights set on teaching in the Ivy League. She had been published, and was gaining recognition in her field. It was quite a coup for the university to have recruited her.

Waller devoted a lot of time and effort to winning the heart of the lovely young professor and sealed their love on a crisp October night.

It was a hectic year for both of them. Waller had his teaching, wrapping up his dissertation and studying for orals. Dee had a heavy teaching load along with her research and writing.

Theirs was a frenetic affair. Sometimes, days would pass without them seeing each other.

On rare free time during weekends, Waller would whisk her away from Oxford and take her to Memphis. They would stay at the Peabody Hotel and explore the city. Ever on the job, Dee had a small notebook and would jot down observations when they were in the smoky blues joints and bars. She talked with black musicians and patrons, building files for another paper. Dee had many theories and ideas. She seemed to be in perpetual motion.

The spring of 1957 was gorgeous in Northern Mississippi. Sweet magnolia blossoms perfumed the crisp, blue air. Waller had his dissertation accepted and passed his oral exams. He applied to several institutions and was invited for interviews.

In late April, Waller drove to Memphis, flew to Dallas and rented a car. He drove to the green, hilly campus of Milam College and met with several members of the history department and some administrators. He was offered and accepted a position as assistant professor of English history for the fall semester.

Upon his return to Oxford, he learned that Dee had been offered a position as an associate professor of sociology at Cornell. They celebrated in Memphis that night and talked of their futures. Dee's carefully orchestrated career plan did not allow for a permanent relationship at this point. Waller was happy to oblige her.

When graduation was over, Waller drove Dee to Memphis and they took the City of New Orleans to Chicago where they spent three days enjoying the sights of the big city. They ate at the Pump Room, partied on Rush Street and spent sweet hours of loving in the hotel by the lake.

They returned to Oxford and packed their belongings. It was a beautiful sunny day. They stood next to Dee's car and she leaned against the shiny black coupe. Waller folded her tightly against him, inhaling the sweet fragrance of her long brown hair.

"It's been a great year, Dee. I'll never forget you."

Dee looked at Waller and kissed him lightly. "It has been a fun year, indeed. I expect to hear great things about you."

She pulled away from Waller, climbed into the car, started the engine and slowly drove away.

Waller watched the car until it turned from view. A heavy feeling lodged in his midsection. He slowly ambled toward his car. He looked around at the pretty campus one last time, then climbed into his car and headed out. He had plenty of time and money to spare. He decided to make a slow trip to Texas. He would get situated, play some golf and ease into the routine of his new position.

### Chapter Four

### Academia

Like many of her brethren, Milam College had a rocky beginning. It had been founded by the Scots-Presbyterians in 1846 on the banks of the Brazos River in the settlement of Tatsie. In 1857, the main building burned to the ground, so the college was moved to the thriving town of Bonita. In 1881, it was moved to Womack when a prominent settler in the area donated some land.

There in the mesquite covered rolling hills, with the sparkling Fernando River winding southward, Milan continued a steady growth. In 1937, a wealthy alumnus named Ham del Camry, enriched by a huge discovery in the East Texas oilfields, gave the college ten million dollars. Milan used some of the money to purchase a large amount of the surrounding land, build new buildings and increase enrollment.

A large statue of Ben Milam stood in the green quadrangle. Milam was an early Texas hero, best known for his call, "Who will follow old Ben Milam to San Antonio?"

Milam and his small band of ragged Texans were all killed in a fierce street fight in the old city by Mexican troops commanded by General Cos. Dead Texas heroes lived eternally in street names, city names, county names, on school buildings and airports throughout the large state. Old Ben stood guard on the pretty campus northwest of Dallas.

The administration of Milam College liked to think of their institution as a miniature Harvard. The Liberal Arts curriculum was modeled on the Eastern universities. The students were conservative, middle to upper class and dressed in Ivy League attire.

The majority of the student body was comprised of those who had been denied admission to the prestigious universities. Their parents would not consider sending them to mix with the commoners at the state universities. So they arrived in Womack in their convertibles and roadsters, laden with clothes and fat bank accounts.

Milan was known far and wide as a party school, and for its tennis team which had produced a few professional players.

The conservative administration was concerned with increasing the large endowment fund, constructing impressive looking new buildings and maintaining the status-quo.

The president, Bryce McClean, was the scion of a wealthy Atlanta family. He relished the trappings of a college president. He resided on a mansion high on a hill overlooking the river. He held lavish faculty teas and cocktail parties.

The faculty of Milam was comprised of three groups. There was a small cadre of older professors who had had sterling careers in name universities across the country. They were winding down their careers at Milam, lured by McClean who paid them handsomely and gave them a small workload. They were trotted out to impress potential donors.

The second group was made up of competent, but less ambitious professors. They were content in their teaching and research in the undemanding environment of Milam.

The third group was made up of young and very ambitious professors who were using Milam as a brief steppingstone to bigger and better postings in the profession.

Waller's friend, Dudley DeGroot, was among those in the first group. He was a world renown anthropologist and had spent years in Africa with Leakey. He had written several books. He held his doctorate from the University of Chicago and the Kit Carr Chair of the department. Before coming to Milam, he had taught at Yale and Pennsylvania. During his younger days, he had played guard and linebacker for the Bears under George Halas. He was still fit and trim at age fifty. DeGroot planned to retire and move to San Diego in a few years.

DeGroot and Waller had spent many a night sitting on the deck of DeGroot's house that overlooked the river. They sipped beer and Waller listened to the endless stories that DeGroot would tell. They got along famously.

In the third group was Dane Morgan. Morgan was a brilliant scholar who was a graduate of Oxford, and had earned his PhD at Harvard. He was an associate professor of English literature. Morgan was a dashing Englishman in his mid-thirties. He had the rugged build of a rugby star which he had been at Eaton. Morgan drove the female students at Milam mad with his manners, accent, his looks and his white Jaguar.

Waller thought the Brit was somewhat pretentious, but they had become good friends. Morgan lived in a high-rise apartment in Dallas, commuting each day to the campus. Many a Milam co-ed had been to the apartment, ridden in the Jaguar and made the Englishman's time in Texas rewarding.

Waller was in the second group of professors. He was content in his position. His teaching load was bearable, publishing expectations minimal, politics at arm's length and he got along fine with the administration.

The students liked Waller. They enjoyed his sense of humor and approach to the subject matter. They respected his knowledge. Waller had no plans to leave Milam. Life was good on the banks of the Fernando.

Milam had no dress code for its faculty members. Old Dr. Dewart in the English department wore seasoned Brooks Bother's suits in odd hues, starched white shirts and silk ties. DeGroot dressed like he was still in the African bush country with khaki shirts and boots. Dane Morgan was always impeccably clad in the sleek tailoring of London.

Waller wore loafers, khaki trousers and button-down oxford shirts. When the occasion mandated, he would add a silk rep tie and a blue blazer.

Waller tried to keep his lectures humorous and interesting. He involved all of the students in discussions. He designed his courses to be challenging without being overwhelming. His examinations were difficult, but not impossible. He was lenient when calculating the final grades. Several classes in history were required for all students at Milan, so Waller got to know all of the students.

When Waller had arrived at Milam, he stood 6' 1" and weighed in at a muscular 187 pounds. His hair was the color of faded wheat and his eyes were a deep blue. He sported a shaggy mustache that was slightly darker than his hair color. He had gotten his golf game down to a six handicap and had purchased a canoe. He plied the clear Fernando River whenever he had a chance. His passion for the outdoors gave him a deep tan.

Waller made quite an impression on the co-eds at Milam. The Alpha Kaps had a good chapter at Milam, and Waller attended some of the parties on occasion. This enabled him to be around the cream of the women students. He only dated the seniors. They were more experienced and were less likely to become emotional. His years at the campus had provided a steady supply of soft, sweet memories.

On a cold winter night, Waller was sitting in Dane Morgan's apartment. Sleet was pelting the windows of the high rise. Morgan was sipping a Scotch and smoking an imported cigarette. Waller was drinking an odd-tasting English ale.

"Hell of a good life at Milam," he grinned at Morgan.

The dapper Englishman sighed, "Bloody good, but I'm afraid it's back to not-so-jolly old England after May. I've accepted a fancy title and nice salary at Cambridge."

"Hey, congratulations!" Waller said. "There are girls in England, you know." He drank from the bottle of ale.

"Beastly things with teeth like broken pebbles and skin white like the belly of a fish. Bloody sun never shines there. I love how the girls here get so tan, so golden," Morgan lamented blowing smoke rings toward the window. "I may have to kidnap one of our lasses to get me through the cold nights."

"Have anyone in mind?" asked Waller laughing.

"Perhaps Shelly Gillette," Dane grinned.

Waller raised an eyebrow. She was a nice girl, but hardly what Morgan usually escorted.

Morgan stood up and walked to the bar. He refreshed his drink. "She had an uncle who died and left her a million dollars."

Waller laughed, "I see, Dr. Morgan."

Morgan just smiled. Life was good in the winter of 1961.

Waller was hungry as he headed back toward Womack from Morgan's apartment. A pizza sounded good this late at night. On the northwestern edge of Dallas was a small restaurant. It was an unattractive building with little décor. The area had once been bustling, but when the Interstate highway had been built nearby, the area had become increasingly rundown as time passed. Marcello's was known far and wide as the best place for pizza in the city. The place was always packed.

He and Rock had eaten there often during the summer that he had lived with Rock. Waller never attempted to eat there on weekends. He had been dining there a couple of times a month since moving to Womack. Every now and then, he would run into an Alpha Kap from Texas. They would have a beer and Waller would catch up on what had become of the guys.

The proprietor was a short, rotund Italian named Manny Marcello. Waller guessed that he was in his late fifties. He wore a gleaming white apron and spent most of his time roaming among the guests, charming the women and playfully insulting the men. If he wasn't in the crowded dining area, he perched on a high stool by the cash register watching everything that went on. Rumors circulated that he was a member of the mob. The Dallas police chief firmly denied the existence of the mob in his city. Marcello had operated his restaurant for over thirty years.

So late on this cold December night, Waller sat in a comfortable booth wolfing down a delicious pizza and washing it down with a large schooner of draft beer. Buddy Holly was playing on the juke box. Suddenly, the shadow of the fat man shaded the table and Marcello sat across from Waller.

"How's the pizza, professor?" he smiled, yellow teeth showing in the smoky air.

"Best damn pizza in the world," declared Waller.

Marcello scrawled some numbers on a piece of paper and slid the paper across the table to Waller.

"Here's the combination to my private entrance in the back. Next time you come, go in that way. Don't waste your time messing with the line in front." Marcello snatched Waller's bill from the table, squeezed from the booth and headed back to the bar area. Waller put the paper in his wallet and drained his beer.

"Nice guy," he thought as he drove back to Womack in the icy darkness.

Waller lived in a studio apartment in a new complex on Turner Creek west of the campus. He had a garage with a storage area. Downstairs was a bedroom and bathroom. Upstairs was a living room, kitchen, bathroom and another bedroom. The living room had a sliding glass door that opened onto a deck that overlooked the wooded banks of the creek. There were comfortable chairs and a small table on the deck. Waller liked smoking, sipping beer and relaxing on the deck. It was late, so he stripped, took a quick shower and headed off to bed.

The next time he went to Marcello's, he noticed a long line waiting along the sidewalk. So he parked in the rear lot and went to a door in the back of the restaurant. He dug the paper from his wallet and entered the code on a keypad next to the door. A buzzer sounded and the door clicked. He pushed it open and found himself in a dim hallway that smelled of food. He pushed forward past a small office and the restrooms. At the end of the long bar, Marcello came up to him. He led Waller to an empty booth.

"You've got dozens of people out front in line, Manny. Why an empty booth?"

"Always have one open for the important folks, professor," the fat man nudged him in the ribs with a meaty elbow. A waitress hurried over to the booth.

"The usual, sir?" she asked.

"Yes, Sally." Waller lit a cigarette and watched the woman hustle over with a chilled mug of beer.

He relaxed in the booth. "What was the fat man up to?" he wondered.

The pizza was excellent as usual. As Waller finished the last sip of beer, Marcello loomed over him. "We need to talk. Go out back and wait by the black Cadillac parked in the 'reserved for owner slot.' I'll be out in a minute or two."

He grabbed Waller's bill and strode back toward the bar. Waller went toward the restrooms, then turned into the hallway and went outside. He waited for Marcello. Marcello came out of the door into the cold darkness. He got into the black Cadillac and opened the passenger door for Waller. Marcello was silent as he drove off. He turned the radio up loud.

"What the hell is this about?" Waller wondered as Marcello drove rapidly from his parking lot and onto a side street. He drove in circles and backtracked until finally stopping at a dark school yard where he parked.

"Get out!"

The wind was howling. Waller followed Marcello as he walked quickly to a basketball court behind the building. He looked around. No one was in sight. No cars passed on the dark street.

"Fuckers can't bug me here," Marcello muttered. "Like you to do some work for me."

"Can't cook worth a shit," Waller smiled as he shivered in the cold wind.

Marcello laughed loudly. "No cooking. Just an easy run now and then."

Marcello explained the set up. "Listen, you're a smart guy. I need a smart guy. You will like the spare change."

Waller lit a cigarette and looked at the fat man.

"Easy money. No one gets hurt."

"This doesn't happen," Waller thought taking a deep drag on his cigarette.

"Yes, or no?" Marcello stared at Waller and his black eyes seemed to burn through the darkness.

"If I say, 'No?'"

Marcello's stare intensified. "No one ever has."

"OK," said Waller.

Marcello walked along the baseline. "Four trips a year at the most. Easy money."

Waller looked up at the night sky. "What the hell?" he mused. "A hundred years from now who will care?"

They walked quickly back to the Cadillac and Marcello sped back to his restaurant. "You'll receive a call. Wait for it."

Marcello parked in his reserved slot. Waller got out of the Cadillac and walked toward his car. Marcello entered the back door as Waller started the Pontiac, turned the heater on high and drove back to Womack.

No one called for two months, and Waller had almost forgotten about the meeting. Whenever he went to Marcello's to eat, the fat man only talked about sports or asked how the food was when he stopped at Waller's table.

On a Thursday in March, Waller was working in his office when the phone rang.

"Could I speak with Luther?" a voice asked.

"I think you must have a wrong number," answered Waller.

"Sorry, I'll try Saturday," the caller hung up.

Waller's heart beat faster. He would make the run. It was finally going to happen after all.

### Chapter Five

### Happy New Year

The first day of 1963 was warm and sunny. At two o'clock in the afternoon, Waller sat on his deck smoking a cigarette and sipping on a beer. He had enjoyed a very nice New Year's Eve with his girlfriend, Lynn Street. They had attended a party at Dudley DeGroot's home. Now, Lynn had gone to her apartment to feed her cat. Waller was barefoot and wearing a pair of old shorts. The January sun felt good on his chest. He thought of Lynn and the spring semester. He grinned and blew a stream of smoke into the air.

Lynn Street was an associate professor of English. She had arrived at Milam in the previous fall after spending two years teaching at USC. At age thirty-two, she was highly regarded in academic circles. She had earned her PhD at Stanford and had spent the past seven years moving up through the ranks. Lynn was highly ambitious and dead set on being a college president by age forty. Waller knew that she was being recruited by other universities.

Lynn was a very pretty woman with light brown eyes and a heavy mane of glossy, brown hair. She was small and had a trim, athletic figure. She could water ski all day or swim across the lake easily. She ran every morning and walked to the campus from her apartment. She was a gifted teacher and her classes filled quickly. Lynn had made numerous alliances, both in her student days and in her academic career. She was steadily climbing toward her goal.

Waller had not been involved with a faculty member since Dee at Ole Miss, but he noticed the new faculty member within hours after she had arrived on the campus at Milam.

He found out her office location and had a dozen red roses delivered with a card welcoming her to Milam. He found her new phone number from information and called her. He wrangled a date for dinner the following night. He decided to show off a bit and took her to Marcello's. He did the back door trick and immediately was shown to a table.

Marcello soon came by and entertained Lynn with stories and jokes. She raved about the pizza as they ate.

"This is a great place, Xerxes," she smiled looking around. "Manny really likes you."

"I think it's you that he likes," laughed Waller.

"Maybe," she smiled. "What's next on the agenda for my introduction to Texas?"

Waller took her to a dark, smoky bar where a blues band was playing. They drank Pearl beer and danced until midnight.

Waller had the top down on the convertible as they travelled back to Womack. He admired her long hair streaming in the wind as Lynn sat beside him. At her door, she gave Waller a sweet kiss goodnight that made him eager to plan their next date.

On a rainy September night as the waters rushed down Turner Creek, Lynn spent the night at Waller's apartment for the first time. As they lay in the darkness, she held him and whispered in her soft Southern voice, "Looks like I made a good decision coming to Milam."

"Best you'll ever make," teased Waller sifting her soft brown hair through his fingertips and kissing her sweet, moist lips over and over.

Lynn spent most of her free time at Waller's. He had the nicer place with the fireplace and deck. On warm evenings, they would sit on the deck for hours and talk. On chilly nights, a roaring fire and music on his stereo system provided a cozy background. Lynn was very competitive and did not like to lose when they played board games or cards. She was used to being the leader in school or on sports teams. She had had some boyfriends in the past, but no relationship had been as intense as this one.

Lynn had a timetable in her mind regarding her career steps, and she was on track. She was working on several possibilities for the upcoming fall semester. Prior to arriving at Milam, a man was not included in her plans, but the tall professor of history was different from other men that she had dated. They agreed on many things and were very alike in their thoughts. Waller was intelligent and had a great sense of humor. She couldn't wait until her work was done for the day so she could head over to Waller's. He was a tender, experienced lover who made her feel so good during the long nights of loving.

Waller was proud of his relationship with the lovely professor. She was certainly in the top tier of his conquests. He was certain that she would be departing Milam when the spring semester ended. But he would enjoy her charms until the very end.

The spring of 1963 was beautiful. The trees bloomed in early February and the weather got warmer each day. Waller played golf whenever he got a chance. He and Lynn made several runs down the Fernando. She had been an expert when she attended summer camp in the tall woods of Maine during her youth. She took the stern and steered through the rocky currents while Waller sat in the bow working his muscles and letting the hot sun burn deeply.

During the spring break, Lynn flew to Virginia and had several interviews. She returned to Womack excited and optimistic. Whenever she broached the subject of career moves, Waller would change the subject and Lynn would become irritated.

"Xerxes, a man of your intelligence and ability is wasting his time here. This may have been a good place to begin your career, but you've stayed here far too long."

"Milam's not so bad," he would grin reaching for her, but she would pull away and become silent.

At the beginning of May, Lynn became more distant. Waller had known that it would end, but he wanted it to continue until finals were over. They became busy preparing the examinations and wrapping up the school year. Lynn didn't come over as often. Waller heard that she had been offered a position as dean at Mary Baldwin, but she had not mentioned it to him.

On the day that finals were over, Lynn came to his apartment. Waller had invited her for dinner, and they drove to Ft. Worth and had a fabulous dinner at an old German restaurant.

Lynn was wearing a black dress that was short and sleeveless. She had wound her brown hair up into a twist and was wearing silver earrings. The river trips and Texas sun had made her tan golden and deep. Waller had never seen her look prettier. Diners at other tables stared at her when they walked to their table.

When the meal was over and Waller was inhaling deeply on a Marlboro, she took his hand and looked into his eyes. "I've accepted a position at Mary Baldwin. It's a big step up."

Waller grabbed a passing waiter and ordered a bottle of champagne. He offered up a toast.

"To the most beautiful dean in the history of any college!"

They drank and danced to the music of a piano. As they drove back to Womack, Lynn's perfume mingled with the warm air from the vents. She laid her head back and sang one of the songs that the piano man had played for her. Waller parked in his garage and walked Lynn slowly to the front door. He unlocked the door and they went inside. He left a light on downstairs and they walked upstairs without speaking. Moonlight shone dimly through the curtains in his bedroom.

Lynn kicked off her shoes and did something to the back of the black dress. The silky fabric dropped in a soft heap around her ankles, and she deftly stepped out of it clad only in black panties and bra. She walked slowly into the bathroom and pulled the door only slightly leaving Waller a view of her.

Waller quickly turned back the covers of the bed, shed his clothes and tumbled into the cool, white sheets. He heard water running, then a soft rustle of silk as Lynn stepped out of her panties and unsnapped her bra.

Lynn stepped out of the bathroom bathed in its light. The light shrouded her long, dark hair into a frame for her impossibly pretty face that was now only a dim shadow. Waller looked at her strong, smooth shoulders, her full tear-drop breasts high and firm. A shallow line channeled down her slim abdomen below which curved the silky pubic triangle. Slim, firm thighs and shapely calves anchored her trim body.

Waller never got tired of seeing this show. The drinks and thoughts of things to come made him greatly excited.

Lynn walked slowly toward the bed and sat on the edge. She bent down and gave Waller a long, deep kiss. Waller felt the liquid flow of anticipation run hotly along his belly. Lynn edged slowly downward, leaving a trail of molten kisses along his hard chest and ridged muscles of his abdomen.

Waller was writhing in pleasure as her long, silken hair feathered over his chest and moved downward. He gave an involuntary jerk and moaned as her warm mouth closed around him. Her hot kisses and darting tongue were driving him crazy. He closed his eyes and allowed the sweet pleasure to linger on and on.

Then Lynn slid up his torso and enclosed him deep within her. She moaned softly. Xerxes ran his hands along the smooth muscles of her back. He cupped the perfect breasts in his hands and then rained hot kisses on them teasing the small, taut nipples. He ran his fingers through her long hair and pulled her open mouth down to him for an endless kiss.

Lynn was moving more quickly. Her breath became jagged and she was moaning. Xerxes felt that she was nearing her climax and lengthened the thrust of his hips.

"Oh, God, ooh," Lynn tore her mouth away and trembled and moaned. Xerxes made one more deep thrust and the lava flow of fiery pleasure burst upward.

Lynn collapsed on Waller's chest, breathing hard into his ear. He stroked the silken skin of her back and pushed up as deeply as he could. They lay like that until their breathing slowed. The night was warm, and sweat formed a pool between them. Lynn's breath was warm and sweet against his neck. Xerxes was still deep within her. He began thinking about another round. He was about to deftly flip them over without separating and go again from the top.

As he was about to make his move, Lynn kicked herself off of him and tumbled down nesting against his side. She raked her long fingernails along his chest and said, "President Etcheson at Mary Baldwin is a very good friend of the president at Washington and Lee. There are two openings posted in the history department at W & L. You would have no trouble getting on there."

Waller's mind was in a fog. The lovemaking, dancing and drinks had sent him into a spacey zone of semi-reality. He tried to think of a quick comeback, a witty remark.

Lynn rolled off of the bed and went into the bathroom.

Waller sighed. He had known that it would end. He heard water running in the sink and the toilet flush. He saw her step into the panties and fasten her bra. She put on the black dress and picked up her shoes. She walked over to the bed and looked down on Waller.

She leaned down and kissed him quickly on the lips.

"Goodbye, Xerxes."

Then she walked through the dark room and down the stairs. Waller heard the front door open and close. Then he heard her car start up and glide down the street.

He dropped into a deep, dreamless sleep.

When he woke up at eight-thirty on Friday morning, he sensed that something was wrong. He probed a foot in the direction where Lynn should be sleeping and touched nothing.

His head ached and he didn't want to open his eyes. He reached back into a misty brain and slowly began to assemble the puzzle. Lynn was gone. He would never see her again. Although he had known that this would happen, the reality was like a dash of ice water on his soul.

He slowly opened one eye and noticed the sun shining brightly through the curtains. He got out of bed, pulled back the curtains and squinted into a bright, blue sky. He wondered if he could get a tee time at the club. He stumbled into the living room and picked up the phone. There was a cancellation at eleven o'clock. He cooked breakfast and ate outside on the deck. He showered and dressed. He was feeling more normal now. He fooled around the apartment for a while. Then he took his clubs from a hall closet and went downstairs to his garage. He dropped the clubs into the backseat of the Bonneville and drove the six miles to the club.

Fernando Valley Country Club sat on land leased from Milam College. The agreement allowed Milam faculty use of the facilities. Waller played golf there whenever possible. He swung the Bonneville into a parking place near the practice green. A large Negro walked slowly toward the car. He was wearing tennis shoes, faded khaki pants and a white tee shirt that seemed to be painted onto his upper torso. Bulging muscles rippled under the ebony skin that was sleek with sweat.

Watching the man make his way toward him reminded Waller of a remark that had been made by a famous football coach. "Even his muscles have muscles."

The black man reached into the back seat and snatched the heavy bag of clubs with an effortless flick of his arm. Small snakelike muscles played along his triceps.

"Sumbitch was right," marveled Waller.

"Morning professor. I got you this morning," the man smiled, white teeth gleaming in the broad, black face.

"Good deal, Willie. We'll do all right today."

"Shonuf," the man followed Waller to the practice tee and waited as Waller hit a few iron shots. Then they walked to the practice green and Waller hit a few putts.

"Pretty fast today?"

"Slick as owl shit," smiled Willie.

Waller walked toward the clubhouse to pay his green fee and Willie ambled toward the first tee. As he walked, Waller thought about Willie.

Willie had been a star athlete in the small town of Tyoga a few miles west of Womack. He was an All-State halfback at the Class AA high school and earned a full scholarship to Grambling. After two spectacular seasons, he was being touted as the next Jim Brown. Willie did not disappoint. He chewed up the SWAC and garnered national attention. Sports Illustrated sent a reporter to the small town in Northern Louisiana.

The final game of the season was always played at the Sugar Bowl stadium in New Orleans against arch-rival Southern University. The game was known as the "Bayou Classic," and the old stadium was packed. Scouts from the NFL and ALF were in the stands. Willie ran wild in the misty night.

Late in the game, the stadium was rocking. Willie took a handoff and knifed through a large hole opened by big "Locomotive" Coltrane. He ran over a startled linebacker and cut toward the sidelines. He slipped momentarily on the wet turf and the Southern free safety, Zephyr Harris, drove his helmet into Willie's left knee.

Willie collapsed in a heap, his knee burning with a searing pain. Trainers and coaches rushed over. After a moment of confusion, a stretcher was brought out and Willie was carried from the hushed stadium. He was taken a hospital and a team of surgeons tried to repair the damage to his knee.

After he had been released from the hospital, Willie dropped out of college and took a bus home to Tyoga.

Sportscasters began to talk about the newest next Jim Brown, a kid at Kansas named Gale Sayers.

Willie got a job as a caddy at the Fernando Valley Country Club for five dollars a bag plus tips.

Waller walked out of the pro shop toward the first tee. He recognized the other three men. They were attorneys from Dallas who dressed in expensive clothes and carried custom-made clubs. They liked to brag and bet large sums of money. He had never played with them, but had seen them carrying on in the nineteenth hole after a round.

"Gonna make some money today, Willie," he grinned as Willie handed him his driver.

After nine holes, Waller had won over two hundred dollars. On the par five thirteenth hole, he nailed his drive and watched the ball running low and left, then slowly rising and softly fading down the fairway. He was easily two hundred and seventy yards out along the manicured grass. He smiled. It was fun to take money from these arrogant bastards.

Willie walked along beside him, "You shonuf hit that one."

"Got lucky, Willie. What do you think? Can we get home with a three iron?"

"Got the breeze, it's downhill. Sho."

Waller took the club from Willie and struck the ball from the Bermuda turf. The ball rose against the deep blue Texas sky, hit the front of the putting green, skidded up a slope and came to rest eight feet from the pin.

"Got that eagle flyin," laughed Willie.

"Hope so."

Waller was excited. Rarely did he hit two such good shots in succession. After the other golfers had holed out, Waller lined up his putt.

"Little right and slightly downhill, Willie?"

"Barely tap it, professor," he said.

Waller addressed his ball, gripped the putter and looked at the back of the cup.

"In there, baby!" he muttered and drew the club back slowly.

As he struck the ball, a vision of Lynn crashed into his brain. He saw the beautiful face framed by the soft hair looming over him. The ball slid by left of the cup. Willie gave him a funny look. Waller walked up and tapped in for a birdie.

"Four, gentlemen," he smiled.

"Goddamn," he thought as he walked to the next tee box and washed his ball vigorously.

"Six iron, Willie" he called.

This par three hole was one of his favorites. He figured that the small lake fronting the green would spook the lawyers. Two of them did hit into the water, shouting curses as their golf balls splashed.

Waller hit a fade that spun to a stop four feet from the pin. Lynn did not intrude on the game anymore. After they all holed out on the eighteenth green, they settled their bets. Waller had won almost five hundred dollars from the lawyers. Willie trudged over to Waller's car, limping noticeably now. He dropped the clubs into the back seat. Waller folded one hundred dollars and handed them to Willie.

"We did OK today, Willie."

"Thank you, suh," the black man thrust the money into his pocket without looking at the bills.

He said good bye to Waller and slowly walked back to the caddy shack. The late afternoon crowd would be getting ready and he would haul a heavy bag another round before sundown.

"Wish I'd seen him play," Waller mused as he got into his car. "They say he was the best."

He drove back to his apartment, hauled the heavy bag inside and headed for the bathroom. He stripped, and took a long shower. He dried off and went to the kitchen. He opened a can of beer and went out on his deck. He replayed the round in his head as he watched the sun getting lower over the hills. He fixed some chili dogs and ate quickly. He needed to get to bed early. The man had called on Wednesday. He would make his run tomorrow. The bed smelled faintly of Lynn. He soon fell asleep.

### Chapter Six

### The Run

The alarm clock woke Waller at eight-thirty on Saturday morning. He thumbed the sleep from his eyes and stumbled to the bathroom. Under the stinging, hot needles of the shower, he became fully awake. He ran through a list of things to do for the trip. The Bonneville was filled with gas. He would grab a bowl of cereal and eat lunch in Austin.

He dressed in tennis shoes, dark pants, and a black golf shirt. He retrieved the morning paper and scanned the sports section as he munched on a bowl of corn flakes and sipped orange juice. Koufax was mowing them down for the Dodgers and Arnie was kicking ass on the tour.

Waller finished eating, rinsed the bowl, glass and spoon. He placed them in the dishwasher and went to brush his teeth. He grabbed a Madras sports coat from his closet. He got a brown paper sack and placed a roll of sticky, black plumber's tape, a small roll of wire and some wire cutting pliers inside the sack. He went downstairs, locked his door and got into the convertible. It was now ten o'clock. He decided to leave the top up to better hear the radio.

The day was already warm. There were no clouds in the deep blue sky. Waller drove over to Interstate 35W and headed south. He breezed through Ft. Worth and down to Hillsboro. Every time that he made the run, more of the highway had been completed.

"Greatest thing ever," he thought as he rolled along at seventy miles per hour.

One still had to go through Waco, a time-consuming, depressing delay as the non-descript town offered up ugly used car lots, tire stores, fading restaurants and weeds growing in the median of US Highway 77.

Waller arrived in Austin at one thirty in the afternoon. He pulled off of the highway and drove to the Gaustgarten. He parked his car under a huge oak tree and walked in the back door.

The Gaustgarten was a legend in the city. It was said that more political deals had been made here than in the legislative buildings a few blocks away. These deals charted the course of the state's government. Legislators, businessmen, lobbyists, faculty from the university and students all bent elbows in the cavernous old building or outside under the aged trees. Waller noticed no changes in the décor since he had been a student.

He slid into a booth along a wall adorned with ancient photographs. He ordered a chicken fried steak, hash browns and a schooner of beer. He surveyed the large room.

A group of tan, prosperous-looking men sat at an adjacent table.

"Ol' Darrell's gonna have him a team this year," one of them said, blowing cigar smoke at the ceiling.

"Goddamn right," another echoed.

Waller looked toward the bar where an oversized football schedule was propped up near a wall. The Horns played SMU in Dallas in late October. He made a mental note to buy tickets and to take DeGroot. The old anthropologist was an astute student of the game and was fun to sit with.

Xerxes finished the meal, drained his beer and lit a cigarette. He got out of the booth and paid his bill to a large woman with ugly red hair who was seated behind the cash register. He went into the men's restroom. Graffiti from the past eighty years covered the walls. The walls were filled with mottos, poems, frat slogans, sayings and jokes. He searched in vain for one he had put up there long ago. He finished up and washed his hands quickly. The terrible stench of the old bathroom drove him out gasping for a clean breath of air.

He went out to his car. It was steaming inside, so he put the top down and headed back to the Interstate. Once he got through San Antonio, he jumped his speed up to eighty. He blazed across the barren ranch land. He went through Dilley and Pearsall. He rarely saw another car. The state troopers usually gave drivers a lot of leeway on the long, desolate stretches of highway.

At a little past six o'clock, Waller eased his car into the parking lot of a small bar called the "Desert Wind" on the outskirts of Laredo near the Air Force base. He put the top up and locked his car. He crunched across the gravel parking lot and entered the smoky bar. He had been here a half dozen times over the past eighteen months and always recognized the faces. He wondered if they recognized him.

The bald man standing behind the bar was talking to a pig-nosed woman sitting on a barstool. She smoked cigarettes with a holder and sipped Lone Star from a bottle. She was on the same stool every time Waller had been there.

A young airman from the base sat at a table with an extremely pretty young girl clad in cut-off blue jeans and a halter top. The girl was looking at the boy in a dreamy way.

Waller walked past them thinking, "Way to go, guy," as he headed toward the rear of the room. He seated himself at a small table and waited for the very ugly Indian woman named, "Peaches" to come over in his direction.

"That's reserved for the band," she stated.

"What time do they come on?" Waller asked.

"Nine o'clock."

Waller pointed to a clock on the wall. "That's hours from now. I'll be gone by then. Bring me a Bud."

The woman acted as if she was doing the math in her head. "It's OK, I guess." She waddled over to the bar.

"Stupid bitch," thought Waller. This same scene had replayed each time he was in the place.

The woman returned with his beer. "That'll be twenty cents, mister."

Waller pushed a quarter in her direction. "Keep it."

The fat woman walked away without a word. Waller sipped the cold beer and glanced at his watch. Everything that involved Marcello was impeccably timed. It was six forty-eight. The room was filling up. Waller leaned back in his chair and relaxed. He smoked a Marlboro and sipped the beer.

The noise level increased. Finally it was close to seven o'clock. He drained the beer and replaced the pack of cigarettes in the pocket of his jacket. He stood up and stretched. He looked at his watch. It was seven on the dot. He headed toward the front door. On his right was a row of booths. In one booth sat a hugely fat Mexican in a soiled shirt. The man had an almost empty schooner of beer in front of him and appeared to be asleep.

Waller reached into his pocket and shook a cigarette from the pack. He patted his pockets as if searching for a match.

The fat man looked up from his trance and asked, "Need a light, senor?"

"Um, yes I do."

The man slid a packet of matches across the table. Waller picked up the book and lit his cigarette.

"Thank you," he said.

"Keep them, senor," the man laid his head back down onto the wet ring in front of his beer and seemed to doze again. Waller walked out of the bar, slipping the matches into the pocket of his trousers. Dusk was squatting over Laredo as he drove through the border town heading toward the river.

Close to the international bridge was a small parking lot. "Park here. Your car will be safe- 25 cents," a large sign proclaimed.

Waller wheeled in and parked in slot number eighteen. A Mexican ran over and took his quarter. He handed Waller a yellow ticket.

"Looking for fun?" the swarthy man asked.

"Just going over for dinner," Waller replied.

"Garcia's is good," the man said.

"Best damn frog legs in the world," replied Waller.

"Right from this stinking cesspool of a river," the Mexican spat.

Waller walked across the bridge above the weed-infested Rio Grande. A shallow trickle of water flowed below. The man was right, it did stink. He also had no intentions of ever eating anything in Mexico.

"The mighty Rio Bravo," he chuckled, using the Mexican name for the river.

At the end of the bridge, Waller dropped a nickel into a turnstile and walked into Mexico. He was immediately besieged by hordes of ragged children.

"Cheeklets?" young girls thrust tiny pieces of chewing gum at him.

"Shoe shine, meester?" A swarm of boys carrying rags and small boxes tugged at the sleeves of his jacket.

"You wanna fuck my seester, she's a virgin?" a sly boy leered.

Waller brushed aside the throng who turned their attention toward the next person to cross the bridge.

He strode along past the markets, musicians playing guitars, and buildings strung with colored lights. The town of Nuevo Laredo had a dismal odor. A donkey lay dead in a muddy street. Horse shit also littered the streets. Smoke from cooking goats and charcoal fires wafted into the night air.

He made his way to the Cadillac Bar which was packed with people on this warm night in June. The bar was said to be owned by an American, a graduate of Texas A & M. Waller found a stool at the crowded bar. A busy bartender finally came over, and Waller ordered a Dos Equis. He sipped on the beer and looked around the crowded room. He pulled the match book from his pocket. The man standing next to Waller was a burly fellow wearing a shirt with the sleeves cut off. He paid no attention to Waller.

Waller opened the cover of the matchbook and studied the writing on the inside cover. "FL six. UP 26 48 12" was scrawled in black ink. He memorized the numbers and ripped the matchbook into several pieces. He finished his beer and walked into the men's room.

The bathroom was large and smelly. He dropped the pieces of the matchbook into a hole in the ground that served as a urinal. He counted the stalls from the left. The sixth stall was empty. He entered the stall and locked the door. The wall of the stall almost reached the ceiling. An old-fashioned water tank stood seven feet from the floor above the toilet.

Waller stood on the toilet seat and reached into the tank. He moved his hand until he felt the package. He grasped it and pulled it free. It was wrapped in waterproof tape. He dropped to the floor and dried off the package with toilet paper. He flushed the toilet and shoved the package under his coat. He left the stall and exited the back door. He walked west and the poverty of the country became more evident with each step as he left the music and bright lights behind. Shacks were constructed of cardboard and paper. Tiny children played naked in dirt yards.

"Good fucking Catholics," Waller thought. "The Pope will be proud of you."

Soon he hit the railroad yard. Dozens of freight cars slumbered in the warm spring night. A switch engine from the nationalized railroad, FCM, toiled along on a far track. Waller walked alongside a string of box cars on the outside track of the yard. Early the next morning, a brace of shiny blue locomotives from the Mo Pac would come across the bridge from Texas and gather the string of cars and drag them into the United States for their long journey northward.

Waller walked along the rock ballast, reading the numbers on the box cars. Finally, he spotted the Union Pacific car, fresh paint gleaming in the moonlight. Waller squatted and duck-walked beneath the car. He took the package from his coat pocket and set it on a crosstie. He removed the pliers, tape and wire from the other pocket.

The box car was fabricated using a long I beam that ran the length of the car. Shorter steel crossbars were welded along the beam and supported the floor of the car. Waller placed the package against the side of the beam. It fit snugly between the top and bottom of the "I." He cut several lengths of wire and wrapped them tightly around the package. Then he wound the sticky, black tape over the wire. He added the rest of the wire over the tape. It was hot and cramped under the car. Waller was dripping wet with sweat and his back was aching. He clambered out from under the car and retraced his steps. The package was ready for the long journey northward.

The train would run north through San Antonio and be split at Valley Junction. Some cars would go to Kansas City, but most would go to St. Louis. Waller figured that the car containing the package would go to St. Louis In the massive switching yard there, New York Central locomotives would carry it to the big city. When it arrived, someone would clamber beneath the car and undo the package. Marcello's peers would cook, cut and refine the heroin.

Hundreds of junkies in the city would pump the liquid into their veins and satisfy their habit for a while.

Waller walked quickly back through the town. The music was louder now. He dropped the pliers into a gutter. The street was more crowded. Drunks staggered along heading to another cantina. He stopped in a liquor store and purchased a bottle of vodka. An American citizen could bring back one quart of liquor duty free each time he crossed over the border.

Waller walked over the bridge and back into the United States. He entered the U.S. Customs building. A bored-looking woman asked him, "Got anything to declare?"

"Bottle of Wolfschmidt," Waller said holding up the brown paper sack.

"Where were you born?"

"Alabama."

"Step over there," she directed him to another line.

A uniformed man chewing on a toothpick looked at Waller's driver's license and motioned him along. Waller strode to the parking lot and retrieved the Bonneville.

"Enjoy your dinner?" the attendant asked.

"As always," he smiled.

He got into his car and headed north. It was almost nine o'clock. He drove hard through the empty desert. He searched the radio for music. American rock and roll had become quite lame. He remembered Dane Morgan telling him about the music that was becoming big in England.

"There are all of these little clubs in the industrial cities up north, in Liverpool Manchester, and also in London. They feature these blokes with long hair playing Negro rhythm and blues. They have odd names like Kinks, Zombies and Beatles. When they hit over here, it will be huge."

Waller had laughed at his colleague. "English rockers? No way."

He ran through all of the radio stations without finding anything good. He tuned to a baseball game from Chicago of all places. The Cubs and Cards were locked in a scoreless tie. He listened for a while, but the game was too tedious. He switched off the radio.

He went through San Antonio and stopped at a truck stop near San Marcos. He wolfed down a large steak and baked potato. He used the restroom and headed north. Once he was past Austin, he pulled off at a roadside park. He drove to the far back edge of the lot, locked the door and curled up across the back seat. He fell asleep immediately.

The yellow light of dawn crept into the car and he slowly awoke. He climbed out of his car and stretched. He walked back to some bushes and pissed.

"Sunday morning," he thought as he walked in a long loop to loosen up his legs. "I'll be calling Teri soon." The thought of the girl made him smile as he headed back toward his car. It was about three hours back to Womack.

On the way back, he thought about the run. After the first one, he had been puzzled about his role, and about the organization. "Why was he involved?"

Whoever had placed the package inside the toilet at the Cadillac Bar could have just as easily attached it to the rail car.

Maybe the more links in the supply chain, the more difficult it was for the authorities to get a handle on the operation. Waller liked that idea the best. Mainly, because his other idea was that the fat man was testing him.

One time last year, the Mexican had not been at the bar in Laredo. It had been a bitterly cold day in February. Waller had left the bar after waiting a little longer. He drove to Corpus Christi and stayed in a motel. He drove back to Womack on Sunday. He had gone down to Marcello's the following Wednesday as usual.

Marcello joined him in the booth, talked about basketball and the payoff routine was the same. Marcello would take his bill and walk back to the bar. Waller would leave through the back door and wait beside Marcello's Cadillac. A few moments later, Marcello would come out, open his car and pull out a manila envelope. He would hand it to Waller who would go to his car and drive off.

After the aborted run, Waller had opened the envelope when he returned to his apartment. He counted the money. It was the same amount as usual.

It was almost ten o'clock on this sunny Sunday when Waller got back to his apartment. He eased the Bonneville into the garage and went into his apartment. He had been gone a little more than twenty-four hours. He locked the door, stripped and took a long, hot shower. He dried off and tumbled into bed. The sheets still held a slight fragrance of Lynn. He thought about Teri and soon was fast asleep.

### Chapter Seven

### Student Union

Teri McKay should have graduated with the Class of 1963 in May, but she had made a late change in her major and still required nine hours in order to graduate. She planned to take the classes in summer school and receive her diploma in August. She would then attend graduate school at the University of North Carolina.

Teri was from Shreveport where her father owned an automobile dealership. At age twenty-two, Teri was a traffic-stopper. She was a tiny, blonde beauty. She was one of the most popular students at Milam College. Everyone knew Teri.

The Texas sun had given her a golden tan which complemented her dazzling blue eyes and snow-white teeth. She wore her fine blonde hair either tied up in a ponytail or worn flowing down her small back.

Dane Morgan had been after her from the moment that she had arrived at Milam, but the dapper Englishman never got a chance with her. During her freshman year, she was still dating her high school sweetheart who attended Mississippi State. When she returned for her sophomore year, she began dating Pronge Leland, one of Milam's tennis stars.

Leland had flunked out after the fall semester. He hung around Womack for a while, and then joined the Marines in March. Teri had not dated anyone else since he left. Her course load was heavy and exams were looming.

Teri had been in two of Waller's classes and Leland was an AK, so Xerxes was around her at the AK house during several parties. Waller was aware of her intelligence. She had been one of his best students, leading class discussions and quickly grasping the point of his lectures. She seemed very mature for her age. Waller remembered one warm night when the Alpha Kaps were staging a wild party. Waller and Teri had been sitting on a low wall along the deck sipping beer and talking while Leland and the brothers were playing a drinking game. Teri was wearing shorts and he admired her shapely legs as they dangled from the wall. Loud music filled the air. Teri sipped her cup of beer.

"I always wondered about your name."

"Professor Waller?" he asked.

She elbowed him in the ribs, "No silly! Xerxes."

"My father was enthralled with the ancient Greeks. He took Greek courses in college. For several months he lived on an island in the Aegean Sea and worked in a bar. He talked my mother into giving me a Greek name. She agreed only if she could name the next child."

"So your brothers and sisters have normal names?" Teri asked.

Waller looked up into the dark sky.

"No. My mother died when I was four years old. I don't have any siblings."

Teri gripped his arm tightly and said, "Oh, Professor Waller, I am so sorry!"

Waller was silent for a while.

"Did the other kids make fun of your name when you were in school?" Teri finally broke the silence.

"Not really. One of the guys was an Irish boy named Paddy. They called him 'Patty,' so he got most of the teasing. But no matter how the teachers lined us up, first or last names, I was always at the end of the line."

Teri laughed and kissed him on the cheek. "You can be at the front of my line."

He felt her warm thigh touching his. They talked awhile longer then Waller headed back to his apartment. The party would continue long into the warm night.

Teri's roommate had graduated on schedule, so Teri moved from their apartment in Womack and into Pop Winnegar's garage apartment. Pop was the assistant athletic director at Milam. He had been a legendary high school football coach and lived alone. His wife had died several years earlier and he had been renting out the apartment to Milam students for many years. He had a phone in the apartment for them to use.

Summer school was casual at Milam. The female students came to class in shorts and sandals, while the men wore golf shirts and jeans. Waller tended to dismiss the class early and grade easier.

Registration began Tuesday and classes began on the following Monday. Waller slept late on Tuesday, then went to the range and hit a bucket of balls. He went to his office and got his materials and lectures organized. He went back to his apartment and cooked a steak on his grill. After he cleaned up the dishes, he got the student directory and dialed Teri's old phone number. He got a recording that gave her new phone number which he wrote on a pad of paper.

Waller dialed the number and it rang three times before Teri came on the line.

"This is Xerxes Waller," he said.

"Oh, hi professor," she replied.

"Teri, do I have you in my class this summer?"

"No," the girl laughed. "I'll probably have to work for my grades this semester."

"Well, then, I'm not 'professor.' Call me 'Xerxes.'"

"OK," she said.

"What is on your agenda for tomorrow?" Waller asked hoping that she could not feel the excitement in his voice.

"Nothing much."

"How about a run down the Fernando complete with a gourmet picnic lunch from yours truly?"

She giggled, "Are you sure you don't want me to make the picnic?"

"Hey! I'm a man of many talents," he joked. "Pick you up at ten-thirty."

"I can't wait," she breathed into the phone.

Waller felt a funny sensation in the pit of his stomach. He said good-bye and hung up.

This would be perfect he thought. Teri would leave Womack in late August and head to Chapel Hill. He would have almost three exciting and memorable months with the blonde angel. He had to let Morgan know somehow. Perhaps send a photo of them together to the Englishman at Cambridge. He could almost hear the man cursing in his precise, clipped accent. Waller smiled. Morgan had wanted this one bad.

Tuesday dawned blue and hot. Waller showered and put on swim trunks and laced on aged sneakers. He slipped into a shirt and fixed breakfast. After he cleaned up the dishes, he gathered some towels, lotion and an old ball cap. He filled a cooler with beer, ice and a bottle of white wine. He remembered to put a corkscrew into the bag with the towels. He went to his garage and backed out the Pontiac. He walked inside and slid the canoe out of the garage.

He attached two heavy, Styrofoam blocks on each of the gunnels. The blocks on one end had deep grooves cut perpendicular to the gunnels. He hoisted the canoe and set one end on the trunk of the car and the other end on top of the windshield. He worked the grooves in the blocks into the metal rim of the windshield. He tied ropes around the canoe and attached them to the front and rear bumpers.

He went into the garage and got two paddles and two life jackets. The smallest paddle was one that Lynn had used. It would be a little tall for Teri, but not by much. He stowed the cooler and bag into the back seat. He got some paper towels, two plastic cups and his sunglasses. He drove into Womack to Schwartz's Deli and had the old German make up some hefty sandwiches, and bought a carton of barbeque beans and a bag of corn chips. He put the sandwiches and beans into the cooler and headed over to Pop's house.

It was getting very hot. He pulled up in front of the driveway and saw Teri's red Oldsmobile. As he was about to get out of his car, he spotted Teri walking toward the street.

Waller swore his heart stopped for a minute as the small girl walked toward him. Teri was wearing very white shorts and sneakers. Muscles rippled beneath the sleek, tan skin of her legs. Waller remembered that she had been a dancer and gymnast in her youth. She was wearing a short blouse that showed off her impossibly tiny waist which was also deeply tanned.

The blouse stretched over high, rounded breasts that moved gently as she walked toward his car. Her champagne-blonde hair was wound tight and pinned to the rear of her scalp. Her blue eyes were concealed by stylish sunglasses.

Waller jumped out of his car, grabbed her bag and tossed it in the back seat. He held the door open and she bounced lightly into the front seat.

"This should be fun," she smiled up at Waller, white teeth gleaming in the summer sun.

Waller walked slowly around the rear of his car. He could not believe his luck. He got in, started up and drove north. They talked about the upcoming summer session. Teri's courses seemed like they would be pretty easy. She would have time to lounge by the Olympic-sized pool at Milam and bask in the rays of the Texas summer. Waller nodded as he listened to her talk while he glanced at her.

He turned the Bonneville off of the farm-to-market road and onto a rutted lane which was covered by tall trees.

"I'm getting excited," Teri smiled

"So am I," Waller thought, slowing the car as the road dipped toward the banks of the Fernando River. He parked beneath a large pecan tree. They got out and Waller began undoing the ropes that had held the canoe in place. Teri jumped out to help. Waller slid the craft to one side of the car, ducked under it and hoisted it neatly from the car. He portaged it down to the edge of the river and flipped it over onto a grassy spot.

Teri grabbed the paddles, life vests and towels and trotted them over to the canoe. Waller went back to retrieve the cooler and the rest of the things. He raised the top on the Pontiac and locked the car.

He handed the shorter paddle to Teri. He took his paddle and gave her a brief lesson on paddling. He showed her how to do a bow rudder stroke which would be necessary to safely navigate through Crisscross Rapids and Honeysuckle Hole.

Teri crossed her arms in front of her and pulled her blouse over her head. She tossed it under the seat in the bow of the canoe. She was wearing a small, white bikini top which contrasted with the deep golden color of her skin. She slipped out of her shorts revealing the white bottom part of her bikini. She turned and placed her shorts under the seat as well.

Waller gazed at her. He took a deep breath. "Mercy," he muttered to himself.

They stowed all of the gear and lashed the cooler to a thwart with a nylon rope. Teri helped Waller slide the canoe into the water and then leapt nimbly into the bow, taking her seat. Waller nudged the stern into the water and jumped in. He stroked hard into the middle of the river. The Fernando was running rapidly that June day. Teri quickly got the hang of paddling in the bow, and they glided beneath tall trees and beside giant caladiums as they ran along the rocky escarpment of North Central Texas.

Waller looked at Teri's back. Small, firm muscles slid beneath her golden skin as she dipped her paddle into the water and stroked firmly. Her delicate spine was visible under her skin. On either side, tiny dimples were visible just above the bikini bottom. Golden down glimmered in the bright sunshine.

Waller drove his paddle into the clear water, pushing the craft along and giving the muscles of his shoulders and arms a vigorous workout. The sun rode hot and high in the Texas sky, burning into his skin. Sweat ran freely down his neck and along his cheeks.

The river narrowed and a line of tall cypress trees loomed ahead.

"Beer break!" Waller called out.

He steered toward the shade afforded by the trees. He fished two chilled cans from the cooler and punched them open with an opener that was tied to the handle of the cooler with string. He stretched across a thwart and handed a can to Teri who had swiveled around on her seat to face him. A silvery trickle of sweat ran between her breasts and followed the razor-thin line that cut her abdominal muscles.

Teri was glowing as she gulped down the beer.

"Xerxes, it is so pretty down here. I'll bet that we've seen a hundred turtles. The herons are so graceful! It's so quiet and peaceful. I love it!"

"We can do this a lot this summer," he smiled. "You are right. Not much can match this. Here's to a great run and a gorgeous bowman." He lifted his can toward the girl.

"Man?" Teri laughed and leaned forward to allow her breasts to show deeper cleavage.

"Bad term," Waller smiled emptying his can. He crushed the can and stowed it in the cooler. He did the same with Teri's.

They turned back downriver and began paddling. They ran several small rapids. Teri laughed as she knifed the bow across the foaming, white water deftly avoiding rocks and ducking low hanging tree branches.

"This is great!" she yelled over her shoulder to Waller.

Soon, they encountered a slower expanse of water.

"About time for lunch," Waller said surveying the riverbank. Somewhere near was a nice meadow along the river. He guided the canoe onto a sandy shoreline. Teri leapt out and tugged on the bow rope. She tied it to a tree after had Waller climbed out. He gathered the cooler and a large beach towel. They walked up a gentle slope to a patch of grass shaded by live oak trees.

Teri spread the towel and Waller set the cooler down. He opened it and handed her a sandwich. He opened the container of beans and the bag of chips. He uncorked the wine and filled the two plastic cups. They sat facing the river as they ate. He toasted Teri with his cup.

"You are a good cook, after all. I guess that it's just a coincidence that the sandwich wrappers say, 'Schwartz's Deli.'"

"Damn," Waller smacked his forehead. "I forgot about that."

They ate heartily. It was hot and they had worked hard in the heat. They talked about Milam and Teri's plans in the fall. Conversation was easy with the blonde girl. She acted older than she was. They ate, drank and laughed.

Waller gathered everything and filled the cooler. The wine bottle was empty. He lay back on the towel.

"You were really moving up there, bowman."

Teri balled a small fist and made a muscle. A wiry bicep arched under her smooth skin.

"One hundred-two Teri power!" she laughed.

She rolled over on the towel and onto Waller's chest. She kissed him long and deep. Waller ran his hands along her smooth, tan back. Then he rolled out from under her, lifted her off of the blanket and ran down the slope. He tossed the shrieking girl far into the river, then dove flatly and swam to her.

"Time for a swim," he laughed and dunked her under the clear water.

They played like sleek otters for a long while. Occasionally Waller would embrace her and give her long kisses. Finally, they walked back up the slope and gathered the cooler and towel. He put them back into the canoe. They untied the canoe and slid it back into the water.

Waller figured it was about three o'clock by now. They pushed onward down the Fernando. They ran through Crisscross, whitewater spraying them as they zigzagged down the winding rapids. Moments later, they shot Honeysuckle Hole and about an hour later, pulled up to the beach at TG's camp at five o'clock. They left the canoe on the bank and walked toward a small cabin. A huge man followed by several dogs and a small child came down to meet them.

"Well, well, if it ain't the professor," the man grinned extending a large hand to Waller.

"T.G., I'd like you to meet Teri," Waller nodded to the girl standing at his side.

"Good to meet you, miss," the big man said. "Good run?"

"It's so pretty!" Teri gushed. "We saw hawks, herons and a hundred turtles. I just love it!"

"Been living on it for forty-two years," T.G. said. "Never get tired of it."

He walked to a decrepit pickup truck and backed it down to the beach. He got out and lifted the canoe as if it were a matchstick and set it into the bed of the truck and tied it with some rope. They placed their gear into the bed of the truck and got into the worn seat of the truck. Teri sat between the two men. T.G. headed up the bank and turned onto a gravel road. He wound his way back to the park where Waller had left his car. The men bantered about old times as Teri sat between them smiling at the stories.

T.G. helped Waller secure the canoe on top of the Pontiac while Teri carried the gear to the car and placed it in the backseat. Waller handed the man a bill and said goodbye. The big man got into the pickup and drove off.

"He's nice," said Teri.

"River man," smiled Waller.

Teri sat close to Waller on the ride back to Womack. When they got to his apartment, they left the canoe on top of the car and carried the gear upstairs. He placed the cooler on the sink and fished out the last two beers. They went out onto the deck and drank them.

"This was so much fun!" Teri said.

"A warm soapy shower will do wonders for sunburn," he looked into her soft blue eyes.

"Race you!" she laughed heading inside.

Waller steered her toward the bedroom. It was dark in the room. He turned on a small lamp and a dim bronze light filled the room. Teri untied the bikini top and let it drop to the carpet. Waller gazed at her firm breasts, white against her tan. Teri peeled off the bottoms and stood still in the dim light.

Waller grabbed a large towel, took Teri by her hand and led her into the large shower stall in the bathroom. He quickly stripped and stepped into the shower. He adjusted the water until it was a warm spray and drew Teri inside and shut the glass door. He took a bar of soap and a wash rag. He turned Teri and began to gently scrub her tan back. Then he dropped lower to her small, round buttocks. He slid the soapy rag down each sculpted leg. The warm spray was covering them and steam wafted toward the tile ceiling. Waller was tremendously excited.

He spun Teri around and began soaping her high, soft breasts.

"Oh, God," she moaned clasping his neck with her strong arms.

When he finished, he handed the rag and bar of soap to Teri who rubbed him vigorously. When she was finished, he placed the rag and soap on the shelf. He turned the stream of water higher and they both rinsed off clinging together until they were cleansed of the film of soap.

Waller turned off the water. He opened the door of the stall and grabbed the large towel. He ran it gently over Teri's face and hair. He dried her shoulders and back. He turned her and dried her breasts and stomach. He knelt down and dried each leg. His head was level with the golden wet tangle of hair.

He looked at a droplet of water rolling down one of her firm thighs. He put his tongue on the drop and pushed it slowly upward. Teri was leaning back against the wet tile wall moaning and crying his name. Waller inserted his probing tongue upward and deep within her sleek, heavenly warmth.

"Oh, God!" Teri cried as Waller cupped her round buttocks and drove deeper. She raked his back with her fingernails and shook her head wildly.

Waller drew back and picked up the towel. He draped it around Teri. He hugged her out of the shower and into the bedroom. He went over to the bed and gently laid her on the covers. He pushed deep inside her. Teri smothered his mouth with kisses. She wrapped her arms around his neck, driving upward and thrusting quickly against his hard body. In a fiery climax, Waller saw images of the falls at Crisscross, white water raging, rocks rushing past.

"Oh, Xerxes. Mmmm!" Teri moaned, her body shaking violently, then collapsing still on the bedcovers.

They clung together breathing rapidly for a few moments. Then Waller rolled over and found his cigarettes and lit one. He exhaled at the ceiling and gazed at the golden blonde girl lying by his side.

"It's going be some summer, Teri."

Teri leaned over and kissed his flat belly. Waller snubbed out the cigarette as Teri twisted and began slowly kissing downward.

"My turn," she purred.

Sometime in the next morning, Waller woke Teri with slow, gentle loving. The sun was well up. After they separated, Waller slipped into shower. When he had dried off, he put on some shorts and went to the kitchen. He rustled up some bacon and eggs. When he was almost finished cooking, Teri wandered into the kitchen. Her hair was tied in a ponytail and she was wearing one of Waller's shirts. The shirttail reached past her knees and the sleeves had been rolled up several times. She looked to be about fifteen years old.

"Good morning. Hungry?"

"I could eat the whole Safeway store, I think. All of that paddling makes a girl hungry."

She walked over to Waller and gently kissed his cheek.

"That it does," he smiled

They took their plates out onto the porch. Waller had mixed up some Bloody Mary's. It was almost noon and the sun was hot. There was no breeze.

"To summer," Waller raised his glass.

"To summer with my Xerxes," smiled Teri, clinking her class against his.

So the summer of 1963 flowed by. Waller taught his course and Teri took her remaining nine hours. Waller used quite a bit of the money from his runs to take Teri on weekend trips. Teri's courses didn't require much homework.

They went to South Padre Island and to Pensacola where they walked the sugar white sands, swam in the emerald water and ate at the Greek seafood place. Waller showed her the spot where he had met the students from Texas.

"If that hadn't happened, I wouldn't be standing here with you," he said kissing her gently.

They went to New Orleans where Waller took her to some of his old haunts. Teri loved the place where very old, black musicians played jazz. They went to Lake Tahoe and gambled in Reno. Teri squealed with delight when she drew an ace and a queen on a hundred dollar bet.

The best trip was during the week between the two summer sessions. They flew to Seattle and spent two days exploring the city. Then, they rented a car and drove down the coast and into Oregon. Waller had rented a small cottage on the beach at Pacific City.

"This place is so beautiful!" Teri exclaimed. They explored the mountainous coastline and ate delicious seafood. The nights in the cottage were heaven. Waller could never get enough of the young girl. Teri loved being with Waller.

On their last day at the cottage, Teri was combing the beach for shells while Waller sat on the deck. He thought about the first day of January when he had been sitting on his deck at home. He remembered thinking that 1963 was going to be a great year. It was turning out even better than he could have imagined. They drove into Portland, turned in the car at the airport and flew back to Dallas.

They got back into the routine of school. One day, Waller was walking across the campus and ran into DeGroot.

"I had about given you up for dead," the older professor said.

"Been really busy, Dudley," Waller smiled.

"I'll bet," grinned DeGroot. "Call me sometime." He ambled off toward the administration building.

The end of August was getting closer. Milam held no formal graduation after the summer sessions. Teri had been allowed to walk in the ceremony in May. She was due to leave for Chapel Hill on the twenty-fourth. After her last exam, she loaded her car, said goodbye to Pop and drove to Waller's apartment.

They drove to Ft. Worth in the Pontiac and ate dinner at Cattleman's. Teri churned through a large steak dinner in no time. Waller never could figure how she could devour food and remain so tiny. They went to a bar near the stockyards and danced to the band and drank beer. Finally, they headed back to Womack.

They made love throughout the hot August night. Waller fixed their breakfast for the final time. They ate on the deck. Teri was quiet as she ate. Waller knew that she wanted to get an early start. He walked into the house and returned with a small package. He handed it to Teri.

"For the best summer ever, with the best girl ever."

Teri opened the package and withdrew a gold bracelet set with a row of diamonds.

"Oh, Xerxes, it's lovely!" She dove into his arms. "Thank you. I'll never forget you or our summer." She clasped the bracelet onto her left wrist and displayed it for Waller.

They walked outside. Waller walked her to her car. They clung together for a long moment. Then, Teri gently pushed him away and spun into the driver's seat. She was crying.

"Good bye, Xerxes."

She started the Oldsmobile and slowly backed up. She waved to Waller and drove off, heading eastward through the August heat.

Waller walked back upstairs. He went out onto the deck and sat down.

"It will be hard to top that," he thought.

The man had called on Wednesday. He would make the run on Saturday. The cache of money had dwindled down. He fell into bed thinking of Teri. He awoke at two o'clock in the afternoon and ate a sandwich. He drove to the range and hit a bucket of balls. He was rusty. He returned to his place, ate a hot dog, watched some television and went to bed early.

Saturday was very hot. He made the run without any problems. He had done it faster than ever. He began to make plans for the fall semester. He needed to replace Teri. He was not in a hurry. The affair with the small, blonde girl had been intense. A little rest wouldn't hurt.

Waller received a letter from Teri ten days after she had left Womack. Chapel Hill was pretty in the early fall. The girls were nice. She had been by the sorority house. She thought that she would enjoy all of her courses. No one had ever heard of Milam College. At least fifteen boys had asked her out.

Waller read the letter again then, tossed it in a trash can.

"Have fun, Teri." he smiled.

He knew that some fortunate fellow in the hills of North Carolina would be thanking his lucky stars soon.

### Chapter Eight

### In The Web

After several runs, Waller figured that this was his niche in whatever organization Marcello was involved with.

"Easy money," he would smile as he thought of the ways he could treat the co-ed of his choosing this fall.

Fall promised to be glorious on the plains of Womack, although it had remained quite warm and dry. Waller was in his office when he got a call. He had never heard the voice before. It ordered him to be at Marcello's at eight o'clock that night and hung up.

After he finished his pizza, they went through the departure routine and soon he and Marcello were walking in the deserted school yard.

"You've done good. Time to promote you to Double A ball."

Waller always smiled at the fat man's interjection of sports jargon into every conversation.

"What the fuck would be the big leagues?" he wondered as Marcello walked along beside him.

"Things are not like in the old days. We are into everything. We've got lawyers and accountants that are tops in their field."

They stood on second base in the inky blackness. Waller lit a cigarette and waited.

"Ever hear of Southern Financial Services?" Marcello asked.

"I'm a professor of history, not a businessman," replied Waller.

"It's not on the big board, that's for sure," laughed Marcello. "It handles all of the money flowing in from the southern region. It's located in New Orleans. The financial guy is named Lucian Page. MBA from Wharton. CPA. Wizard investing our money. He's a classy guy. Collects art. Probably be controller at General Motors or someplace if we didn't have him"

Waller smoked and said nothing.

"But we're real careful. Even a hotshot like Page has people watching. The boy got greedy. Numbers don't jibe. More money should be going to New York."

Waller tossed away his cigarette and waited for Marcello to continue.

"Page likes to play golf. He's going to an accountants' convention in Vegas next week. We encourage our boys to mix with their peers. There's a golf tournament where Page is entered. So are you. You don't begin teaching yet. We checked."

"So they keep tabs on me," mused Waller. The idea disturbed him. "How much else did they know?"

Marcello handed him an envelope.

"Here's a round trip ticket to Vegas. You are reserved in the Sands. The room has been prepaid. By some strange coincidence, you are in the same foursome with Page. He's a likable guy. Don't play as well as him. Let him score better."

Marcello handed him a business card.

Waller flicked his lighter and looked at the card.

It read, "Commerce Supply Company. E.X.Walker, President." The address was in Dallas.

"You're there to bone up on new corporate tax laws. You are not an accountant. The business part of the convention starts after the golf tournament. You will be out of there by then. But this is in case someone gets nosy. On the second night, get Page up into your room. You'll get instructions then."

"Got it," said Waller.

Marcello hustled him back to the car. As they parted in the parking lot, Marcello smirked.

"Enjoy your trip, professor."

Waller got into his car. He lowered the top and welcomed the sweet night air rushing by.

"What would they do with Page?" he thought to himself. This was different than running heroin. Graduation in this group was not fun. "How could he have possibly thought that he could have accepted their money and just drifted along without doing more?"

"Maybe this is it," he thought. "Do this job and they wouldn't ask any more from him. Make excuses. Don't spend the money so quickly." But he had a sinking feeling in his stomach.

He eased the Bonneville into his garage and went into his apartment. He walked upstairs and grabbed a beer and sat on his deck.

"What the hell," he thought. "The money is damned good. This guy, Page, screwed up. He would have to pay for it. Why should I worry about someone I don't even know?"

On a cloudy Tuesday, Waller drove to Love Field in Dallas and boarded a Delta jet to Las Vegas. The flight was smooth and he gathered his clubs and a small suitcase. He went outside and got into a taxi that took him to the hotel. He checked in and went to his room. Later, he went downstairs and ate lunch. He played blackjack until he got bored. He cashed in eighty dollars worth of chips and wandered the streets for a while. He found a place for dinner and then went to bed early.

Waller awoke early on Wednesday, ate breakfast and changed into golf attire. He slung his clubs over one shoulder and went down to the lobby. He got into a cab and was driven to the golf club. He checked in with the tournament officials. It seemed that he was a special guest and was catered to immediately. Waller smiled as he was handed a box of new Titleist golf balls, some fancy head covers for his clubs and a token good for all of the free drinks that he wanted.

He strolled over to the practice green and dropped two of the new balls onto the sleek surface. He putted for several minutes until he heard his name called over the loudspeaker. He gathered the snow white balls and walked toward a group of men standing on the first tee box.

The men stood swinging drivers and chatting. Stoic caddies stood a few feet away from the men. A stocky man with numerous tattoos approached Waller.

"I'll be toting your bag, sir. I'm Virgil."

Waller handed off his bag and Virgil handed his driver to him. He walked over toward the three men. He tried to guess which one was Page. One man had a deep tan, wore a loud Hawaiian shirt and white Bermuda shorts the displayed the legs of a long-time football player. A fringe of white hair curled beneath a white visor.

The second man appeared to be in his early seventies. He was cricket-thin and wiry. He sported powder blue slacks and a yellow golf shirt with an important-looking monogram.

By the process of elimination, the third man had to be Page. Page was tan and strongly built. Waller noted the very expensive golf shoes and pale linen slacks. Page had very short, black hair and steel-gray eyes.

Waller introduced himself all around, and then the big man set a gleaming white Titleist on a red tee and took a practice swing. Then he drove the ball far into the cloudless blue sky and gave a loud grunt of satisfaction.

Waller let them all tee off first. Marcello had said to let Page win, but he could not resist showing off a bit at first. Page had driven about two hundred twenty yards down the right side of the fairway into some light rough.

Waller teed up one of the new balls and hit a high draw that bore through the thin desert air and rolled to a stop two hundred eighty yards in the middle of the fairway.

"Nice shot, boss!" grinned Virgil taking the club from Waller.

Waller hurried down the fairway to get in step with Page who was walking briskly toward his ball.

"Nice shot," Page said in a soft Georgia drawl. "Sounds like you're from down my way."

"Alabama," grinned Waller. "Play a lot?"

"When I can find the time and that's not often enough."

Waller stopped and watched Page hit his approach shot to the green. The ball just trickled over the back edge of the putting surface and stopped in the frog hair about forty feet from the cup.

Waller and Virgil walked up to his ball and conferred.

"One eighty to the pin, boss."

"Punch a six," said Waller and Virgil handed him the iron.

Waller cut the ball beautifully and it stopped three feet from the hole drawing loud comments from the other players.

"Get lucky sometimes," smiled Waller as he walked toward the green.

Waller sunk the short putt.

"Didn't know we were playing with a pro," the big man smiled as the group walked toward the second tee.

Waller smiled. He spent the round walking and talking with Page. He tailored his game to how Page was playing. Page was a streaky player. It was obvious that he would be very good if he played more often. Page strung together four pars in a row on the back nine, and Waller had to play his best to keep up. At the end of that stretch, Page was one stroke ahead. Coming home, Waller would use the wrong club or aim a putt just off line to allow Page to keep his lead.

As they walked off the eighteenth green, Waller turned to Page.

"Buy you a beer, homeboy."

"That sounds good!"

Waller wiped his sweaty face with a golf towel. "Hotter than hell and it's September!"

"Be glad that it's not August in New Orleans. That's some serious heat!"

Waller wanted to tell him that he had spent an August in New Orleans, but decided against getting too close to the man. They sat in the cool air conditioning, sipped beer, smoked and talked. Obviously, Page couldn't talk about his work, so he skirted that subject with Waller. Waller could sense the quickness of Page's mind and understood how he could control the massive cash flow in his region. Page was excited about an upcoming fishing trip to the Bahamas.

"You won't make that trip," Waller thought sadly, "Or any others."

Page offered to drive Waller back to the Sands. He needed to make some phone calls. He had to keep tabs on things wherever he was. When they got back to the hotel, Page told Waller that they could meet for breakfast and drive to the golf course together on the next day.

They said good bye and Waller went up to his room. He showered, changed and went down to the casino. He played some blackjack and tried a few spins on the roulette wheel. He cashed out a little over two hundred dollars. He went outside and walked the teeming streets for a while. He found a restaurant for dinner, then walked back to the hotel and went to bed early with the bustling city noisily raging around him.

The same group played together on Thursday. Now that they were acquainted, the conversation was more relaxed and there was a lot of joking. The big man had enjoyed a very good night at the craps table and the company of a dancer from one of the shows. The long night affected his game.

The older man had eschewed the casinos in favor of visiting one of Nevada's famous brothels. His game also suffered.

Page had worked in his room during the evening and was on his game. Waller had to work hard to keep pace with him. At the end of the round, Page had beaten him by one stroke again. Waller had bet a steak dinner at the best place in town on the day's round. So he made a big scene about losing and having to pay off.

As they drove back to the hotel, Waller said, "Last evening, I was wandering around off of the Strip and I went into a small antique store. The old lady had a Remington painting and I don't think she knew what it was. I picked it up for nothing. I plan to hang it in the reception area of my business. Come up and check it out before we head out to dinner. Come up at seventy-thirty."

"I'd like to see that. Maybe even buy it from you." said Page as he dropped Waller off at the front of the hotel.

Waller got out of the car and pulled his clubs from the back seat.

"I hope that you're hungry. I hear this place is top notch."

"I'll be working up an appetite," grinned Page as he headed out to find a parking place.

"See you later," called Waller as he headed inside.

He went up to his room and took a long shower. After he dressed, he set his suitcase on a table by the window and draped a towel over it. Then he stretched out on the bed. There was nothing to do but wait. At six o'clock the phone rang, startling him. He had dozed off. He picked up the receiver.

"Is it set?" an oily voice asked.

"He's coming up here at seven thirty," replied Waller.

"I'll be joining you at seven fifteen." The line went dead.

Waller smoked and paced the floor, stopping at the window to look down on the city from time to time. He tried not to think. At seven fifteen, there was a tap on his door. He quickly went over and opened it slightly.

A short, greasy man pushed his way in knocking Waller aside. He closed the door and looked around the room. The bathroom was along the wall behind where the door opened.

"Fat Freddie," he growled at Waller. "I'll be in there," he jerked his head toward the bathroom. "Lead him toward the window."

Waller nodded at the man. Freddie had a shiny, bald head that glistened with grease. Rolls of yellow fat sagged down the side of his neck. He wore baggy, gray trousers and a short-sleeved shirt that revealed thick, hairy arms. He stood motionless in the doorway of the bathroom. Neither man spoke as the minutes dragged by.

At seven-thirty sharp, there was a loud knock on the door. Waller felt his heart race and his hands tremble. Freddie slithered back into the bathroom and pushed the door almost shut.

Waller walked to the door and opened it. He let Page walk past him into the room. Page was wearing crisp, expensive clothes and had tanned nicely over the past two days in the desert sun. Waller guided him toward the window.

He pointed to the suitcase covered with a towel. "Here's the..."

Waller stopped in mid-sentence as Freddie bore down on Page and struck him viciously over the right ear with a large blackjack. As Page crumpled toward the carpet, Freddie swung again catching him flush on the bridge of his nose. The door burst open and two men wearing white uniforms rolled a large laundry cart heaped with white towels into the room. Freddie spun around and closed the door.

Waller watched as the two men bound the unconscious man with heavy white tape, stuffed a wash rag into his mouth and taped over it. They taped over his eyes as well. One man tipped the cart over and jerked the towels from it. Both men rolled Page into the cart and wrestled it upright onto its wheels. They piled the towels on top of Page. Freddie opened the door and peered down the hall. He stepped aside and motioned the men to come out. They wheeled the cart down the long corridor quickly.

Freddie closed the door and walked toward Waller. He shoved Waller against the wall.

"I don't like you, fuck face! Maybe next time I'll get to roll your ass out into the desert and bury you."

Waller looked down at the repulsive man. He knew that he could easily beat him to a pulp and cram that blackjack down his ugly throat. But a moment's satisfaction would be his death warrant.

"Thought our boy was smarter than that," Marcello would lament to whomever, as the command to kill Waller went out.

So Waller said nothing as Freddie spat and cursed. Finally, Freddie let go of him, backed away and walked out of the room.

Waller quickly packed and called the airline. He could get on a ten o'clock nonstop flight to Dallas. He left the room and went downstairs. He walked out and got into a cab to the airport. On the flight back, he agonized over the event that he had played a part in. Page had seemed like a nice guy. He had been murdered and Waller had been a part of the process that ended his life.

"How had he thought that he could be involved with these people and not be stained by them?"

When he arrived back in Dallas, he retrieved his car and drove to Womack. He went to bed and slept far into the next day. When he awoke, he tried to put the trip out of his mind. But, he kept seeing Page smiling in the brilliant sunlight as he sank a long birdie putt.

It was Friday afternoon. It was three days before classes began on Monday, but Waller didn't feel like doing anything.

"You helped get a man killed. You're trapped. You can't escape." kept ricocheting through his mind. He sat on his deck drinking until very late that night.

The following Wednesday, he went into Dallas for the pay off. After he finished his meal, Marcello stopped by the table. He asked how the pizza was then pointed his thumb in the direction of the back door. They went through the routine.

Marcello emerged from the back door and they drove in silence to the school yard. As he got out of the car, he opened the trunk and withdrew a large envelope. He handed it to Waller. They walked out to the ball field and stopped at second base.

"Seems to be quite the spot this year," Waller smiled to himself. He lit a cigarette and waited for the fat man to speak.

"Smooth as silk. The big boys are very impressed with you."

"Who the hell is Fat Freddie," asked Waller blowing white smoke into the night sky.

Marcello sighed. "Fred is old school. He's useful at times. He may be put out to pasture soon." He stared into Waller's eyes. "You're getting to be real trustworthy with the big dogs. Keep in fighting trim."

He wheeled around and walked toward the Cadillac with Waller following in his wake.

After he was dropped off at his car, Waller drove back to Womack. Once inside his apartment, he slit open the envelope and gazed at the tightly wrapped bricks of one hundred dollar bills.

"Page was a smart man. He should have known better than to get greedy with this group. Maybe word will get around and others will learn. Then I won't have to do anything like this again," Waller thought as he stuffed the envelope under his bed.

He went out onto the deck and sipped on a beer. "Just run a little dope now and then," he smiled into the darkness.

Half a continent away in a non-descript building in Brooklyn, three men sat at a table. In front of them was a list of names. It had been decided that the usual professionals were out. They could be traced back. Smoke wafted into the air as name after name was scratched from the list. Soon just two remained.

A stocky man rubbed a two-day growth of beard and muttered, "Marcello has always delivered."

"We don't exist down there. I like that. He can't be tied to us in any way," the second man said. He was a rail-thin blonde with a hooked nose. A scar ran along the side of his left cheek.

The third man had the list in front of him. He took a gold pen and circled a name. "Guess I'll be talking to Mister Waller."

"What's the time frame?" asked the blonde-haired man.

"Late fall," the third man said. He got up and poured some Scotch into a glass. "Southern region is picking up. That bastard was skimming even more than Vinnie figured. Goddamn it, you just can't trust anyone these days!"

The other two men nodded and poured drinks for themselves.

### Chapter Nine

### Quicksand

On the first day of October, Waller was in his office fine tuning some upcoming lectures. The phone rang, jolting him from his concentration.

"Be at Marcello's tonight. Eight o'clock!" ordered a voice that he had never heard before. The line went dead. It was a little after four o'clock.

Waller put away his papers and walked out of his office. He drove to the range and hit some balls. He cleaned his clubs and went back to his apartment. He drove into Dallas and headed to Marcello's. He parked in the back lot. As he got out of his car, Marcello's Caddy skidded to a halt beside him.

"Get in!" barked the fat man.

Waller got in. He noticed another man was seated in the back seat. He shut the door and Marcello roared into the street. No one spoke as Marcello made his usual circles and backtracks. Finally they pulled up at the schoolyard. When they got out Waller glanced at the man in the back seat. The dome light of the car was on just long enough for Waller the see him clearly.

The man was immaculately groomed. He looked as if he had just walked out of a barbershop. He had jet-black hair glistening with oil and combed straight back. A large nose sat between a pair of black eyes that were as evil as anything that Waller had ever seen. His complexion was dark and his teeth very white.

Waller felt like he was in the presence of the devil.

This time, Marcello eschewed the ball diamond and continued on toward the football field. He settled on the fifty-yard stripe.

"Been promoted to the NFL," smiled Waller to himself.

"Waller, this is Mr. Del Mato," Manny said.

"Marcello says that you are a man to be trusted," the white teeth gleamed in the darkness.

Waller stood silently.

"Got a job for you," the voice melded New York and Sicily.

Waller glanced at Marcello who was being uncharacteristically silent. He waited saying nothing. He felt like he had just stepped off of a cliff. He felt quite helpless.

Del Mato had been holding a fat manila envelope in his hand. "This is a down payment. You get the rest when it's done." He handed the envelope to Waller. Waller clutched the heavy parcel. "There's enough there to enlist a pal or two."

Waller felt the bulky bricks inside. The envelope was bulging. "Who do I have to kill for this?" he joked.

Del Mato answered.

The blood seemed to stop flowing through Waller's body. He felt as if a large block of ice had lodged inside of his chest. Then he could feel his heart racing and his hands began to shake "This has got to be a big fucking joke," he thought. "It's just one of Marcello's little tricks." The two men would start to laugh and kid Waller about his reaction.

But as he looked into the vacuum of the dead, black eyes, he knew that it was no joke. He shook even more.

Just when he thought it couldn't get any worse, Del Mato said, "If you choose not to do this, you will be killed. It will be quick and soon."

Waller took a deep breath. "I'm already working on the plan. When and where?"

Marcello finally spoke. "It has to be here."

"He's coming here next month."

"Ain't that a fucking coincidence," laughed Del Mato. He turned and began walking back to the car.

Waller looked at Marcello. Marcello shrugged and hurried down to catch up with Del Mato. Waller had to trot to catch up with the pair. No one spoke on the quick ride back and Waller was deposited next to his car. He got out quickly and Marcello sped off. Waller slid into the familiar comfort of the Bonneville.

This could not be real. He started the car and drove off. He was an obscure college professor. This could not be happening. But the envelope sitting next to him was real. He knew damn well that Del Mato was real.

He had always wondered who Marcello worked for. Now he knew. "Goddamn," he muttered.

He drove slowly. He seemed to be driving underwater. Lights and objects seemed to waver. He felt hollow. He parked in his garage, went inside and walked upstairs. He tossed the envelope onto a table. He got a knife and carefully slit it open. Packages of one hundred dollar bills tumbled along the wooden table top. The bills were tightly wrapped with fat rubber bands. He took the knife and popped a band. Bills flew in every direction. He counted the loose bills. Then he counted the bundles.

"Damn!" he exclaimed. He put the bundles back in the envelope and stashed it under his bed.

He got a beer and went out onto the deck. The night was still warm. He hadn't had dinner, but was not hungry. He had to think. He needed some comrades for certain. This could not go awry. No one at Milam could be trusted. It had to be blood. Alpha Kap.

The first one to come to mind was Fanning.

"Could he kill someone? He's never killed anyone" he thought. "Well, not quite, anyway."

He remembered Myron Basil.

After Teri had departed the previous August, Waller had taken his canoe to Lake McIntosh to paddle around and get some sun. While he was untying his canoe, a man pulled a large bass boat from the water and parked next to Waller. It turned out to be Webb Clark, an Alpha Kap from Texas. They chatted for a while and had a beer. Clark caught Waller up on everything and had told the story of Basil.

Opening day of dove season was a few days away and Clark was excited. He was going to hunt on McMurray's farm. As he got ready to leave, he told Waller that Pat Fanning was living on the farm.

### Chapter Ten

### The Legacy

The Alpha Kaps were regarded as the stud fraternity at the University of Texas during the time that Waller was there. Many of the football players were Alpha Kaps. The coolest high school guys from all over the state were rushed. Due to its Southern heritage, some boys from outside of Texas were invited to join. Big Ray Hancock from Georgia, a Cajun boy from Lafayette and Waller from Alabama were included in his pledge class.

But sometimes, the fraternity's hands were tied when it came to rush. Sons of influential alumni had to be taken. Sometimes the alum knew that his son was not AK material, but gifts like a new wing on the fraternity house, a new roof and so on would secure a spot in the pledge class.

In the fall that Waller had pledged, the brothers had a real problem on their hands. Myron Basil was coming through rush. Basil was a skinny, gangly kid. He was awkward and unpolished. His face was pocked with acne, he wore heavy, black framed glasses and had greasy hair that lay listless on his narrow skull. He dressed poorly, had no social skills and was non-athletic.

He was smart and his family had money. Under normal circumstances, Myron Basil would have no prayer at all of being rushed by any fraternity on campus, least of all Alpha Kap.

But the Alpha Kaps had to take Basil. On a cold winter night in 1883 at the University of South Carolina, Myron's grandfather had been one of seven men to found Alpha Kappa fraternity.

Basil was the classic closet case. During subsequent rushes, he was not seen. Basil was intelligent enough to understand his circumstances and readily acquiesced to the demands of the brothers. He held every office that no one else wanted, ran errands for the other guys, helped them cheat on exams and wrote papers for them. He paid for countless rounds of beer at Dirty's where the Alpha Kaps hung out. He made excellent grades and helped keep the fraternity off of probation.

Most of the brothers just ignored the boy and acted as if he didn't exist. The poker crew let him hang around. He was good for mixing drinks, making sandwiches and changing records on the Victrola. When they let him sit in, he did well because the others would be drunk and careless with their money.

Because of his fraternity pin, he was always able to get dates to the parties, football games and other activities. The girls were eager to get inside the house and meet the cool AK boys.

Basil had limited social skills, drank poorly and was content just to be in the company of a female. He lacked the skills to establish a relationship and knew that the girls made fun of him.

He didn't care. He was part of a great group of guys. He didn't need a lot to sustain him. His course work gave him great pleasure and he studied hours upon end. He was pre-law and couldn't wait for law school. He was eager to study in that great library.

Waller, who tried to be nice to everybody tried to get to know Basil. But the boy had no substance or personality. He had no sense of humor, no bullshit, no anything. So Waller would smile and say," Hi, Myron," and go on his way.

"What an asshole!" Rock laughed.

"Invented the term," Waller replied.

In the fall of their sophomore year, several boys transferred from other schools and affiliated with Alpha Kap. There was also one sophomore in the pledge class. His name was Don Bruce. Bruce had attended a small prep school in Dallas and headed off to Yale for his freshman year. The son of a wealthy real estate developer, Don was very bright, but totally apathetic toward school. He made top grades with ease, barely studying. He had been president of his graduating class, valedictorian and was in constant trouble with the administration.

It was cool to be in Don's group of friends.

"I was over at Don's last night," casually dropped in conversation, meant that you were in.

Bruce was arrogant, spoiled and cruel. He used his money to buy friends and women. His discarded girlfriends were often emotional wrecks after he got rid of them. A true buddy fucker, Bruce had no qualms about stealing girls from his friends.

He was a short stump of man, barely five foot five inches and built very square. He was not muscular or athletic, but very solid. He wore his hair in a crew cut and, although his clothes were expensive, never gave the appearance of being well dressed. He drove the latest model car, usually a fancy convertible. His father owned an airplane and Bruce had access to it. He made the most of those opportunities, flying sorority girls to New York or New Orleans. He liked to brag loudly of his exploits.

"Banged Susie, it was a real flying fuck."

Yale turned out to be unpleasant for Bruce. It was full of boys who had attended name prep schools in the East who cliqued together. Their money was old. They were just as big of assholes as Bruce, and they ignored him. The dark, cold days in New Haven were depressing as well. He made enough effort to get decent grades, went often to New York City to buy fancy hookers and applied to the University of Texas.

His family money and connections from prep school got him into Alpha Kappa. But the majority of brothers wanted nothing to do with him. A sophomore pledge was something of an odd duck to begin with, and the freshmen pledges didn't like him. The actives got to kick the shit out of him, many with a great deal of satisfaction.

Bruce lived alone in an apartment, cruised Austin in a red Caddy and brought a twenty-four year old stripper to the fall formal as his date. Despite the fact that most of the brothers didn't care much for him, he had a tight-knit group of close friends within Alpha Kap. Among those were Pat Fanning and Harry Hewes. Hewes had been a childhood friend. No one knew how Fanning and Bruce knew each other.

Fanning was a huge, solid man. He stood six foot four inches and was built like a chiseled marble shithouse. He was swarthy, hairy and quiet. Fanning got along with most of the Alpha Kaps, especially the football players who were in awe of his physique. He made good grades. Although a freshman, he was twenty-two years old. Few knew of his background. Few dared to ask him about it. He seemed to have plenty of money. He shared an apartment with a Kappa Sig named Schlitz. It was more an adult apartment than one a college kid would have. It had nice furniture, was in a good part of the city and always very clean. He drove a nice car and dressed well.

When he showed up at AK functions, he was usually accompanied by pretty, engaging women who were not college girls. One was a Neiman Marcus model and another was an actress from New York City. Fanning smoked ill-smelling foreign cigarettes and drank Johnny Walker Black Label scotch.

One time, late at night, Waller and Rock had come stumbling back to the house after a long drinking session at Dirty's. Fanning had been lounging in the large living room. He got up, walked up to Rock, snatched him off of the floor and hurled him across the room into a wall. Pictures shattered and a table splintered.

Rock was sufficiently drunk that he was not hurt, but he was puzzled at the big man's actions. He sat dazed against the wall mumbling, "Why'd you do that?" He held his head and staggered to his feet.

Then, Fanning walked up to Waller. He extended a huge hand. "How's it going, X?" he smiled.

"Pretty good, Pat," he said looking at the big man.

"Hang loose," Fanning smiled and walked out into the night.

Waller went over and helped steady Rock.

"Motherfucker's nuts," Rock said. "Why did he do that?"

"I don't know, man. Let's rack out." He tugged Rock upstairs to their room.

Don Bruce was the only brother who was openly contemptuous of Basil. He berated him unmercifully. "Hey, douche bag," he would yell at the boy. "You look like your face was on fire and they put it out with a track shoe! Or hey, shithead, did your mother have any children who lived?"

Basil tried to avoid Bruce at all costs. He tormented him like the boys back in prep school had done. He knew that he didn't really belong, but he cherished what small bit of camaraderie he did have with the brothers. He was an AK. He could walk around the campus wearing that pin and see the envy in the eyes of other boys.

Although his family was very wealthy, his father made him drive a plain, brown Ford and live in the fraternity house. Most of the cool guys lived in apartments. Basil did not care.

"Guess I'll go to the house," he would say as a lecture ended.

"That guy's an Alpha Kap," someone would say.

"You are shitting me, man," would be the reply.

One Saturday night, he was alone in the fraternity house. In staggered a very drunken Don Bruce. "Hey, asshole, where the hell is everyone?" he yelled at Basil.

"I don't know, Don," replied Basil, hoping the Bruce would turn around and leave the house.

Bruce became enraged. He rushed into the skinny boy and knocked him to the floor.

"You goddamn pussy. You call me Mr. Bruce!" he raged.

Basil looked up in horror as Bruce unzipped his trousers and pissed all over him. As he curled up into a ball and covered his head against the rancid stream, the short man yelled, "You fucking afterbirth, how'd you ever get into this fraternity?"

Bruce lurched out of the house still unzipped and staggered to his Caddy. Basil remained on the floor until he heard the powerful car scream off into the night. He climbed the stairs, sobbing and shaking. He stripped off the soggy clothes and went into the shower. After he cleaned off, he put on some pants and cleaned up the floor downstairs. He never told anyone about the incident.

In the middle of spring there was a weekend when alumni returned to the campus. Major parties were on the agenda. Prospective members visited. This weekend was long anticipated as winter faded into warm, sunny days. The Alpha Kaps had spit shined the house into dazzling, seldom seen cleanliness. The exterior trim was painted, the hedges squared and the grass manicured. Fanning had arranged with a local beer distributor to have an endless river of beer flowing. A caterer clogged the kitchen with food.

Friday night was warm and clear. The house was jammed and music was blaring. The alumni had departed. Most of the high school kids were all dead drunk, passed out in the bushes or grass in the enclosed back yard, sprawling here and there.

At eleven-thirty, Harry Hewes walked into the house. Harry had gone inactive and had not been seen around in quite a while. Waller had seen him in a class now and then where the boy usually was sleeping or acting totally bored. Harry and Don Bruce had gone to school together beginning in third grade.

When Harry entered the living room, the guys stopped dancing and raising hell. At Harry's side was a girl. She was barely five feet tall and had a perfect figure. Her hair was platinum and framed the face of an angel. Her eyes were an odd violet color beneath smoky brows.

The female dates of the AK brothers jerked them by the arm as they swarmed around Harry and the girl.

"Sumbitch, look at that!" Ken Steele yelled at Waller over the music.

"Old Harry always finds 'em," Waller laughed. His mind was a hazy mist of beer. His date had gone to the restroom along with Ken's.

A few moments later, Waller met Harry at the keg on the back porch. "Who the hell is that?"

"Koral Haven. She's a freshman. I found her at the Baptist Student Center."

"What the hell were you doing there?" Waller asked as he staggered against a wall.

"Hunting!" laughed Harry, as he walked off with a cup of beer.

Don Bruce had been in an upstairs bedroom screwing his date. She had passed out, so he had left her on the bed and gone back downstairs. From the top of the landing, he saw Harry and the girl dancing. He immediately walked over and got introduced.

Koral was polite to Bruce, but showed no interest in the man. She went out into the backyard with Harry.

"That's mine," muttered Bruce. He walked past a group of drunken high school boys gathered in the backyard. But, Harry had taken the girl out of the gate and was gone.

After the hung over brothers hoed out the house and cleaned the yard, the party began anew on Saturday. Harry did not show up. Bruce prowled the scene like a caged animal, ignoring his date, who soon passed out on a sofa. The police finally responded to complaints and convinced the brothers to turn down the volume. The few brothers still standing agreed.

Sunday the house was in shambles. Hangovers were widespread and memorable. Fanning engaged a platoon of Mexican maids to clean up the damage.

On Monday, Bruce got hold of Harry and got details on Koral. Don was such a buddy fucker that not even his long friendship with Harry prevented him from pursuing the girl.

But the girl would have nothing to do with Bruce. He followed her to classes, waited outside of her dorm and telephoned her constantly. He sent her flowers, candy and gifts.

He got nowhere.

Bruce was not used to this. He always got what he wanted. He could buy anything. He seldom showed up at the house. When he did, he was in an ugly mood.

Harry's father had gotten tired of his son's poor grades and lack of effort. He made him enlist in the Marines. He was just gone one day, and the brothers of Alpha Kap never saw him again.

The Alpha Kaps held their big formal at the end of April at the Dawson Hotel in downtown Austin. The event was fairly sedate compared to most AK functions. The brothers donned tuxedos and their dates wore fancy formal dresses. Fanning had imported a Dixieland band from New Orleans.

Don Bruce had seemingly given up on Koral Haven, but no one dared mention her name in his presence. Don could be a vicious bastard. He was sitting at the bar complaining that the bartender didn't have a clue about mixing a Hurricane when Koral Haven walked into the room on the arm of Myron Basil.

Bruce turned red then went white. He sat motionless on the barstool. His date was back at a table with her friends. Bruce lit a cigarette, slammed back his drink and ordered another. He watched Basil excuse himself and head down the hall to the restroom. Bruce waited for a few seconds then, started after him. "That motherfucking piece of shit!" he growled clenching his fists.

The restroom was a large, brightly lighted area with glistening white tiles and a mirror that spanned the line of sinks. Otis Tharp and Babe Dreylama were washing their hands and adjusting black bow ties. Babe had lettered at center for the Longhorn football team for three years and Otis was a two hundred forty pound tackle. They were half drunk and looking forward to the rest of the evening. They had rooms reserved upstairs and dates with Tri Delts. They saw Basil enter the room and nodded to the skinny boy.

Bruce burst through the door and slammed Basil in the back of the head. "Cock sucking pussy!" he yelled.

Babe took a quick step and grabbed Bruce by the back of his tuxedo jacket and slammed him into the wall. He spun the short man and grabbed him by the front of his jacket. He lifted him off of the ground and began slapping him hard in the face. He didn't care one way or the other about Basil, but he hated Don Bruce.

"Get the fuck out of here, prick," he spat the words slowly into Bruce's terrified and bleeding face.

Otis was standing behind Babe watching intently.

"My turn?" he grinned.

Babe released his grip on Bruce, who slumped down into a heap on the floor. He scrambled along on all fours and lurched into the door. He clawed it open and fell from the room.

"OK, bud?" Otis asked Basil who was leaning against a stall wide-eyed.

"Yeah," he rubbed the back of his head. "Hey guys, thanks!"

"That fucker says, 'boo' to you, let me know," Babe grinned. The two big men left the restroom laughing heartily.

Bruce was not seen again. Stories circulated of him living in Los Angeles or Las Vegas. He was said to be stoned on pot. Someone said that his father had been killed in a fiery automobile collision and that Bruce had inherited a large sum of money. No one missed him.

Fanning never mentioned Bruce.

### Chapter Eleven

### Legal Counsel

Basil's grandfather, armed with an engineering degree, had arrived in Beaumont at the beginning of the twentieth century. He found his way to the booming oilfields of East Texas. With timely business acumen and a stash of money saved from the rigorous work in the oilfields, he founded an oilfield supply company in the growing city of Houston.

The business became very successful and made Basil's grandfather a well-known figure in those boom years. Basil's father was born in 1910 and sent to the East to be educated when he was ten years old. He later graduated from Princeton and returned to Houston to work in the company. He was a quiet man and was seemingly interested in the business. He quickly progressed through several levels and was made a Vice President.

The company weathered the depression mainly due to the enormous effort of Basil's grandfather. Myron Basil was born in 1932. He lived in his family's large house in the River Oaks section of Houston. He was a skinny, sickly child.

In 1945, Basil's grandfather died when his car was swept from the seawall in Galveston during a vicious storm and he drowned. President Truman sent his condolences. He had been an important cog in the wartime economy.

Basil's father began spending most of his time away on business. Myron was left with his mother who spent her days in a swirl of civic and charitable functions. Myron would spend hours in the family library reading. He longed to be with the other boys, but they shunned him.

When he was nine years old, his father sent him up East to an exclusive preparatory school. Basil worked hard and made excellent grades. He had no friends. The other boys teased him and called him, "Moron" Basil.

It was assumed that Basil would follow his father and attend Princeton, but he was informed that he would be going to the University of Texas. He gained early acceptance into the pre-law program. He was glad that he would be leaving the cold, gray East.

There was scant contact with females at his boarding school, so his social skills were nonexistent. Some of the other boys went into town and returned bragging of their escapades, but Myron remained in his room alone.

Myron's father had a girlfriend in Las Vegas and a gambling habit. Most of his "business" trips were spent in the desert city where most of the company's assets were sucked down the vortex of spinning roulette wheels and blackjack tables.

The company was a private corporation, so the financials were not public record. However, the creditors became increasingly worried. Suppliers tightened terms. Myron's grandfather's company was slowing going to hell and only one person inside of the River Oaks mansion was aware of that fact. Sending the boy to UT would save a bundle of money. His father gave the boy an old, brown Ford from the company's fleet of vehicles.

In September of his freshman year, Basil drove to Austin and settled into his dorm room. His roommate was a fat, Jewish boy named Blumstein who had nothing to do with him from the start.

As the grandson of a founder, Basil was assured a place in the Alpha Kappa pledge class. The other boys coming through rush could not understand why this goofy-looking kid was being handled with such deference. It was quietly explained to the ones that the brothers really wanted. They would nod solemnly and avoid Basil like the plague.

So Myron was in a group, but not really a part of it. A few boys tried to be friendly at first. There was that boy with the funny name who tried to joke with Basil. But he lacked the skills to make casual conversation and even that boy quit trying.

So Basil pretended not to care. He enjoyed his courses and the enormous library where he could while away hours of time.

Then there were the girls. There were sophisticated girls from Dallas, rangy, windblown girls from West Texas and Southern Belle types from East Texas. He saw them in his classes, strolling across the large campus and at the mixers where the sororities would assign dates to the men of Alpha Kap. Here in the warm fall nights, he would have a real date.

When he would gather the courage to call one of them later and ask her out, she would always have other plans. He wore his pledge pin proudly and eagerly learned the secret ceremonies and history of the fraternity. He volunteered for any task and was proud to be an Alpha Kap. The brothers didn't quite paddle him as hard or humiliate him as much during Hell Week. He became an active member in the spring of his freshman year.

As soon as he became a member, he moved into the big house on Colorado Street and lived in the same single room for the next three and one half years. On some weekends, he would be the only one there as the brothers partied elsewhere.

Basil made excellent grades and helped keep the fraternity off of probation. He was kept out of sight during the subsequent rushes. Most of the brothers simply ignored him unless they needed something. One boy was contemptuous of Basil, so he tried to avoid him at all costs. He drove the old Ford all four years and never got the knack of dressing like the others.

In March of his senior year, Myron's father lost everything during a week of gambling in Las Vegas. His girlfriend left him and he disappeared. Receivers seized the company and the house in River Oaks was sold by a bank. Myron's mother was forced to move into a tiny apartment and scraped by doing odd jobs. She was very bitter and Myron did not like being around her on visits to Houston.

He took a part-time job at a liquor store in Austin and received a full scholarship to the law school. The old Ford still ran and the receivers did not want it. He began to feel increasingly confident in himself. He felt bold enough to invite Koral Haven to the spring formal. When she accepted, he was not surprised. Some of his grandfather's strengths were beginning to surface in Myron. He took more care in his appearance. Some of the guys began to be nicer to him. Graduation was nearing.

He was invited to sit in on some of the marathon poker games. As the other brothers lost their edge in a blur of drinking, he did quite well. The money was timely and helped him make it through the rest of the semester. He was beginning to feel like one of the guys.

After the formal, he knew that he was. "Old Babe took care of me," he would tell anyone who would listen.

College days were dwindling and the other guys could care less if Basil was getting chummy with them. Their world beckoned and he was not a part of that world.

After graduation, Basil moved into a tiny apartment across the river and drove to the law school every day in the old Ford. He did very well in class. He continued seeing Koral who was on track to get her Master degree in elementary education.

Although he had the grades, he had no political connections, was still basically introverted and did not make a good appearance. The large law firms in the big cities paid no attention to his resume.

Finally, he obtained a position with the small Dallas firm of Scott, Morgan and Berringer. The firm specialized in personal injury litigation. As usual, Basil was not one of the boys, and as usual Basil ignored it. He plunged into his work. He was assigned cases that no one else wanted. He worked like a dog and seemed to enjoy every minute of it.

Koral was hired as a second grade teacher in a local elementary school. Her students loved her. She was barely taller than they were and unbelievably pretty. They flocked around her, brought her presents and hugged her good bye every day.

In November of 1955, Myron and Koral were married in her tiny home town of Teneha. They went to Mexico City for their honeymoon. It was there in the ancient city of the Aztecs, that Myron got his first taste of the promised land. It always seemed incredible to him that he could be with this stunning woman and he worshipped her every moment.

They moved into a small duplex in the Oak Lawn area of Dallas. It was located only two blocks from the elementary school where Koral taught. She walked to and from school each day and Myron drove their 1956 Oldsmobile to work at his downtown office.

Myron did quite well. His clients were usually poor, downtrodden folks who had been injured. They appeared in court wearing neck braces or had horrible scars or burns. Some wore slings on their arms or casts on their legs. Some had amputated limbs or sightless eyes. The eager, gawky young attorney who represented these poor folks against manicured well-dressed corporate attorneys often came away with a nice jury award of damages for his client.

Scott, Morgan acknowledged his work with an occasional bonus. Myron did not care that the other attorneys mostly avoided him. He liked what he did for a living. He would take law books and reams of briefs home and work on the small kitchen table while Koral did her report cards and lesson plans.

They had few friends in Dallas, but Myron didn't mind. On weekends, they would picnic at White Rock Lake, or go to the zoo. Some Sundays, they would go to a Dallas Cowboys football game at the Cotton Bowl. Koral just loved Don Meredith, who was an old East Texas boy.

In May of 1962, Koral came down with a stomach virus that made her weak and tired. Myron encouraged her to see a doctor, but she put it off. School was winding down the year and she had a myriad of activities to attend.

On a warm, windy Friday, Myron left the duplex early. He had a big trial going on, and it was looking good for his client. He walked into the bedroom where Koral was seated at her dressing table applying lipstick. She began to tug a brush through her thick, platinum hair.

"Good luck in court today, honey." She smiled the dazzling way that made him feel as if he was walking on air.

"See you tonight," he said bending to kiss her. He walked outside to their car.

Koral heard him drive off. She finished dressing, gathered her books and began the short walk to school. It was warm and she could hear birds singing in the trees above her. Suddenly, she felt odd and sat down on a low stone wall for a few moments. Maybe Myron was right. She would call her doctor later. When the feeling passed, she made her way to her classroom and set up for the day. She greeted the children as they arrived.

In the middle of the morning, Koral was standing in front of her desk teaching arithmetic with large flash cards. The children were calling out the answers when she felt dizzy and nauseated. She turned to sit down in her chair and blacked out. Her head struck the sharp corner of the wooden desk and she dropped to the floor unconscious and bleeding.

Some of the children screamed and some gathered around her. A blonde-haired girl with braids calmly ran down the hall to the school nurse and dragged her back to the room. The nurse took one look at Koral and ran for her telephone. An ambulance was there within minutes and Koral was transported to the nearest hospital.

Basil was located in a courtroom. He turned the proceedings over to his co-counsel, John Ader. He asked the judge to be excused and rushed to the hospital.

A stocky neurosurgeon named Dr. Grieese took Basil aside. "Son, your wife has suffered severe brain damage. When she struck her head on the desk, it caused massive swelling and bleeding inside of her brain. We drilled holes to relieve the pressure. I think that she will live, but the damage is extensive. She may never be herself again."

The surgeon led Basil to a room where the small woman was lying on her back. Tubes and wires vied for spaces. Koral's head was heavily bandaged. Her eyes were closed.

Basil stood over her crying, "God, please let her be all right," he moaned. He stayed in the small room for three days, sleeping fitfully in a chair.

On the morning of the fourth day, Dr. Grieese summoned Basil to his office. He slapped some x-rays onto a lighted panel. "Here's what we have, son." He spoke softly and used a long stream of medical terms.

From his experience in dealing with personal injury, Myron could vaguely understand some of the medical terms. His stomach grew icy cold as he listened to the kindly, balding man.

"Basically then," Basil slowly asked, "she has so much brain damage that she is a vegetable?"

The older man sighed, "That's one way to put it, son. I'm damn sorry."

In a state of shock, Myron managed to make the next few days. It was arranged for Koral's widowed mother to move into the duplex and care for her. A room was fixed up for them. Myron and the old woman had never gotten along. She was an opinionated, narrow-minded Baptist from a tiny East Texas town. She was bitter about her life.

She blamed Myron for Koral having to work, for not earning enough money and for not being employed by a better law firm. Life in the duplex was a living hell for Basil. He spent as many hours as he could at his office, immersing himself in work. If he was fortunate, he could leave the duplex before the old bitch was awake and come home after she had gone to bed.

The medical bills were horrific. They no longer had Koral's income. The old woman was of no financial help. Basil was barely able to cover the rent and food after all of the other expenses.

He began to think of leaving. Koral was now just a piece of meat. She was no longer the tiny beauty of their happy union. If he could somehow acquire enough cash, he could disappear for good.

On an oppressively hot morning in late July, Myron pointed the old car toward downtown Dallas. The car was having difficulty starting, vibrated at high speeds and the tires were bald. There was no way in hell that he could afford a new one.

He parked in his slot in the underground garage and walked six blocks to the old red courthouse. He had a preliminary hearing set for nine o'clock and a meeting with defendant's counsel in another case at eleven.

Things went well. He felt sure he could obtain a settlement in one matter, and prevail in trial on the other one. He left the courthouse and ate a sandwich at a café nearby, then slowly walked back to the Coast West Building where Scott, Morgan had their offices on the eighteenth floor. He carried his suit coat over his shoulder. The firm mandated dark suits for its attorneys even in the blazing Texas summer. His white shirt was pasted to his narrow back and salty sweat ran down his pitted face. There was no hint of a breeze and the concrete sidewalk thrust the reflected heat upward.

The frigid air inside the skyscraper was a welcome relief. Basil ducked into a restroom on the ground floor to clean up. He washed his face off in a gleaming steel sink and toweled off.

He combed his hair and adjusted his heavy, black-framed glasses. He shouldered into the dark suit coat and picked up his briefcase. As he muscled open the heavy door, it bumped against a man.

"Oh, excuse me," he stammered backing away from the man. The man was tall and wiry. He had short black hair and a sunburned face. "Ken? Is it you?" Myron looked closely at the man.

"Hey, Myron, what are you doing here?" the man laughed grabbing Basil's hand in a powerful grip.

"I work here. Morgan, Scott up on eighteen."

"No shit! I'm with Coast West."

"Last I heard, you were in Brazil or someplace. Geologist, if I remember correctly."

"Yeah, I spent four fucking years in the jungle. Before that, two years in a hole called French Indo China. And before that, I was in Iran. I haven't been in the good old USA forever until last week. I'm heading to Norway next week. One of our geniuses thinks that there is oil under the North Sea. I'll be going from cooking my ass off to freezing it!"

"It must be an experience going to all of those places," smiled Basil.

"Yeah, hey I ran into some of the guys the other night. They have a regular poker game every Thursday night at Steve's place. Why don't you join us tomorrow? I know the guys would like to see you."

"Great!" said Myron. He would be away from the old bitch. Maybe he could take some money from the guys. If they still drank like they did in school, it would be easy pickings.

Suddenly, he recoiled. "Bruce won't be there, will he?"

"That shit head? No one has seen him for years. I don't even think that Fanning knows where he is."

"OK. When and where?" asked Basil.

"About seven o'clock at Steve's." Ken took a small notebook from a pocket in his trousers. He scribbled an address and phone number on a sheet of paper and handed it to Basil. "I got to run, buddy. See you tomorrow." The wiry man walked quickly through the revolving doors of the lobby and was swallowed up in a stream of pedestrians.

Myron shoved the piece of paper into a pocket and headed toward the elevators. He went to his office and updated the files on the two cases. Then he began working on some other matters. He left the office fairly early by his standards, grabbed dinner and a coke at Roscoe's and went home. He ignored the bleating of Koral's mother while he read the newspaper. It might be getting close to the last time that he would have to listen to the wailing East Texas twang.

### Chapter Twelve

### The Friendly Game

Thursday was even hotter than the day before had been. Myron left the duplex at dawn and was in his air conditioned office by six-thirty. He plowed through piles of work, stopping briefly for a late lunch. Before he left, he consulted a city map and wrote down directions to Steve's house. Then, he left the office at six o'clock and ate dinner at the B & B Café. He headed the old car north into the suburbs where Steve had a house near the North Creek Country Club.

Steve was nominally a sales representative for his father's steel company, but did little to earn his salary. He lived with a Braniff stewardess named Mary Anne. Basil and Koral had run into them once at a Cowboys game last year. Steve had caught Basil up on some of the Alpha Kaps living in Dallas. At school, Steve had been indifferent to Basil, but never ugly or mean like Bruce had been.

Myron parked alongside the curb noting a Corvette, a Buick Riviera, a Cadillac and a classic MG convertible. The brothers of AK continued to live well. Maybe by midnight, Myron would have a chunk of their money and the old lady and Koral would be a distant memory.

Basil went up the walkway and rang the doorbell. Mary Anne opened the door. "Hi. They are in the den," she motioned behind her. "Go on in. I was just leaving. You boys have fun!" She slipped past Basil leaving a sweet fragrance lingering in the air.

Myron wandered into a large, airy room where a group of men were leaning against a bar laughing. They paused and looked at him. Steve moved away from the group and walked toward him, "Hey Myron! Damn glad that you could make it." He pumped the man's hand vigorously. The other men slowly made their way over to him.

"Hear you're quite the lawyer."

"Good to see you again!"

"Been wondering what you were up to."

"Sorry to hear about your wife."

They steered him to the bar where he made a very weak bourbon and water. There was a table loaded with cold cuts, cheeses and bread.

"Have a sandwich," Steve offered.

"Just ate. Maybe I'll get something later."

A deep green, felt covered poker table was off to the side of the bar. Red playing cards were neatly stacked among piles of chips. Music played softly through an unseen system. The other men had returned to joking and telling stories. Myron sipped his drink and took a head count. In addition to Steve and Ken, there was Fanning, Webb and John.

Nine years removed from Austin, they were unchanged in appearance for the most part. John Rowan, from a very wealthy ranching family in the barren midsection of Texas, still had the rugged good looks that had conquered many a Texas coed. Suave and smooth talking, Rowan had been president of the Alpha Kaps. A superb intramural athlete, he had led the chapter to the fraternity championship. Basil remembered the time that John had thrown an eighty yard touchdown pass to Xerxes Waller to defeat the hated Phi Delts. John did very little in the way of work. The black Corvette was his.

Webb Clark had changed the most, probably gaining over one hundred pounds. He was wide and squat, wore heavy glasses and his blonde hair was cut very short. He had on a wrinkled white shirt and blue shorts. He was from a wealthy Dallas family and did not work. He was witty and sarcastic. He was an avid hunter and fisherman. He chain-smoked Pall Malls and was rarely seen with a woman.

Steve was a sandy-haired man of medium stature who wore wire framed glasses and dressed casually.

Ken, the geologist, had very white teeth set off by his deep tan. His hair was black and wiry, and his eyes were a deep blue. He was expensively dressed in a navy blue, silk shirt and linen trousers. Ropey muscles and whipcord veins danced in his tan forearms. An expensive Swiss watch decorated his left wrist. Bright and personable, Ken had probably set the all-time AK record for coed seduction while at Texas.

Fanning appeared to look the same. Basil had no idea what the man did for a living. He had been deathly afraid of the man and had tried to avoid him while in school.

He looked at the others and imagined how he must have stood out in that group. He was still wearing his suit pants and white shirt as he stood among these self-assured successful men in their early thirties, gathered this summer night for some companionship and poker. He had that old feeling of being on the edge of the crowd. All of the stories and jokes were about events that he had no knowledge of. Some were old and some seemed to have been more recent. They laughed and drank and he laughed along with them.

"Keep on mixing those drinks and I'll be the one laughing while I take your money," he thought to himself.

Shortly after eight o'clock, Fanning looked around and boomed," Let's play some cards, gentlemen."

Drinks were refreshed, Webb constructed a monster sandwich and they took places at the table. Fanning was the banker and they all purchased chips. Fanning sat with his back to a wall. On his left were Steve, then Myron, Ken, John and Webb.

Fanning held the deck of cards in his huge hand, making them seem like a matchbook. He smiled at Myron.

"He likes me now," Myron thought.

Fanning called out, "Gentlemen, this is poker. Dealer's choice, dollar ante, three raise limit, no dollar limit."

Myron had purchased one hundred dollars worth of chips and stacked them neatly on the green felt in front of him. Smoke rose into the air. Ice clinked in glasses.

Fanning intoned, "Five card draw, jacks or better to open." He tossed the red cards deftly across the green felt.

They played, smoked, drank and joked. After an hour, Myron was up several hundred dollars. He felt good. The guys liked him after all. If he could continue winning, he could make plans to leave. Let the old bitch take care of what was left of Koral.

Fanning had the deck once again. "This is five card stud, gentlemen." He dealt the cards in a whirl of flashing red. A deuce landed on Myron's hole card.

"Damn," he muttered to himself. He peeked at his hole card. Another two rested there "Hmm," he thought.

Webb had a king up and bet twenty dollars. Steve had a jack showing. Everyone called.

Fanning dealt. Webb caught another king and Steve got his jack. Myron smiled to himself as another two landed on his cards.

Myron's pulse quickened as Webb pushed one hundred dollars into the pot. Fanning chunked his hand aside. "Can't even play my own goddamned game!" he growled.

Steve raised one hundred and Myron called. Ken hesitated, then, he called. John tossed his cards away in disgust and went over to the bar. Webb called the bet. Fanning dealt the fourth card to the remaining players. Webb got an ace. Steve got a ten and Myron caught the six of clubs. Ken disgustedly folded his hand and went to the bar to join John.

"Kings bet," Fanning said as Webb hesitated over his hand. Finally, he tossed in two hundred dollars.

Myron was sweating now. He tried to recall the games at the Alpha Kap house. "Who bluffed and who only bet sure things?"

He decided that Webb was bluffing, but he worried about Steve. The man was sly.

"Call and raise one hundred." Steve shoved chips into the pot.

Basil looked at Fanning. "Draw light?"

Fanning nodded and Basil pulled three hundred dollars worth of chips to the side of his cards.

Webb scribbled out a check and tossed the green paper into the pot.

"Call."

Fanning dealt the final cards. "Four to the jacks, deuce to the deuces and king to the kings."

Steve tossed his cards away. "Fold."

He got up and walked to the bar.

"Your ass is mine!" grinned Webb, as he wrote out a check for five hundred dollars and dropped it into the pot.

Myron did not hesitate. He drew light again. "And raise a thousand."

The men at the bar came back over to the table to watch. Webb called the bet. Myron flipped over the deuce in the hole.

"Goddamn!" Webb exclaimed. He tossed his cards away in disgust and walked down a hallway toward a bathroom farting loudly along the way.

Myron raked in the pot. His heart was racing and his hands were shaking. He tore up his checks. He resisted the urge to count, but he knew that he had quite a lot. Tomorrow was payday and Ed Morgan had been hinting of a bonus for the verdicts that he had brought in lately. That and the poker winnings would start him down the road. The West coast of Florida seemed to be the place. Pass the bar exam and set up a little practice. Sun, sand and Florida babes. He walked to the bar and made a weak drink.

Steve slapped his narrow back, "Hell of a hand, Myron!"

The game continued and Myron won steadily. There were a lot of split pots and he usually got half. It was getting late.

"One more, goddamn it" he muttered to himself. He started thinking of a white beach and tan girls. There was only one Koral, but he could find a suitable replacement.

John had been losing all night and was becoming more irritable as the night wore on.

"Getting late," he groused.

Fanning looked around the table. "Deal around to Webb?" he asked. They all nodded.

Fanning opened a fresh deck and shuffled it several times. He slid the deck to Webb who cut deep and pushed the cards back to Fanning.

"Seven card stud, high-low split. Bet, declare and bet. Go both, you must win both," Fanning said softly into the smoky haze floating above the table.

"Split this baby, and I'm gone," thought Myron.

Fanning dealt.

Myron looked idly at the red back of his two down cards and then he watched the nine of clubs flutter on top of them. Steve got the jack of spades and John got the jack of diamonds. Myron peeked at his hole cards and his breath got short for a moment. The nine of hearts and nine of spades lay together on the green felt.

"Payday!" he smiled to himself. He felt giddy.

"First jack bets!" barked Fanning.

Steve tossed fifty dollars into the pot. All of the players called his bet. Fanning dealt the cards. John got the queen of diamonds, Steve got a second jack and Myron got a four.

Steve bet two hundred on his pair of jacks. Myron called.

Ken showed a two and a four up. "Raise one hundred," he said flipping some chips toward the center of the pot.

Everyone called.

"Old Ken's going low," Myron thought. "I'll be splitting the pot with him."

Fanning surveyed the table. "Pot's right." He dealt the next round. John's jack and queen caught a three and Steve's jacks got the ace of clubs.

Myron's heart raced jaggedly as the nine of diamonds skidded onto his cards. Ken received a three to go with his two and four.

"Pair of jacks," Fanning intoned.

"Four hundred," said Steve.

"Too rich for this fat boy," Webb folded his hand and lumbered toward the bar, mixed a giant drink and belched loudly.

"Myself." Fanning tossed aside his cards and looked at Myron.

Myron pushed a stack of chips into the pot, "Call."

Ken shoved a pile of chips into the pot calling Steve's bet as well.

John pushed some chips and crumpled bills into the pot, "Call."

Fanning dealt. John got another three. Myron looked at John's hand. Jack, queen, three and three.

"What the hell?" he wondered.

Steve received his third jack and laughed out loud. "Gonna kick some ass, boys!"

Myron got an eight and Ken got a six.

"Jacks," snarled Fanning at Steve who hadn't made a move.

"Thou." He dumped a pile of chips and bills into the pot and wrote a check for the difference.

Myron called, watching his pile of chips dwindle. He was not concerned. He would split the pot with Ken and be set. "No more old lady, no more lifeless Koral and no more working my butt off at the firm." He smiled to himself and sipped his drink.

Ken called the bet drawing light, his low hand certain to win half of the swollen pot.

John called, then raised two thousand.

Myron looked at John's cards. "What could he have? Maybe a full house?"

Steve folded his three jacks.

Myron counted chips and bills. Then he wrote a check for the difference as he called. Ken drew light again.

"Down and dirty, boys." Fanning swirled the red cards face down. Myron peered at an ace with disinterest.

"My four little nines are all I need," he mused.

"Up to you, Basil." Fanning shook him from his thoughts.

Myron wrote a check. He knew that his bank balance was less than three hundred dollars. "Two thousand."

Ken drew light again. He sipped on his scotch and waited for John to bet.

"See the two and bump five."

Myron wrote a second hot check and pushed it into the pot. It would soon be back in his hands.

Ken drew light once more.

"Declare!" boomed Fanning. "No chips mean low. One chip means high. Two means you're going both ways. Go both, you got to win both."

Myron took two of his remaining dollar chips and held them in his shaking, sweaty palm. He closed his fist. He shook them in the tradition of making the others think that he would go both high and low. Only once had he ever seen anyone win by going both ways. He removed one chip with his hand under the table and held his closed fist over the pot. The two other players held their closed fists outstretched. Ken opened his hand first. It was empty.

"I'll be splitting with Ken," Basil thought.

John opened his hand. It held a single blue chip. Myron opened his as well.

"Bet!" called Fanning.

"Check," said Myron letting Ken set the stage. The wiry man had half of the pot won. He would surely bet high.

"Three thousand," he said drawing light again.

"And five," John wrote another check.

Myron felt ill. What could John have? His hand shook violently as he wrote yet another bad check, this one for eight thousand dollars. It would take him six months to earn that much money. But it was all right. Soon he and Ken would be laughing and splitting up the enormous pot. He would get back his worthless checks and rip them up.

Ken called, drawing light for the final time. "I'll be happy to split this baby!"

"And I've got the other half!" laughed Myron flipping over the four nines.

"Goddamn, that was hidden!" exclaimed Webb.

Myron was able to breathe again. He started to reach into the pot. He wanted his checks back quickly.

A hand clamped hard on his wrist.

"Not so goddamned fast" barked John. He removed the jack and queen of diamonds from his hand and set them out a way.

Myron's heart began to race and his hands shook even more. The room became very quiet.

John turned over one of his hole cards. It was the king of diamonds. He placed it alongside the jack and queen.

"Motherfucker's bluffing. Always has," Myron thought hopefully.

John flipped over the ten of diamonds and lined it up with the other cards. He rested his hand on the remaining card.

Time seemed to stop for Myron. He saw John's tan hand, the nails clean and shiny, the expensive watch and the insignia ring. John turned the card over and laid it next to the king. The single red diamond tore into Myron's eyes.

The room exploded. "Fucking royal flush, man o' man!" shouted Steve. The game was forgotten. Webb got up and fixed a drink, as did Steve. Ken slapped John on the back.

"Never saw that coming at all!" he yelled.

Ken began splitting the pot with John making a stack of chips, a stack of money and some of the checks. He settled the light bets and cashed in to Fanning. He sat back in his chair and relaxed. John cashed in and Fanning intoned, "Gentlemen, this game of poker is over."

Myron felt like throwing up. He was ruined. There was no possible way to cover the checks. No way at all. He couldn't plead with them. The other five men were ignoring him. They were laughing and drinking. The music seemed to be louder.

Myron went to the bar and poured a very strong drink. He walked over to Fanning. "Pat, er, uh about those checks of mine."

"Hey, don't worry, Basil old buddy. They will be safe with me until I take them to your bank in the morning," Fanning laughed loudly. The others joined in. Myron got that old sick feeling from long ago when all of the boys ganged up on him.

He lurched toward the door and fell out into the warm night.

His old car looked out of place among the sleek, expensive vehicles of the brothers. He got inside sobbing and shaking. The starter balked, bucked and finally caught. He eased out into the street and made a U-turn.

Basil was sobbing harder. Tears blurred his vision. He headed back toward downtown, then looped up onto the new highway that was being constructed to circle the city. Few cars were on it this late at night. It was very dark on the new six lane highway. Basil floored the old car which began to resist and shake violently. The reality of the last few hours burned into his brain. The speedometer passed ninety and the darkness blurred by.

The overpass for Highway Thirteen loomed ahead. In the blackness, Basil whizzed past the exit ramp and took a deep breath. Then he abruptly cut the wheels toward the right into a red blast of grinding noise and nothingness.

After Basil had departed, Fanning took all of the checks and returned them to the other players. He gave them back all of the money. He gave Myron's ante to Steve to restock the bar. Fanning replaced the chips into the holder. The others were getting drunker and louder.

Fanning sat alone at the green table and took the deck of cards in his huge hands and shuffled them in a whirlwind of red. He flipped over four cards. They were all aces. He cut the deck into three piles, stacked them and dealt out four more cards. They were all kings. The other men laughed. Fanning tossed the deck of cards into a trash can. He got up and walked to a telephone and dialed.

"It went as planned. I've got a pocketful of worthless checks. I'll bring them by tomorrow. The fun should start then," said Fanning as he hung up the phone. "Don says 'hello,'" he laughed.

Ken placed his glass on the bar. "We folks with real jobs need a little sleep." He shook hands with the men. "See you guys the next time I'm in the world."

The others bade Ken good bye and continued drinking.

Ken walked out into the warm night. "Old Don, that boy sure can hold a grudge," he smiled. The night was very still as he walked toward the sleek rental car. To the south he heard sirens racing along the new highway. Traffic. On that platform in the North Sea, he wouldn't have to deal with any.

### Chapter Thirteen

### The King of Diamonds

Waller finished his beer and went inside to get another. He found a fresh pack of cigarettes and returned to the porch. It was very late now, but still warm. He would go see Fanning tomorrow. While he had been musing about the demise of Myron Basil, he thought about Ray Ross.

Ross had been in his pledge class. He was from Dallas where his father owned a growing investment banking firm.

Ross was short like Bruce, but very agile and athletic. He had short blonde hair that was almost white. Ross was into everything, very little of which involved academic or fraternal matters. Sometimes, he would disappear for extended periods of time.

Once after attending a concert, he had gone on the road with the blues singer, John Lee Hooker. He would often call the house from remote locations. Ross knew the odds on every sporting event and more obscure facts than anyone. He always had a good-looking woman with him at Alpha Kap functions. He drove the latest model car and had a wallet full of cash. He would always buy a round of drinks, a tank of gas or a meal for others.

One night during their sophomore year, Don Bruce had thrown a large party at his apartment. It resulted in his eviction along with a large bill for damages. A boy that Don knew from Dallas was in attendance. He did not attend Texas and was not an Alpha Kap. The boy was very rich and very arrogant. He arrived wearing a full length, alpaca overcoat and was escorting a cheerleader from SMU.

In typical AK style, Rock screwed the cheerleader and Ross stole the coat. The boy was incensed over the coat. He accused Ross and created a big scene. Several of the AK football jocks invited him to leave the apartment. He did, but was yelling curses at Ross over his shoulder. Pete Tyson got tired of hearing the boy yelling, so he tried to throw him over a Buick parked along the street. But he only succeeded in blasting out the rear window and breaking the boy's nose and shoulder.

The party continued and Ross got a new nickname, "The Thief."

After their junior year was over, Ross returned to Dallas to spend the summer working for his dad and learning the business for real. The elder Ross planned for Ray to take over the local operation while he opened an office in New York City.

During that hot summer, a strange series of events occurred. In mid-June, in the exclusive Creek Park section of the city, a burglar broke into a mansion and stole three pieces of expensive jewelry. The family had been asleep in the home.

The next day, police investigators surmised that someone small and agile had shimmied up a gutter drain pipe to a second floor balcony and entered through a window and taken the jewels.

Further investigation showed that only the most valuable pieces had been taken. On top of the rifled jewelry box was a single red Bicycle playing card, the king of diamonds. The press found this out and headlines blared, "King of Diamonds Strikes Creek Park Mansion."

Society women were urged to put their valuables into their bank's vault. The story was a hot topic among the cocktail party set. The Dallas police patrolled the area constantly.

Three weeks later, the King struck again. Once again, only the choice pieces were taken. And again, the red king lay atop the violated dresser. The Dallas police chief swore that he would capture the criminal. Patrols roamed throughout the hot, sticky nights.

On the first day of August, the King entered a three story mansion where a sleeping Doberman never stirred. The owner of the house had a loaded .44 Magnum beside his bed. Only one piece of jewelry was taken, but it was very valuable.

The press was having a field day. This was the biggest story in years. The "King" was front page news for days. People speculated on the identity of the thief. He was rumored to be a society insider who was intimate with the victims. People in bars talked of little else.

In Austin, Rock would occasionally purchase a Dallas newspaper to see what was going on. He and Waller were attending summer school and working part-time. He entered their apartment where Waller was lounging on a sofa sipping a beer.

Rock tossed the paper to Waller. "What's Ross doing this summer?"

"He's working for his father. Learning the business," Waller said opening the folded newspaper. He began laughing, "Oh, shit. Our boy must be bored!"

Rock laughed, "They'll never catch the little fucker."

The King was silent. August rumbled along hot and humid. The Dallas police chief bragged that an arrest was imminent. His men were hot on the trail. Violent thunderstorms swept the city for several days. During one of those storms, the King entered the house of the owner of a famous department store and made off with a valuable necklace. He left the trademark playing card. The press roasted the police. The florid chief swore that he would kill the thief himself.

Suddenly, the burglaries stopped. September came and went. The stories faded from the papers. The King was said to be working elsewhere. The crimes were never solved.

Ross cruised into Austin in early September and rented an apartment in an older section of the city. It had no swimming pool and no UT students lived there. Waller and Rock drove over for a visit one night. Ross was studying.

"Cool place you got here," Rock chided.

"I've got to graduate this year, "Ray smiled. I'll be working hard. I went inactive. You won't see me at the house much."

"Were on the same road," Rock said. "Let the kids have fun. The real world is looming."

"How was your summer, Ray?" asked Waller smiling as he sipped on a Schlitz.

"It was pretty boring. I don't know how the old man has spent thirty years doing that shit."

"Was anything shaking in Big D?" Rock probed.

"Naw," Ross grinned.

Waller and Rock broke up laughing,

"Still dating Phyllis?" Ross asked Rock, deftly changing the subject.

"Yes," replied Rock.

They left the apartment soon afterward and drove off in Rock's Chevy.

"Here's to the 'King,'" Rock shoved his bottle of beer toward Waller.

"The 'King,'" Waller laughed, clinking the brown glass and sipping from the bottle.

Waller saw very little of Ross that year. Ross made the Dean's List and graduated on schedule. He returned to Dallas and immediately went to work for his father. Waller heard about him every now and then when he ran into another Alpha Kap in Dallas or Ft. Worth. Ray was doing well. The firm was expanding.

Finally, Waller went to bed. It was very late. He slept restlessly, tossing and turning. He dreamed of Marcello's fat face, and of reaching into the tank in the Cadillac Bar and feeling slimy snakes. He got up at dawn, walked out onto his deck and lit a cigarette. He went inside and looked at the bulging canvas bag underneath his bed. It was real.

Waller showered, dressed and went to the campus. He taught two lectures and returned to his apartment. He packed a cooler with beer and consulted a road map. The summer that Waller had lived in Dallas with Rock, they had gone to several wild parties at Denison McMurray's farm. McMurray had been a schoolmate of Rock. He had gone off to another college and lived with a friend named Knox. They had managed to get kicked out of school and their apartment within short order. Mac had gone to work in his father's business and gotten married.

Waller had the top down on the Bonneville as he cruised along the country roads to Rondell. He remembered the turn off and followed a bumpy gravel road winding among yellowing fields. He found the gate unlocked, opened it and drove through. He closed the gate behind him. Curious cows monitored his slow drive down a lane behind the house and barn. Beside the barn, a large, shiny motorcycle was standing. About one hundred yards away was a blue pickup truck. A large man was tossing bales of hay from the bed of the truck.

Waller walked slowly toward the man.

Fanning was shirtless. Sweating slabs of muscle rippled as he effortlessly flung the bales to the ground. His hairy forearms gleamed like a beaver's pelt in the sunlight. The man paused and looked at Waller. He jumped lightly to the ground and walked up to Waller with a big hand outstretched.

"What's new, professor?"

Waller shook the big hand. "I had to see this for myself," he laughed.

"Good, clean living!" Fanning laughed wiping his forehead with a red bandana.

"Want a beer?"

"Goddamn straight!"

They walked to Waller's car. He opened the cooler and fished out two cans. He levered them open, brushed some ice off and handed one to Fanning. The big man drank deeply.

"Something's come up." Waller said slowly.

Fanning said nothing.

"This will sound unreal. I'm going to ask you to help me do something that is very dangerous and highly illegal, but I can't tell you what it is unless you agree to do it."

Fanning drained the can, crushed it with one big hand and tossed it into some weeds. "Been pretty fucking boring around here lately."

Waller opened new beers and handed one to Fanning. They walked slowly toward the pasture. When they were away from the barn, Waller began talking.

Fanning lit a cigarette and exclaimed, "Jesus!"

Waller waited, saying nothing. He sipped his beer. Then he pulled an envelope from his back pocket and handed it to Fanning. Fanning jammed it into his jeans without looking at it. Waller laid out his plan. Fanning nodded and added a few suggestions. He volunteered to procure the weapons.

"Anyone else with us?" he asked.

"I'm thinking of Ross," Waller said.

"Damn good idea. That little sumbitch has more balls than any of us. If we fuck up, he'll find a way to get it done."

"If Ross goes for it, I'll let you know." He got Fanning's phone number and gave his to the man. "Be thinking of someone else if he decides not to."

"Got it," Fanning extended his hand and looked at Waller, "Vaya con Dios." The big man walked back toward the truck.

Waller drove back to Womack, stopping for dinner on the way.

### Chapter Fourteen

### Every Day Gets A Little Closer

After class on Monday, Waller called Ross at his office. A secretary finally connected him after a long wait.

"Ross, Xerxes."

"Hey, man," Ross chuckled over the line. "What's going on?"

"How about meeting for lunch at Louie's tomorrow?" Waller asked

"I can swing one o'clock, "Ross said.

"I'll see you then." Waller hung up.

Louie's was a noisy German restaurant located in a dark basement underneath a department store. It had been there over sixty years. Large German women hustled plates of wurst and kraut. They hoisted large steins of beer in foaming schooners. Polka music blared over the din of conversation. The place was always jammed at lunchtime.

Waller arrived before Ross and grabbed a small table in a far back corner. He ordered a dark Lowenbrau and waited for Ross to arrive. When he sighted the small man, he raised his hand and Ross snaked his way to the table.

Ross was wearing alligator saddle-oxford shoes, an olive-tan Brooks Brothers suit, a snow-white button down shirt with a red and black rep tie. His white-blonde hair was cropped short and he sported a deep tan

Waller got up from the table and they shook hands. An enormous waitress took their orders.

Ross lit a cigarette and exhaled at the dingy ceiling. "How are things in the halls of ivy?"

"Pretty good, but something's come up. I need your help."

Ross lifted his stein and drank deeply. He looked directly at Waller with his odd blue-gray eyes.

"This is big. This is dangerous. Pat Fanning is in with me. We think that you would complement our team. If you don't want in, we'll discuss the market or anything else."

Ross stubbed out his cigarette. Waller noted a glint of excitement in his eyes. He sensed that Ross was interested.

"This is the most boring fucking job in the world."

Waller looked around. At the next table, a group of men from a nearby warehouse were laughing loudly. The polka music was blaring and dishes were banging in the kitchen. He leaned close to Ross and began talking softly in his ear.

Ross sat as still as a statue. The he leaned back and lit a cigarette, "Just us three?"

"On the operating end. There are a couple of higher-ups," Waller slid an envelope across the table toward Ross. He handed him a slip of paper with Fanning's phone number as well as his. He scribbled down Ross's home number on a piece of paper.

Ross put the envelope into his coat pocket, got up and shook hands with Waller. "I'll be talking to you." Then, he weaved through the crowd and was gone.

Waller took the bill to a very old woman sitting on a high stool by the cash register and laid down some cash. He climbed up from the cellar and squinted at the bright sunlight. He retrieved his car and drove back to Womack. The team was in place. He needed to refine the plan.

### Chapter Fifteen

### Dry Run

Waller found a calendar in his apartment and marked some dates. He took a city map and laid it out on a table. He studied it and reread the itinerary and schedule that had been printed in the Dallas newspapers. On a cloudy Saturday, Waller drove into Dallas. He drove to Long Avenue and parked in the parking lot of a pawn shop. Long Avenue was a main thoroughfare from the airport, Love Field, to downtown Dallas. Once it had been a vibrant area of businesses. But now, it had faded. Used car lots, pawn shops, a printing company, a tire store, a hamburger joint and such lined the four lane street.

Waller walked north for two blocks then, he turned around. He looked at the railroad overpass. It was constructed of steel and was painted black. The sides were shaped like a rounded "V." The sides were about five feet tall and sloped down to about two feet at the "V." Tall, dense cedar trees grew along either side of the embankment on which the overpass stood.

Waller began to walk toward it. He doubted if passing motorists even noticed it. When he got closer to it, he saw a sign attached to it that read, "9' 6'." Painted above that was a logo and the words, "Missouri Oklahoma and Gulf."

He returned to his car and drove to Cedar Park Road which crossed over the railroad tracks on an overpass. He turned right and headed back to Long Avenue. He was on the south side of the overpass now. On his right was a large apartment complex. He turned into a driveway and parked in the rear. He got out and walked to the embankment. The cedar trees hid the roadbed completely. He also noticed that a chain-link fence lined the edge of the parking lot.

"Good," he thought as he walked across Long Avenue. A small neighborhood of wooden houses stood here. He walked along a short street to the embankment. No dogs barked and no children were outside playing. Two of the houses appeared to be empty.

His map had shown a small park at the end of the block nestled against the railroad. He walked into it. The grass was high and the playground equipment was rusted and broken. Next to a lone picnic table was a trash barrel that was overflowing with trash. Waller walked over and pulled out a yellowed newspaper. The date was three months ago. He replaced the paper and walked toward the cedar trees. Once again, he saw a chain-link fence in front of the embankment.

He turned around and walked quickly from the park. Things were looking very good. No one could approach them from the rear. He got back into the Bonneville and retraced his route to Cedar Park Road. He parked and clambered down an incline to the tracks below. He turned toward Long Avenue walking on the rocky ballast.

The roadbed was miserable looking. The crossties were rotting away. Some were gone completely. The ballast had washed away in places. Dirt and weeds grew between the rails which were kinked and wavy.

"Atterberry would crap!" he thought, remembering the big Irishman.

When he got to the overpass he stopped. There was a very small space of a few inches at each end of the steel wall before the cedars crowded in. The "V" in the middle would allow a person to have a view of the street. There was no graffiti painted on the bridge. There were no wine bottles or trash. About three hundred feet north of the overpass, the tracks veered sharply to the right. Waller walked quickly back to his car and looked at his map. He began to follow the route of the tracks. He came to an area of small businesses. He parked in the empty lot of one and made his way to the tracks.

When this area had been developed before the war, there were sidings branching from the main track to the businesses. Immediately, he spied what he wanted along the rusty sidings. The tracks had derails on the sidings.

A derail was a heavy piece of steel that could be locked down on a rail. Its purpose was to prevent a runaway car from entering the main track. It rose slightly above the rail and had a flange that would direct the wheel off of the rail. The runaway car would then be stopped before it could do any harm. If a car was intended to be pushed toward a siding, the derail would be flipped open by the brakeman and the wheels of the car would remain on the rail. Usually, these items were painted a bright yellow and kept locked. Waller noticed that this one had no lock attached. He pulled it off of the rail and lugged it back to his car. He stowed it in the trunk and drove back to Womack.

When he arrived back at his apartment, he called Fanning and told him the dimensions of the overpass.

"I should have it ready by next week. Come over next Sunday about noon. I'll call Ross." Fanning said.

When he wasn't refining the plans, he busied himself with his work. He spent more time in his office reading and researching. He tried to keep his mind occupied as much as possible. The days seemed to be passing by quickly, edging ever closer the day.

The time wasn't right to go after a female student this fall. On some weekends, he would drive to bars in Ft. Worth and zero in on a suitable woman. Sometimes, he would end up at her place. One day while he was walking from his car to his office, he looked at two coeds who were walking in front of him. He had considered one of them for the future. He gazed at the small, round bottom flexing and clenching as the girl walked along in the quadrangle. Her long, brown hair swirled in the breeze. Melodic laughter floated between the two girls. Suddenly, he almost collided with DeGroot.

"Well, well. You are as elusive as some of my discoveries," the older man laughed.

"Hey, Dudley. I've been real busy. I was just coming to see you. I have two tickets to the Texas game Saturday. They are playing SMU in the Cotton Bowl. I'd like you to go with me." Waller smiled at his friend.

"That sounds great. Royal has the hosses this year."

"Yeah, but SMU beat Navy and Roger Staubach. They are good as well. I'll pick you up about eleven thirty. We can grab a bite at the fair."

Waller slapped DeGroot on the back and continued on to his office. He remembered the conversation that he had heard in Austin during the past spring. It seemed like a long time ago to him. Just as the fellows at the Gaustgarten had predicted, Texas was good. They were ranked number one in the polls. But SMU had a solid team. It would be a close contest.

It was warm and sunny when Waller picked up DeGroot and drove into Dallas. He had the top down on the Bonneville. He was glad for the opportunity to put the mission out of his mind for a while. He hadn't relaxed in quite some time.

The Cotton Bowl was packed. The crowd was loud and energetic. Waller had gotten good seats. He borrowed DeGroot's binoculars and looked across the field to the Texas student section. He soon found the Alpha Kaps. They were drunkenly cutting up. "Carrying on the old tradition," he smiled. He zeroed in on the SMU cheerleaders, wishing that a certain one would transfer to Milam.

The game was exciting. Texas finally wore down the Mustangs and left the field still undefeated. Waller and DeGroot filed out with the throngs of celebrating Texas fans. They crossed the old fairgrounds heading toward Waller's car.

"Hook'em Horns!" yelled students. "We're number one!"

Waller drove in to downtown Dallas where they ate an early dinner at Cattleman's. DeGroot had an early flight to California the following day. He was giving a series of lectures at Berkley. Waller dropped him off at his home and returned to his apartment. He showered and went to bed early.

The weather remained quite warm. Waller taught his classes and continued refining his plan. Waller drove out to the farm on the following Sunday. It was still warm and the day was sunny. He spotted a shiny Buick Riviera parked next to the shed. He saw Ross and Fanning sitting in the shade talking. He got out and walked over to them.

They walked over to Fanning's pickup truck. They got in and Fanning drove very slowly down to another gate. They drove through it and Waller saw a mound of earth ahead. On top of the mound was a wooden structure painted black and shaped like a "V." They got out of the cab and walked around the truck. Waller saw a bundle covered with a brown blanket in the bed of the truck.

Fanning pulled back the blanket and Waller saw three rifles lying there Fanning passed them out to Ross and Waller.

"Thirty caliber. Not traceable," he said. Waller hefted his weapon. It was old looking, but had a shiny, new scope attached.

"You can see a pimple on a gnat's ass with that," Fanning said.

Waller turned and sighted on a grove of trees in the distance. He could see the veins on the leaves. "Wow!" he exclaimed.

The three men walked to the mound and climbed a gradual grade that Fanning had smoothed out. Far down the meadow Waller saw an old convertible. He looked at it through his scope and began laughing. "You've been reading the fashion magazines, Pat."

In the rear seat of the car were two wooden silhouette targets. The one on the right was clad in a stylish jacket and had a brown wig attached to the top. Resting on the wig was a pillbox hat. The target on the left was wearing a dark suit coat, a white shirt and a blue silk tie. A mop of brown hair was attached to the head.

Fanning handed each man a shell. Waller loaded it into the chamber of his rifle.

Fanning led them to the far left of the mound. He dropped to the ground and demonstrated how to crawl along with the rifle crooked in his elbows and off of the dirt He continued along to the far right of the plywood wall. Ross followed and settled in back of the "V." Waller stopped on the far left side of the wall.

"I'll say, 'drawing down.' When you hear my shot, you fire. Ray and I'll take the head. You aim at the knot of the necktie."

Waller sighted the target. He could see the necktie clearly. He placed his thumb against his right cheek. He hadn't fired a rifle since he and Gene had hunted rabbits and squirrels in the wooded area near his house. He had been a good shot with his .22 caliber rifle.

"Drawing down," called Fanning. Waller touched the trigger gently. He heard Fanning's rifle crack loudly and he squeezed the trigger. He and Ross seemed to fire at the same time. He ran quickly to his left with the other men following him.

They stopped and turned back, walking down the slope to the truck. They placed the weapons in the bed and got into the cab. Fanning drove slowly to the target. They got out and looked at the target on the left. The head portion had been blown almost away. Waller looked at the necktie and saw a hole about a half inch above the knot.

"That's excellent shooting, boys! Let's do it again." Fanning stood grinning in the sunlight.

They returned to the mound and simulated crawling to their spots. They fired again, this time at the remaining target. They went and examined the results again. It was almost a duplicate of the first time. "I think we've got this part down." Fanning said.

"Pat, I have a question," Waller said. "The target will be moving. Won't that make a difference?"

"Not in this case. They will be heading straight at us. If they were moving across our line of fire, then you would be correct. We'd have to guess their speed, the velocity of our rounds and possibly the wind. If that were the case, we would use semi-automatic rifles. Probably hit more folks, too."

They drove back to the barn and sat in the shade. Pat opened cans of beer and passed them around.

"All of that will be gone soon." He motioned down to the mound and car. "Mac has a big dump down that way that needs a good burning. The rifles will be twisted junk at the bottom of the Gulf by late that night."

"How's Mac doing?" asked Waller.

"He's doing real well. They had another little boy last month."

Just three guys sitting in the shade passing time thought Waller. He finished his beer, said good bye and drove back to Womack. He went inside and ate some chili. He looked at the calendar. The next three trips into Dallas would be late at night.

On Monday, Waller drove to Ft. Worth and went to a large lumber yard. He purchased a very heavy concrete block and a short, thick bungee cord. He placed them inside the trunk of his car and headed back to his apartment.

Two days later, on a Thursday, he arrived in downtown Dallas at midnight. Unlike many cities in the North and East, downtown Dallas had little going on after dark. The city had embraced suburbia in a big way and it grew rapidly northward.

Even the famous Neiman Marcus store had opened a suburban store several years ago. Another one was planned for a shopping center not yet built that was fifteen miles north of downtown.

A scattering of movie theaters and a few restaurants remained open at night. The stately old Adolphus Hotel was several blocks to the east as was the Baker Hotel. The much newer Sheraton and the Statler Hilton were further to the east on the fringe of the downtown business district. Very old hotels that had been near the station had been razed. Parks and plazas with fountains separated the station from the western side of the downtown area. At the time Waller was driving around, the only activity that he saw was at the Dallas Morning News building where they were getting the morning edition ready to load onto trucks to be delivered to the distributors.

Waller drove toward Union Station and parked nearby. Although Dallas was much larger, Ft. Worth was the rail center of the area. Nine lines served Dallas. Three of them no longer ran passenger trains. The freight yards were in other locations. Freight trains passed slowly past the station on two outside tracks. There was no reason for them to stop.

The track shed had been reduced to cover six tracks. Dallas was not a major terminus, so most of the passenger trains either had departed in the early evening or would arrive in the early morning. There were only two passenger trains reclining in the darkness. One was a stub section of Santa Fe's Texas Chief resting on track three. It consisted of two coaches and a single locomotive. It would depart Dallas in mid-morning and go to Gainesville where the two cars would be coupled to the northbound train that ran from Galveston to Chicago. Then, it would pick up two cars from the southbound train and bring them back to Dallas. The main section of the Texas Chief ran through Ft. Worth, thirty miles to the west of Dallas.

The other train there at night was the Missouri, Oklahoma and Gulf's Texas Star, sitting on track one.

Waller got out of the Pontiac and locked it. He walked along the rocky ballast toward the train. The Star was pointed north. It was ready for its departure at seven-thirty the following day.

He began to walk along the track in front of the locomotive. When he reached the first switch of the wye track, he noticed that the switch was lined for the main track. He also noted that the heavy lock on the switch stand was unlocked. He walked along the one arm of the wye to the switch that led to the stem of the wye. This lock was also unlocked. He walked back along the opposite leg and saw that the switch to the mainline was set against the leg. That switch was also unlocked.

"Sloppy work," he thought. His grandfather would have fired someone.

He retraced his steps. He heard the throbbing of diesel locomotives and watched a long Rock Island freight train moving northward on the outside freight track. He still heard or saw no one. Waller got into his car and went back to Womack.

### Chapter Sixteen

### The MOG

The next time that he went downtown, it was one o'clock in the morning. The results were the same. That area of the city was deserted.

The following Saturday morning, he drove into Dallas and went to the large library and into the periodical section. There was a group of folks who called themselves, "rail fans." They would stand by a railroad track and photograph trains as they rolled by. There were several magazines devoted to this audience. Waller grabbed copies of two years of these from a shelf and went to a table. He began looking at the tables of content. He hit pay dirt in a magazine entitled, "Trains."

A man named Burton Rike had written a story about the MOG. It was several pages long and contained several photos of the Texas Star. It was a tale of the recent history of the railroad. Rike lamented that the management had petitioned to stop running the famous train. He noted that the railroad was concentrating on running freight down to Houston and Galveston. The railroad was often short of locomotives for its freight trains and would take them from the Star. Rike told a story of how one day, he had waited trackside near a high bridge over a creek close to Wynchester. He had his tripod set up and was hoping to capture an image of the red locomotives as they crossed the bridge.

To his dismay, the Star had only one diesel on the point of the train. He had photographed it anyway and the photo appeared in his story. He had driven to Wynchester and talked to the agent at the station. The man explained that it was common these days to borrow units from the Star to use on freight runs. Usually, once in Kansas City, they would round up replacements. But sometimes these would be units leased from other railroads and this was not what Rike wanted to see rolling along the MOG tracks.

Waller noted that Rike had also written a book about the history of the MOG. He located it and checked it out using the name, E.X Walker, to obtain a library card. He would return it on his next trip into the city during daytime.

Waller left the library and went back to Womack. This was good and bad. The good thing was that if a locomotive was missing, it would not attract any attention. Conversely, it would be bad if there would only be one locomotive attached to the cars. But Rike had mentioned that they usually would take the slave units before they took the regular locomotives. In the case of a problem with one engine, the other could pull the train. It was best to have a backup.

If there was only one locomotive, Waller planned to take the Santa Fe locomotive. It was imperative that the northbound Star depart on schedule.

Waller made his final scouting trip to downtown Dallas at eleven o'clock on a Thursday night. Even though it was earlier that the last two had been, the results were the same. On the last of his night time reconnoiters to Union Station, he sat in his car in the darkness.

He thought about what he had learned reading Rike's book. The Missouri, Oklahoma and Gulf was known throughout the region as the "MOG." It had been one of the pioneer railroads of the Southwest. It had a proud history and prospered throughout the early part of the century. But the depression had forced it into receivership. World War II gave it a brief reprieve, but soon after the war, it continued to bleed red ink. Lines were abandoned, service was cut, trains were cancelled and maintenance deferred.

The once crack Texas Star was now a parody of the glory days. In those days it sped across Texas and on to St. Louis carrying presidents, sports stars and wealthy ranchers and oilmen. Legendary poker games had been held in the club car and remarkable meals were served in the diner.

It was said that Texas businessmen returning home from New York City would walk down the concourse in St. Louis and upon spotting the silver plate inscribed with the words, "Texas Star," on the observation car, would get misty eyed. They knew that after a fine meal and a few drinks, they would slumber in the red Pullman sleepers and awaken in their beloved Texas.

But in November of 1963, The Star only ran between Dallas and Kansas City. It departed Dallas at seven-thirty every morning for its trip northward. Its sister train arrived in Dallas each night at seven o'clock.

The MOG had petitioned the Interstate Commerce Commission to abandon the service. But the bureaucratic process was lengthy. So in the meantime, the old train rolled over crooked rails resting on rotting crossties and roadbeds filled with weeds. The MOG ran its freight trains over the tracks of the Missouri and Southern to Kansas City and St. Louis. This well-maintained right of way cut several hours off of using their own decaying line. In return, the Missouri and Southern gained trackage rights on the MOG's line from Dallas to Houston, thus giving it entry into that rapidly-growing city with its bustling port.

Few passengers rode the train. The Interstate Highway system was rapidly coming together. Financing automobiles was easier and the airlines were offering jet service to more and more destinations. The MOG dismantled its signaling system on this route and ran what was termed a "dark railroad." No dispatching was required since no other trains used this line. The north and southbound trains met at Muskogee each day. Sometimes the wait could be long if one had been delayed.

The Star was losing money at a rapid clip. The old-line management did not want to cut amenities while the train still was running. This required a full crew on board. Union rules required that the engine crew be changed every hundred miles. This went back to a time when that was a full day's work. Even at the Star's slow pace, it could make the hundred miles to the division point at Wynchester in three hours.

The engine crew drew a full day's pay for three hours of work. The enterprising crew left an automobile at the station in Wynchester. If all went well, they pulled in at ten thirty. They would hop in their car and were back in Dallas before noon. They had the rest of the day to go fishing, play golf or do nothing. The next day was free until they drove back to Wynchester and brought the southbound Star into Dallas at seven o'clock.

Waller planned to come back early on Saturday morning to watch the departure of the Texas Star.

On that Saturday, he got to Dallas very early and parked by the station. He walked through the cavernous structure which was almost deserted. Only a few passengers sat on wooden benches waiting to be called to the platform to board the train. Waller went down the tunnel and up the ramp to track one. He walked the length of the train. Four diesel locomotives were on the point. Behind them was a baggage car, two coaches, a diner, a Pullman sleeper and an observation car.

The locomotives were painted in a dull red color. The cars were a shiny red color with fluted silver aluminum sheeting below the windows. Painted in gold above the windows was, "Missouri Oklahoma and Gulf." Each car bore a silver nameplate with the name of a Texas hero stamped on it.

The conductor arrived on the platform first. He was followed by the flagman and the brakeman. They wore dark blue uniforms and the brass buttons on their coats gleamed in the sunlight. The conductor opened the door of the lead coach, dropped the steps and brought out a yellow stool which he placed below them. He walked through to the second coach and did the same. The flagman opened the door to the Pullman. At the same time, the brakeman was walking the length of the train inspecting the couplers, hoses and journal boxes on the wheels.

The Negro cooks, waiters, Pullman porter and the bartender all arrived together. They were wearing crisp, white outfits. Waller guessed that they had come down to the station together. The bartender got aboard the Pullman car with the porter. He headed back to the lounge car and readied his area. The cooks got busy in the narrow galley of the diner while the waiters made sure that the tables were set. A man wearing a dark suit boarded and went to the diner. He was the dining car steward. Waller watched as he appeared in the diner and began inspecting everything.

Next to arrive was a gangly lad in his late teens. He boarded the lead coach, then went into the baggage car and opened the large door all the way. A small tractor painted yellow rolled up to the baggage car pulling a wagon that contained a few bags of mail and some packages. The driver jumped down off of the tractor and tossed the mail bags onto the floor of the baggage car while the boy stepped onto the wagon and took the packages to the inside of the car.

Waller glanced at his watch. It was six-forty-five. Two men walked along the platform. One was a burly man with a crew cut wearing blue striped overalls and a white tee shirt. The other was an older man. He was tall and thin. He wore tan pants, a dress shirt and a small straw hat. The older man climbed the ladder to the cab of the lead locomotive while the other man walked beside the locomotives checking the fuel tanks. Then he boarded the lead engine as well.

Waller listened as the diesel engines rumbled into life. The air connections were tested. The diesels made snapping and humming sounds. The air released from the braking system hissed. The pungent odor of diesel exhaust filled the air. Waller walked to the front of the lead locomotive. The engineer was reading copies of yellow slow orders.

The MOG's newest locomotives were used exclusively for freight service. The Star was pulled by vintage locomotives that dated back to the early days of diesel locomotives. Waller looked at the builder's plate bolted to the locomotive. It was the same manufacturer and model as the locomotives that he had operated long ago in Florida. He smiled. Things were falling in place nicely.

Soon, a trickle of passengers carrying suitcases began arriving on the platform.

"This is your first call for train number one, the Texas Star, bound for Wynchester, McAlester, Muskogee, Parsons and Kansas City. All aboard please," sounded an announcement over the loudspeakers mounted on the train shed.

Waller walked back to the end of the train. Steam wafted up from the rear brake hose. Mounted on the rear of the lounge car was an illuminated star with the letters, "Texas Star," in the center. The announcement was made twice more. Then there was a final boarding call.

Waller looked at his watch. It was seven-twenty five. The conductor stood on the platform beside the open door of the lead coach. He picked up the yellow stool and placed it inside the vestibule. The other doors had been closed. The conductor pulled a gold watch from the pocket of his vest. Then he called, "All aboard," and waved his hand at the engineer. The hogger made two sharp blasts on the air horn and the Star began rolling northward. The conductor got aboard, raised the steps and closed the bottom of the Dutch door. He leaned out of the top part and gazed down the track as the train rolled past the wye track and picked up speed.

Waller looked at his watch. The train had departed at seven-thirty on the dot.

"Just do it when we need it," he prayed.

He made a detour on his way back to Womack. Northwest of Dallas, three railroads had a junction and a small freight yard. There were a few wooden buildings and a lot of material piled up and scattered about. Waller parked on a dead end street and walked toward the area. He didn't see anyone around. There was a large pile of crossties stacked along one track. Beside a yellow wooden shed he spotted what he wanted. There were several steel posts with a piece of flat metal welded to them. Some were red and some were yellow. He took a red one and quickly walked back to his car. He put the post into the trunk and drove back to Womack.

He spent the afternoon cleaning his apartment. He cooked a steak on his grill and went to bed early. He would call Ross and Fanning tomorrow. The day was almost here.

He went to the campus on Monday and taught his classes. The department head was out for two weeks, so he could miss Friday without having to invent an excuse.

On Wednesday, he told his classes that he would be out of town on Friday and would see them again on the following Monday. They had not missed any classes since the beginning of the year, so they were glad to get a break.

After he had taught his last class on Thursday, he returned to his apartment. He had an odd, hollow feeling in his stomach. "This is it," he thought. It seemed unreal. He called Fanning and Ross and confirmed the time for tomorrow.

Waller went to a closet and pulled out a cardboard box that held various items collected during his life. He pulled out a very worn baseball glove and slipped it on his left hand. He thumped the thin pocket a few times with his fist. He removed the glove and dug deeper into the box until he pulled out the key attached to a chain that he had used during his days as a brakeman. He walked over and placed it with other items on a table. He stashed the box back into the closet and shuddered. It was all happening fast.

He looked at his list and checked items off for a second time. He carried them down to his garage and placed it into the truck of his car. He looked at all of the other items in the trunk, running through a sequence of possible events and ensuring that he had everything that would be needed. Then he returned upstairs, took a long shower and dressed. He put on knee-length socks and very tight, very dark jeans. He laced up his hiking boots and slipped into a dark long-sleeved shirt. He paced and smoked. At four o'clock, he left the apartment. It was still warm on this November day and Friday was forecast to be a nice, sunny day as well.

He drove in the direction of Dallas, then he turned onto Farm to Market Road 1066. He drove along the blacktop road for several miles. He consulted the directions that he had gotten from Rike's book. He crested a gentle slope and slowed down. The narrow dirt road on his right almost eluded him. He turned off of the blacktop onto the dirt road. A few yards in front of him, was a rusted gate. There were no cars passing on the road.

Rike had told of how most of the railroads gave extra benefits to their employees. They had their own hospitals and golf courses. Many years ago, the MOG had purchased several hundred acres of rolling farm land just north of the junction of the Dallas to Kansas City mainline and a branch line that led to the panhandle of Texas.

Some earth had been moved and some roads graded. But a lack of capital had reduced the fledgling golf course into a hilly, weed infested field near an obscure farm road. Waller found that the gate was locked with a standard railroad lock. He pulled out his key from long ago, unlocked the lock and removed the chain. He swung the gate inward on rusty hinges that made a loud noise. He drove his car onto a road that still had some gravel topping, got out and swung the gate shut. He did not fasten the lock.

He got into his car and headed along very slowly toward the southern end of the aborted golf course. He parked next to a barbwire fence. Across the fence was the branch line. It had been abandoned, but the rails remained in place. Weeds grew in rotting crossties and the rails had gathered years of rust. Waller took wire cutters from the trunk of his car and cut the strands of wire making a large opening in the fence. He tossed the wire far into the weeds to his right.

He took a small bag from his car, locked his car and walked back the way that he had come. He opened the gate, walked through it and closed it. He began walking east down the highway. He heard the rumble of a large truck and moved over into the grass. He raised his thumb and a large, red truck hauling pipe slowed and hissed to a stop. Waller ran alongside the truck and leapt up into the cab.

The driver was a big man wearing a blue tee shirt. "Where ya headed, buddy?"

"Banner," said Waller.

"Be there in ten minutes," the man chomped on an unlit cigar and worked through the gears as he brought the load to speed.

Waller lit a cigarette and leaned back as the truck rolled along. The man slowed as he came into the small town. When he had stopped, Waller thanked the man.

"No sweat, bud," the large truck rumbled off toward the East Texas oilfields.

A small building at the corner was part service station, part diner and part Greyhound bus terminal. Waller walked inside and purchased a one way ticket to Dallas for forty-five cents. He stood outside and smoked. It was getting dark quickly. The silver bus groaned into the parking lot and Waller climbed aboard.

The bus was mostly empty. A few soldiers, three Negro women and a man who looked to be a farmer were dispersed among the seats. Waller took a seat in the rear and looked out of the window as the bulky vehicle lumbered into the city.

When the bus pulled into the terminal, Waller followed the other passengers into the dimly lit station. Then he went out and headed uptown to eat dinner. He had a steak, potato and a salad. It would be awhile before he would eat again. He sat at the table and smoked for a while. It was now almost nine o'clock. He paid his bill and went outside. He walked the empty streets, then went into a theater and sat through a western movie, dozing for a while.

When he left the theater, it was almost midnight. He headed west and saw no one as he headed toward Union Station. He felt razor sharp and alert. It was time. He walked up to the tracks. Slumbering in the warm night on track one was the silver and red Texas Star.

### Chapter Seventeen

### Night Train to Hell

The train's consist was the same as it had been on the past Saturday. Waller walked to the lead locomotive. He climbed up the ladder, opened the door and sat down in the engineer's seat. Before climbing up into the locomotive, Waller checked at the number board on the front of the locomotive. It was the same unit that he had seen when he watched the loading and departure of the train a few days ago.

He started the locomotives and let them idle for a few moments. Then, he climbed down to the platform and walked to the end of the lead locomotive. He opened the coupler and unhooked the air hose. He climbed back into the engineer's seat and released the brakes. He opened the throttle slightly and the locomotive began to slowly roll down the track. It crept along until it had cleared the second leg of the wye track. Waller let it roll another two hundred feet, then he shut the throttle and set the brakes.

He quickly walked toward the three other locomotives. Along the way, he set each switch for the wye track. He uncoupled the baggage car from the locomotives. He unhooked the air hose and climbed into the locomotive that was facing the rear. He backed the locomotive and two slave units slowly to the first leg of the wye track and continued down the leg of the wye. The switch to the stem of the wye track was aligned for him, so he continued backing down the stem.

Once clear of the switch, he climbed down and turned it to gain access to the second leg of the wye track. This switch had been locked, so he used his key to open the lock. He remembered what the engineer had told him long ago in Florida. The key worked perfectly. Had it not, Waller had bolt cutters in the small bag that he carried.

He climbed back aboard and started the locomotives forward. They rolled along the leg of the wye track. It was still warm out and he was sweating from the exertion. He pulled the locomotives onto the main line and stopped behind the lead unit. Now the locomotives had been turned so that they were facing north.

Waller walked back to the switches and aligned them for the main track. He returned to the locomotives. He climbed up onto the locomotive again and slowly backed the three units softly into the baggage car. He shut down the diesel engines, set the brakes and jumped down. He locked the coupler and hooked up the air hose. The Star was now poised for her morning run to Kansas City.

He looked at his watch. The maneuvering had taken about twenty minutes. The night was very still and he could hear insects chirping in the weeds alongside the tracks.

Waller walked swiftly to the lone locomotive sitting on the track ahead of him. He climbed aboard, sat in the engineer's seat and released the brakes. He opened the throttle and rolled slowly down the main line. He looked in the large rearview mirror and saw nothing behind him.

It was very early in the morning and Waller debated about sounding the air horn when he hit the grade crossings. He decided not to, and was relieved when the crossings were empty. He picked up some speed and was soon away from the city and rolling past dark fields. He turned on the bright headlight. The track was illuminated in a tunnel of blackness. A startled rabbit hopped into the brush.

He slowed as he neared the junction. Waller stopped the locomotive and set the brakes. He climbed down the ladder to the roadbed. This switch was locked, so he used his key to unlock it. He turned the switch and climbed back into the cab. He moved the engine very slowly over the track that had been abandoned. The old, rusted rails squealed in protest. He stopped, set the brakes, climbed to the ground and walked back to the switch. He turned it and locked it. The track was once again aligned for Kansas City.

He climbed back into the locomotive and ran it very slowly. The old rails squealed in the night air. He stopped where his car was parked and set the brakes. He shut down the diesel engines, turned off the headlight and climbed down to the weeds. He was glad that he was wearing the high boots. No telling what was lurking in the night.

Waller looked at his watch. It was close to two o'clock. He knew that he should try to sleep, but he was keyed up. He opened the Bonneville and curled up in the back seat. He must have slept some, because he was awaked by weak sunlight shining into the window. He got out and stretched. He relived himself and drank some water. He ate some peanut butter crackers and smoked a cigarette.

### Chapter Eighteen

### Darkness at Noon

It was seven o'clock on Friday morning. The day was once again warm for late November. He got the yellow derail from the trunk of his car and lugged it over to the bridge where the tracks crossed Jackson Creek which was wide and deep. The bridge was a wooden trestle with no sides on it. He judged it to be about four hundred feet long and rising about thirty feet above the water. Waller took the derail about one third of the way across the bridge and placed it on the north rail. He looked down into the water. It was muddy and dark.

Waller walked back to his car and smoked. There was no breeze. He waited. A small cloud of dust jitterbugged above the stillborn golf course and Waller saw Fanning's pickup truck roll up and stop beside his car. He stood next to the locomotive and watched for them to come through the trees. The two men pushed through the brush and weeds.

"Morning, gentlemen," Waller called out.

"And they call me 'thief,'" laughed Ross pointing to the red locomotive.

Waller roared with laughter. He shook hands with the men.

Fanning was dressed in dull, black jump boots and fatigue trousers that were tucked into the boots. He had on an olive green, long-sleeved shirt and a matching cap. He had a pair of small binoculars on a leather strap around his neck. He was obviously enjoying the task at hand.

Waller had always wondered about Fanning's background. It was apparent that he had had military training. He remembered about Fanning being older than the other Alpha Kaps and the karate job on Rock that night long ago.

"We stopped for coffee back down the road. Ray called the depot in Wynchester and the agent told him that the Star was scheduled to arrive on time," Fanning told Waller.

"Good," said Waller.

Fanning looked at Waller intently, "So what would you have done if it were delayed, professor?"

Waller led them to his car and opened the trunk, where a large wrench, two long crowbars, two sledge hammers and a length of twisted steel cable were inside. Waller pulled out the post with the red metal on it. Waller walked over to a bare spot on the ground and picked up a stick. He drew an "S" on the dirt. He stabbed the pointed end of the post into the dirt.

"South of the overpass, the track curves sharply." He pointed to the diagram. "Then it curves back the other way. We would have gone past the overpass to the second curve and removed a rail. We would have attached it to the locomotive with that cable and dragged it back north of the overpass and rolled it off to the side of the track." Waller looked at Fanning.

"We would have placed this post about a hundred yards in front of the break. It is the same as a red signal. They use it when men are ahead working on the track. After the train is stopped, they have to wait for the foreman to allow them to approach slowly."

"So the Star would be stopped blind to the overpass and quite far behind it," Ray said.

"Right," said Waller.

"So what would happen next?" asked Fanning.

"The conductor would call the engineer on his radio. They would both confirm that there was nothing in their slow orders about this. The conductor would get the flagman and they would walk to the head of the train. He would send the flagman out to see why they had been stopped."

"When he got back, the conductor would order the train backed to the station. He would go to the MOG's office and alert the manager of train operations in Kansas City. The manager would call the Missouri Southern and get permission to run the Star over their tracks to Kansas City. Since their route is different, all of the passengers that were bound for the intermediate stops would be put on a bus."

Waller lit a cigarette and paced. "The maintenance of way department would be alerted. They would have to call Kansas City and get the engineering department to look at the track schematics to see what degree of curved rail they needed. Then they would load up a motorized hand cart and go down and replace the rail."

"That would take a lot of time," Ross smiled.

"Right," said Waller.

"Also, we would have taken the bolts and straps that hold the rails together. We would have bent the ends of the rails. This would take hours to repair. Also, they have reduced the number of workers on this division."

"What if someone from the Star had walked down the track toward us to see if any more rails had been vandalized?" Fanning asked.

"The conductor is in charge of the train. He's like the captain of a ship. He wouldn't leave it. The flagman wears a blue uniform and dress shoes. It will be warm today. The roadbed is rocky and rough. He is in a different union and would think that he shouldn't be doing this. He would probably go around the first curve out of sight of the locomotive and look as far down the track as he could. He might smoke a cigarette and kill some time. Then he would go back and report that he saw no other damage." Waller ground out his cigarette and looked at Fanning.

"His attitude would be bad because he knows that the Star will be discontinued and he will have to go back to freight runs. Besides, it is two miles between where the train would be stopped and the overpass." Waller looked at Fanning.

Fanning just smiled.

"Let's run through a few simulations," he said.

They each took a rifle from the bed of Fanning's pickup truck. Then they walked over to the locomotive. Ross handed his rifle to Fanning and climbed in first and Fanning handed the weapons to him one at a time. Ross laid them on a blanket in the passageway in the middle of the locomotive. He sat next to them. Fanning climbed into the fireman's seat while Waller got into the engineer's seat. Ross remained on the floor to protect the sights on the weapons.

Waller started the diesel engines, released the brakes and let the locomotive roll backward for a few yards. He stopped it and set the brakes. Fanning dropped down to the roadbed and walked to the rear of the locomotive. Waller had latched the door open. Ross walked back carrying the rifles one by one. He handed one to Fanning. Waller had climbed down to the roadbed. He walked back to stand next to Fanning. Fanning handed him a rifle and took another one from Ross. Then Ross brought the last weapon and handed it to Fanning. Ross jumped lightly down to the tracks and took his rifle. The men began to crawl along in the dirt next to the rails. They spread out in the approximate positions that they would be in.

Once they were settled for a while, Fanning shouted, "Bang!"

They scrambled to their feet and sprinted toward the locomotive. They stopped and walked over to Fanning's truck. They carefully put their rifles back into the bed of the pickup truck. Then, they walked back a few yards, turned and ran to the locomotive. Waller quickly climbed into the engineer's seat. In the rear-view mirror he saw Ross climb the ladder and heard him yell, "Ross is in!" Seconds later, he yelled, "Fanning's in!"

Waller eased the throttle back and let the locomotive roll back to where it had been before.

"We're good," smiled Fanning. "Remember, after you fire, don't pull back on the bolt. We want the shell casings to remain in the chamber."

Waller looked at his watch. He strained his ears. He wanted to hear the northbound Star. He worried. It had been over an hour since the agent at Wynchester had said the train was on schedule. Many things could go wrong. Railroad workers sometimes would go on wildcat strikes for a few hours. The train crew belonged to many different unions. If the porters' union went on strike, the engineer would honor it and not operate the train. Or, a flood up north could close the line. Something could delay the Star and that would not be good.

Ross and Fanning were sitting under a tree talking. Suddenly, Waller heard the moan of an air horn. He listened intently. Soon, he heard the throb of diesel locomotives and the click-clack of the steel wheels on the rails. The sound grew closer. In the far distance, he saw the Star roll across the fields and curve eastward.

Waller slowly walked down the weed infested branch line to the switch and unlocked it. He threw it and headed back toward the locomotive. He looked at his watch. It was eight ten. Ross and Fanning were throwing a large knife at a tree and betting. Ross was up.

"You owe me ten bucks," he laughed.

Fanning shrugged. "I can't beat the little fucker at anything."

Ross and Fanning seemed loose. Waller felt tight and nervous.

He picked up the post with the red plate, walked on by them and went to the bridge. He tossed the post far out into the water. Then, he lit a cigarette and stared into the muddy water. There was nothing to do but wait. The sun climbed higher and it was getting warmer. The sky was cloudless and blue. There was still no breeze. "It could have been a lot worse," Waller thought.

Fanning withdrew a small transistor radio from his pocket. He turned up the volume and they gathered close. After a moment, Fanning turned it down and said, "They are right on schedule."

Waller's stomach seemed to have a thousand butterflies in it. He walked over to his car and drank some water.

Time dragged on. Fanning kept checking his radio.

"OK, the speech is over. They are heading to the airport," he said.

"It's normally about a fifteen minute drive. They may go slow for the folks to get a peek," Ross said.

Slow minutes later, Fanning said, "They are boarding the plane now."

"Let's go," Waller said softly.

They loaded the weapons onto the locomotive and then climbed aboard the rumbling locomotive just as they had practiced. Fanning handed the bullets to Ross who locked them in each weapon. He laid a large, canvas bag behind his seat.

Waller released the brakes and the old locomotive rolled slowly over the abandoned rails and through the switch. It was now rolling toward Dallas. They rolled through farmland and began to hit the northern suburbs of the city. Waller sounded the air horn at each grade crossing, but there were no cars stopped at the crossings. No one saw the lone red locomotive on this sunny, Friday morning. Waller slowed as the tall cedar trees came into view and soon swallowed up the track. He looked in the rearview mirror and spotted the place where he wanted to leave the locomotive.

Waller set the brakes and they debarked as they had practiced. Fanning crawled along to his position and Ross followed. Waller took a prone position and angled his body to aim through the opening between the edge of the bridge wall and the dense cedars. Insects toiled along the rocks and dirt. The sun beat down on his back. Sweat trickled along his cheek in front of his ears.

Fanning softly called to Ross, "They've landed."

Ross relayed the news to Waller. Waller watched the insects wander to and fro.

"They are all in the cars. We should see them in about four minutes," Fanning put the small radio back into a pocket and grabbed the small binoculars. Ross relayed the information to Waller.

Waller could feel his heart pounding. He took long, deep breaths and tried to relax. The side streets north of the overpass had been blocked with barricades. Long Avenue was empty. The rocks cut into Waller's legs and sweat ran down his neck.

Fanning was looking intently through his binoculars. "OK boys, they are heading in our direction. There are two motorcycle cops, one on each side of the first limo. He's in the third limo back, far back seat, on our left. She's next to him wearing pink."

Fanning pulled the binoculars around and lay them on his back. He shouldered his weapon.

"Goddamn, this is really going to happen," thought Waller as he sighted down the street.

The powerful scope made the people look very close. He aimed at the dark suit coat and then the blue necktie. He locked in on the knot of the tie. He waited for Fanning's command. He took a deep breath and let it out slowly. He pressed his right thumb against his cheek. By now he could almost count the threads in the silk tie.

The knot grew larger and Fanning said, "Drawing down."

Waller touched the trigger of his rifle. Then Fanning's weapon made a flat bark like a hammer striking a nail and Waller increased the pressure and his shot rang out. As his thumb jolted into his cheek, he heard Ray's shot milliseconds later.

Waller wormed around scrambled to his feet. The ballast churned under his boots as he raced to the locomotive. He threw his rifle through the door and climbed quickly up the ladder.

He looked in the rearview mirror and saw Ross sprinting slightly ahead of Fanning.

He heard the sound of something landing on the floor of the locomotive.

"Ross is in!" yelled Ross. Seconds later, "Fanning's in!"

Waller released the brakes and yanked the throttle back. The old locomotive sped down the rails until it began to rock. Waller eased up on the throttle and they slowed down some. The first grade crossing loomed and Waller sounded the air horn, but there were no cars stopped. That was good. It wasn't until the last crossing was in sight that there was a car stopped by the gates. Waller sounded the air horn and noted that it was an old station wagon filled with Mexicans.

"Good," Waller thought. "They probably don't speak English and won't even remember the lone locomotive flashing by the crossing."

Fanning was breaking down the weapons and placing the parts into the large canvas bag. The junction was coming up. Ross climbed down the rear ladder as Waller slowed the locomotive. After rolling onto the branch line, he stopped. Ross jumped down and turned the switch. He locked the lock. He clung to the ladder as Waller rolled slowly toward the bridge. He stopped where their vehicles were parked.

Fanning stuck out a large hand and said, "See you, professor." He climbed down and joined Ross who was heading toward the pickup truck.

Waller wondered when he would see them again. He needed to give them their cut after Marcello had paid him. He saw them drive toward the highway. He went to his car and retrieved the concrete block and bungee cord. He placed the block on the floor at the rear of the locomotive and climbed aboard. He carried it up to the front and sat it down next to the engineer's seat. He secured one end of the bungee cord to the throttle.

Waller placed the block onto the dead man's pedal. This was a safety system that prevented the locomotive from moving if the engineer did not have his foot on the pedal when he opened the throttle. He climbed out on the ladder and grabbed the other end of the bungee cord. He pulled it taut, hooked it to the rearview mirror and leapt to the ground.

The red locomotive lurched forward picking up speed. When the front wheel hit the derail, the locomotive tilted to its right and did a slow cartwheel off of the bridge and hit the waters of Jackson Creek with a huge splash.

Waller walked to the bridge and looked down. Steam was rising as the diesels engines drowned off. The water boiled and hissed. Muddy bubbles roiled to the surface. MOG 88A would never make another run. He pulled the derail from the rail and walked about fifty feet along the bridge. He stopped and heaved the device over the opposite side of the bridge.

Waller walked back through the fence and opened the trunk of his car. He took the cable, crow bars, wrench and hammers and walked back to the bridge. He dropped them off of the left side as he walked across the structure. They made splashes and sank to the bottom of the creek. He walked back to his car, closed the trunk and got inside. He lowered the top. It was after one o'clock and very warm. He drove to the farm road and locked the gate behind him. No cars were in sight and no farmers were in their fields. He headed toward Womack. Everything had gone as it had been planned.

When he arrived at his apartment, he put the car into the garage and went upstairs. He felt very tired. He ate a couple of hot dogs and took a long, hot shower. He drew the curtains and tumbled into bed.

Waller slept well into Saturday. He retrieved the newspaper and ate some cereal. He read the papers with a sense of wonderment and disbelief. Police had swarmed the area and one officer had gone to the roof a printing company that was about two hundred feet north of the overpass. There they found an old single shot, bolt-action .30 caliber rifle. There were three spent shell casings around it. Tests at the lab showed that it had been fired recently.

Waller knew that there had been no other shots that day. They would have heard them. From their vantage point, Fanning would have seen a person on the roof with his binoculars. Fanning had called out that he saw no one in the area.

The owner of the company took a head count, and it was determined that an employee named Lee was missing. Police in Elm Cliff section of Dallas across the Trinity River spotted Lee getting off of a bus. They followed him into a theater. In an attempt to arrest him, an officer had been shot and killed by the man. Lee was arrested and brought to the city jail in Dallas. He was charged with killing the police officer. He adamantly denied the other crime. The same police chief who had been embarrassed by the King of Diamonds was bragging about this arrest.

A background check showed that Lee was an ex-Marine and had lived in the Soviet Union for a while. He was rumored to be in the CIA. He would be transported to the Dallas County jail on Sunday morning. The newspaper even gave the time it would take place. Another article stated that anti-Soviet feelings were running high. The Soviet premier had called the new president and denied any involvement.

Waller finished reading all of the articles. He smiled at the trickery of Del Mato. Blame had been focused on Russia, the CIA and the military.

Waller stayed inside of his apartment. The weather finally was acting like late November. It was cold and cloudy. On Sunday he read more about the incident, turned on his television and watched in amazement as Lee was gunned down by a man who had been in the crowd watching the transfer to the county jail.

It turned out that the man ran a seedy club in an armpit of Dallas. He had come to Dallas from Chicago. He was rumored to have connections with the Chicago mob. He shot Lee, he explained, because he had felt sorry for the widow.

Waller laughed again. Del Mato had now gotten the Chicago mob under the microscope.

Waller's phone rang. It was a secretary in the department. Classes had been cancelled for Monday. He thanked the woman and hung up. The Thanksgiving holiday started on Tuesday. Waller had the week off. He was tired of being in his apartment, so he drove to Ft. Worth and ate some ribs at Angelo's. Few people were there. It was like everything had ground to a halt.

Groups of people gathered along Long Avenue and stood pointing up at the roof of the printing company. Some placed bouquets of flowers along the curb. Opportunists hawked their wares in empty parking lots. They sold tee shirts, caps, pamphlets and photographs.

The weather had deteriorated. It was gray and misty. A wicked wind bore down from Canada and swept across the hills of Womack. Wednesday was payday. He would go to Marcello's at seven o'clock.

On Wednesday, he drove into Dallas. As he turned toward the parking lot, Marcello drove up. He waved his hand and took off. Waller figured that it would be pointless to follow him as he made his circles. So he drove to the school and waited. Marcello parked the Caddy behind his car. The fat man got out and said, "Pop the trunk."

He took a small canvas bag from the trunk of the Cadillac and tossed it into the trunk of the Bonneville. Waller slammed it shut and followed Marcello across the field.

"There's a bonus from Mr. D. in there. He was very impressed with how it went down."

"He seems to have been doing a lot of work on his end," smiled Waller as he shivered in the cold wind.

Marcello grinned, "He doesn't leave anything to chance, that's for sure."

They turned back and walked quickly to their cars. "Stay away for a while," the fat man said to Waller as they parted.

"Sure," said Waller.

Ho got into his car and headed back to Womack with the heater blowing on high. He put his car in the garage, opened the trunk and grabbed the bag. He went upstairs and tuned on some lights. He opened the bag and dumped the blocks of bills onto a table. The hundred dollar bills were held tightly with fat rubber bands. He counted the stacks, and then replaced them into the bag. He placed the bag under his bed with the other one. He would figure a way to get some of it to Ross and Fanning over the next few months. He ate a bowl of soup, took a shower and went to bed.

He woke up late on Thanksgiving Day. He ate a large breakfast and watched the rain coming down. He listened to the Texas versus A&M game on his radio. The Horns managed to pull out a victory on the muddy field in College Station. Texas would play in the Cotton Bowl on New Year's Day. Waller paced the living room. He decided that he needed to get away for the rest of the weekend. New Orleans would be fun, he thought. He packed a small suitcase and went to bed early

### Chapter Nineteen

### Delta Women Think the World of Me

He got up while it was still dark and ate breakfast. He took the suitcase and tossed it in the Bonneville and set out. He had lunch in Natchitoches and continued down toward the Mississippi Delta. The sugar cane had been harvested and stalks littered the roadside. Outside of Jeanarette, he needed a restroom. He spotted a small roadhouse and parked his car.

After he used the restroom, he went up to the small bar and ordered a beer. He lit a cigarette and walked to the juke box. He was looking at the selections when a small, dark-haired girl appeared at his side.

"Play G-4 for me," she said softly.

Waller looked at her. She was very pretty. He looked into her dark eyes and said, "OK."

He deposited a nickel and pushed the button. Fiddles and Cajun singing came from the speakers.

"Leigh Delacroix," smiled the girl extending a slim, elegant hand.

Waller shook her hand. Her grip was strong and firm. He looked into the obsidian eyes. "Xerxes Waller."

She laughed. "I'll bet we were the last kids to learn how to spell our names."

"I think that I have one more 'X' than you do," Waller chuckled.

"You do, indeed. Do you like gumbo?" Leigh asked.

"I was planning on a bowl tonight when I get to New Orleans," he replied.

Leigh made a face. "That's tourist food. I'll show you the real thing, if you like."

The afternoon sun filtered through a window and made golden highlights in the girl's fine, brown hair. Her dark eyes danced and glowed.

"That sounds delicious," Waller smiled.

Waller paid his bill and followed Leigh to a black Jeep. "Follow me," she said sliding into the seat.

Waller climbed into his car and followed the Jeep for several miles. Leigh turned right onto a blacktop road that wound around for a few miles. The road became dirt and was rutted. Spanish moss draped over the road. Ancient trees hulked out of black water. Now and then, a small house would appear, smoke pluming from the chimneys of the structures built on stilts along the bayous.

The trees gave way to a clearing. There was a large wooden building with several cars parked in front. Leigh continued past the building for about one hundred yards. She parked in front of a small wooden house edged against thick woods. Waller parked beside her Jeep and got out.

It was getting dark quickly. Leigh took his hand and led him back toward the building. They entered and everyone shouted a greeting to Leigh. She led Waller to a table in a corner.

A large, bearded man wearing a white apron came over to the table.

"Hi, Uncle Willie," Leigh smiled. "This is my friend, Xerxes. We'll have two draws, two bowls of gumbo and some French bread."

"Welcome, Xerxes," Willie held out his hand.

"Glad to be here," Waller smiled.

The door opened, and several elderly men entered carrying musical instruments. They began setting up against the wall furthest away from where Leigh and Waller were sitting.

Willie brought two huge schooners of beer to the table. Ice slid down the sides. Leigh hoisted hers and toasted Waller. He touched her glass and took a long swallow. The band began to tune their instruments. Waller noted drums, a bass guitar, a fiddle, another guitar, and a strange looking instrument.

"Zydeco," smiled Leigh.

"Real Cajun stuff," Waller smiled.

"It doesn't get more Cajun than this. We'll leave before the fights start."

Waller figured that she probably wasn't joking. Willie came over with two large, steaming bowls and a large loaf of hot French bread.

Waller took a spoonful of the hot gumbo. Sweat broke out on his forehead.

"Good?" asked Leigh.

"Unbelievable," Waller said. "I'll remember this evening for sure."

Her eyes danced again. She ran the tips of her fingers along Waller's hand. "Yes, you will." she smiled.

They finished their dinner. The place was packed now. Most everyone was dancing. After "Louisiana Man," the band began something slow. Leigh grabbed his hand and led him to the dance floor. The singer was singing in Cajun. Leigh sang along. Waller held her close. Her body was supple and wiry. Her perfume filled his nostrils.

The song ended. "Now's a good time to leave," she whispered. "I'll settle up with Uncle Willie later."

He followed her through the door. It had gotten quite chilly. The dark night was quiet. They walked back toward their cars. Waller didn't think that he could find his way back to the highway. He started to say something when Leigh took his hand and led him up the steps of the small house. She opened the unlocked door and he followed her inside.

"Don't worry, this is my house."

It was warm inside. Leigh led him down a hallway and into her bedroom. "Now for something better than gumbo." She reached up and kissed him.

Waller awoke at six o'clock the next morning. He was alone in the bed. He slipped on his shorts and walked toward the smell of bacon and coffee. Leigh was standing in front of the stove scrambling a skillet of eggs. She had on a very short nightgown.

She turned to him and smiled. "You are just in time for breakfast. Then we'll go fishing."

Waller smiled and kissed her. "I'm good at breakfast, but not much of a fisherman."

Leigh smiled, "You just have to open the beer cans and shoot the cottonmouths."

"Shoot them with what?" he asked.

Leigh walked to another room and returned with a holster holding a Colt .38 revolver. She opened the cylinder and extracted a shell. She handed it to Waller.

"It's like buckshot. It'll blow their ugly heads right off." She replaced the shell and put the gun back into the holster.

Leigh served the breakfast. They talked about a myriad of things. Waller washed the dishes while Leigh showered. Then he quickly showered and dressed. Leigh was wearing tall hunting boots, blue jeans, a plaid shirt and rain jacket.

Waller looked at her. "We city boys don't have gear like that."

She smiled, went into a closet and dumped a pile of clothing onto a sofa. "I've got six brothers. There'll be something in there that will be close enough."

"Do they live here?" asked Waller as he sifted through the clothes.

"No," she said. "Dupree and Jean work on an oil rig out in the Gulf. Gaston is a carpenter in Thibodaux. Girard got drafted in the army. He's in Germany. Pierre drives a truck for an oilfield pipe company in Lake Charles, and Boudreau plays linebacker for LSU."

"So, you are the only sister?"

"It's not a bad deal. No one messes with me."

Waller smiled and tried on some blue jeans. Finally, he was dressed. Leigh filled a small cooler with cans of Jax and ice. She took a fishing rig from the hallway, and led Waller outside. It was very cold, but the sun was shining. He followed her down to the water. There was a short wooden dock with a small wooden boat tied up to it.

"No pirogue?" Waller inquired.

"Oh, Uncle Willie has one, but this is my boat."

They loaded the gear. Waller sat in the front and untied the rope. Leigh started the small outboard motor and they glided away from the dock. A light fog lay on the dark water. Leigh wound through a maze of intersecting bayous. Heavy Spanish moss hung from the trees. Waller began to worry. He had a pistol, but had Leigh really loaded live rounds in the cylinder? She was behind him. Did she have a weapon? He was as close to the middle of nowhere as he could be. Had he been followed from Texas?

He tried to remember when Leigh had entered the roadhouse. She had not been there when he had gone inside. Del Mato's tentacles reached down into New Orleans.

Leigh eased up on the throttle and the boat stopped under some huge trees. It was shady in that spot. She reached into a carton and put something slimy on the hook of her line. She dropped the line into the water.

Waller looked up into the trees. "Do snakes really drop out of the trees into boats?"

She laughed loudly. "We'll see, I suppose."

Waller shivered.

"Here we go," she shouted and pulled up a large catfish. She removed the hook and tossed the fish into a well filled with water that was in front of her seat. During the next few minutes, she landed three more.

Leigh replaced the fishing gear on the floor of the boat.

"Time for a cold one!"

Waller opened the cooler and used the opener tied to the handle with string. He handed one to Leigh and drank deeply. The sun was warmer now. He began to wonder why he had felt suspicious of the girl.

Leigh saw something on the shoreline. "Want to shoot a snake?"

Waller saw nothing. Leigh eased the boat closer to the bank. Waller saw a fat cottonmouth curled up on a rock in the sunshine. He took the .38 from the holster, took off the safety and held his left arm in front of him at a right angle. He laid his hand with the pistol in it on his left arm, sighted down the barrel and squeezed the trigger. The snake's head exploded in a cloud of bone, skin and blood. The headless body writhed and slid into the water.

"Nice shot," Leigh said and slowly backed the boat away from the bank. "You've done some shooting before."

Waller smiled. "You wouldn't believe," he thought.

"Some," he said to Leigh.

They cruised slowly along the bayou. The sun felt good. The cold beer was delicious. When they reached the dock, Leigh killed the motor and Waller tied the boat to a cleat on the dock. Leigh tossed the fish into the empty cooler and set it down on the dock. She went into the house and returned with a large knife and some butcher paper and tape. Waller sipped from the can of beer and watched as she skinned the catfish, cleaned them, cut off their heads, sliced off filets and wrapped them in the paper. She dumped the remains into the water.

"Dinner and some left over for a catfish omelet tomorrow," she smiled at Waller.

They went into her house and she put the fish into the refrigerator.

She fixed sausage sandwiches which they ate while sitting on the dock. Waller mildly wondered what the sausage had been made from, but decided not to ask.

"Ever play bourre'?" she asked.

"Long ago in college"

They walked back into the house. Leigh got a deck of cards and they sat at the kitchen table playing cards and drinking beer.

The afternoon sun began to dip behind the trees. "Nap before dinner?" Leigh asked.

"Fine idea," Waller replied. He followed Leigh into the bedroom.

It was quite dark when Leigh began dinner. She sliced some potatoes into thin strips and fried them with some of the catfish which she had breaded. Waller was amazed at how good the fish tasted.

"I'm getting spoiled," he smiled.

"Reality comes soon. It's back to work for us Monday."

"I'd like to get off real early tomorrow. Try to beat most of the traffic back."

"I'll give you a wake-up call at five?"

"That will work," Waller took the empty plates to the sink and washed them.

"We better get to bed soon, then."

"Maybe even sleep some," laughed Waller.

Leigh grabbed him in her strong arms. "Maybe," she purred.

It was still very dark when Leigh shook him gently.

"Time to get up."

Waller rolled over onto his back. Leigh slid on top of him. "One for the road," she said kissing him.

Leigh had his plate of breakfast on the table when he had showered and dressed. True to her word, she had filled the omelet with chunks of catfish and a lot of Tabasco sauce. Waller was famished and cleaned his plate very quickly.

They walked outside. It was cold and gray. "I'll lead you to the highway."

Waller held the girl in his arms for a long moment. "This was an unbelievably good few days. I'll always remember this."

"So will I," she kissed him. "Be careful, Double X."

Leigh hopped into the Jeep and backed out. Waller followed close behind. It began to rain. He was glad when they reached the blacktop road. A little later, Leigh pulled off and he saw the highway ahead. He waved and turned west toward Texas. He looked back in his rearview mirror and saw her swing back toward the woods.

"Sometimes, you just get real lucky," he thought. He turned up the radio and sped along the road. Traffic was light. He replayed the past few days in his mind. Outside of Shreveport, he stopped and had a barbeque sandwich. It had begun to rain harder. He was still ahead of the holiday traffic heading back toward the Dallas area.

He got back to his apartment at four o'clock. He went inside and tossed his suitcase on a sofa. He collected his mail and saw nothing of importance. He stripped and took a long, hot shower. He cooked some macaroni and cheese, watched the evening news, and went to bed. "Long drive, tireless girl," he thought. Soon he was sleeping soundly.

Monday marked the short period between Thanksgiving and the Christmas holiday break. When the students returned in the next year, there would be dead week and then final exams.

Waller was at his best during the two week period. He gave crisp lectures and the class discussions were lively. He enjoyed it and the students were alert and involved. During the final lecture prior to the Christmas break, Waller reviewed the exam topics and let them out early. The campus emptied quickly. Waller walked from the building and drove to his apartment. Milam became a deserted campus. The weather became warm and sunny once again.

Waller hated the Christmas season. It seemed to go on forever. The decorations went up earlier each year. He had no place to go. Last year, he had gone with Lynn Street to spend the holidays in Myrtle Beach. Waller grabbed a beer and went out on his deck. He reminisced about that visit.

Lynn's two sisters were there with their husbands and children. Waller had gotten along well with them. Lynn's father, Butler Street, was a lean, wiry man in his early sixties. He ran a lumber company that had been founded by his wife's grandfather. The business was successful and Butler was prominent in the social circles of the city. He was a good golfer, but Waller had managed to win some money from him although he had never seen the course with its strange sea vegetation and strong Atlantic winds.

Christmas was a madhouse of activity, friends and neighbors dropping by, loud music, a mountain of delicious food and flowing champagne. Lynn's mother was a fabulous hostess and the daughters all pitched in to make every meal an occasion.

They exchanged gifts on Christmas Eve. Waller had gotten Lynn a silver belt that he had bought on one of his runs to Mexico. The women all were excited about it and had to try it on. Lynn had given him some beaver pelt head covers for his golf clubs.

Waller had bunked on a cot in a small roof off of the garage and missed the warm touch of Lynn at night. He did not know what Lynn had told them of their relationship.

He had most enjoyed spending late nights talking with Lynn's mother, Charlotte Street. The woman had graduated from an eastern college and was very intelligent. She sipped Scotch and asked Waller many questions about his teaching. Waller began to see where Lynn's intelligence came from.

After departing from Lynn's parents' home, they drove their rental car to the airport and took an Eastern Airlines flight to Atlanta where they made their connection to Delta. They arrived in Dallas in the late afternoon, got their baggage and walked to the Bonneville parked in the large lot. Lynn sat close to him and kissed his cheek.

"They loved you, Xerxes!"

"That was a fun group, but the best one is sitting right here," smiled Waller.

They got to Womack and Waller carried her luggage to the door of her apartment. She had to pay the student who was caring for her cat and check her mail.

"I'll be over soon," she said and kissed him for a long time.

She had come to his apartment later and they had spent a memorable night.

Waller finished his beer and stood up. He wouldn't be going to South Carolina this or any other year. He walked inside. He worried about the enormous amount of money under his bed. He sat in his living room and came up with a plan.

### Chapter Twenty

### Burial

After his last class was over on Friday, Waller drove to the northwest side of Ft. Worth to the sprawling Lawn Haven cemetery. He parked in front of a large, colonial style building and entered the hushed gloom. A pale woman came over and asked softly if she could be of assistance. She directed him to go outside and around to another entrance where the sales office was located.

A fat, greasy man gave him a limp handshake and ushered him into a tiny office crammed with brochures.

"What can I do for you, Mr. Walker?" he asked in a twangy, high-pitched voice.

"My parents are getting old. I'd like to purchase a double plot in your new addition," Waller replied.

The loathsome fellow attempted to sell Waller packages and plans. Finally, Waller got fed up with the man and got to his feet. "I just want to buy a plot. I guess that I'll try Arbordale."

"No, no!" the fat man said quickly. "We can accommodate your needs." He pulled out a map and a price list.

"This looks good," Waller pointed to a remote plot in a far corner with some trees in the area. "I can landscape my plot, correct?"

"As long as it meets our restrictions," the fat man said with a haughty smirk. He handed a list to Waller.

Waller looked over the restriction. "I'll take it," he said.

"Ah, how will you be paying Mr. Walker?"

"Is U.S. currency OK with you?"

"Well, I meant," the fat man was red in the face and stammering.

Waller tossed four one hundred dollar bills onto the desk, scattering the bills, forcing the fat man to gather them up. The man smoothed the bills and counted them three times before giving Waller a receipt, a bill of sale and a deed to the plot.

"I'll get someone to show you your plot, Mr. Walker." He buzzed an intercom and a tall boy with the face of a weasel entered the office.

Waller left without shaking hands and followed the boy outside to a black Cadillac.

"I'll follow you," he said to the boy and walked to his car.

He followed the Cadillac along winding lanes to his plot. The boy got out and outlined the area, then drove off. Waller lit a smoke and surveyed the area. It was far away from the oldest part of the cemetery. About one hundred feet away, he spotted a couple tending to a small grave. The woman appeared to be in her late thirties and was quite pretty. She was tending to some plants and a tall man was trimming grass with hand clippers. A shiny Lincoln was parked on the lane.

Waller read the restrictions again, then he returned to his car and drove toward the downtown area. He stopped in a small bar, ordered a beer and leafed through the yellow pages in a book attached to a pay phone. He called Pincus Landscaping and talked with a manager. The man said that he could deliver the next day and Waller arranged a time to meet at the cemetery. Waller continued to make calls until his list was complete. He left the bar and drove to a lumber yard where he bought wood, screws, lead sheeting, wire and glue. He stopped at Sears and purchased an artificial shrub. His last stop was at Acme Safe where he bought a small, barrel safe. He headed back to Womack as the sun was setting.

The next day, he took all of his purchases from the trunk of his car and went upstairs. He measured the safe. Then, he cut the boards and screwed them together to form a rectangular box. He drilled two holes in the face of a one by six and secured the wire forming a handle. He lowered the safe into the box and set the one by six over the door of the safe. It fit perfectly. He removed the safe and cut the lead sheeting with shears. Then, he screwed the lead to the wooden box.

He went back to Ft. Worth and met the landscapers at his plot. The crew of Mexicans dug a "U" shaped trench. They planted small, Oriental shrubs that were about six inches high very close together. They left an opening at the top of the "U" as Waller had instructed. Waller asked the manager of the crew about the small shrubs.

"They're very hardy. They take the heat and the cold. They remain that size. No trimming needed. They need very little moisture. They should last forty years or so. Call us if you have any problems. We'll replace them for you."

"Good," Waller said paying the man and waited until the red truck drove off down the narrow lane.

Waller looked over his plot. Across the way, the same couple tended the lone grave. Waller glanced at them, then got into the Bonneville and drove home. He got the artificial shrub and glued it to the piece of wood that held the wire handle. He also glued some black pebbles and dirt to the board. He watched part of a basketball game on television and went to bed early.

On Sunday, Waller took the money from the two canvas bags and placed them into the safe. He lugged the safe to his car, went back upstairs and got the box and shrub. He put a small spade into the trunk of his car and headed toward the cemetery.

The couple was there again, seemingly doing some work around at the pink granite headstone. They paid no attention to Waller as he used the small spade to dig a hole in the gap left by the planting crew. He measured the hole, consulting a scrap of paper that had the dimensions of the box.

The couple had driven off. He carried the box to the hole and set it inside. It fit perfectly. He went back and lugged the safe over and dropped it into the box. He placed the wood cover over the frame. The artificial shrub dirt blended in with its live companions. He walked back about one hundred feet and looked. The shrubs looked blankly back at him.

Waller began to walk back to his car, then suddenly stopped and walked over to the small grave where the couple always worked. He stood silently and read the inscription on the pink rock.

"God's Little Angel. Dorothea Zinger. February 21, 1958-March 7, 1963."

"Damn," muttered Waller. "Only five years old." He envisioned a little girl skipping a rope on a tree shaded sidewalk, or running up to meet her daddy coming home from work or reading in her mother's lap.

Waller returned to his plot, removed the fake shrub and spun the dial on the safe. He pulled open the door and retrieved a brick of bills. He closed the door, replaced the shrub and went to his car and drove back to Womack.

After his final class on Monday, he drove into Ft. Worth and went to three small banks. He converted the cash into cashier's checks. He returned to Milam and parked at the Administration Building. He went to the office of the Director of Development, Miss Angie Bires. The sour woman had him sit down. Waller had seen her at staff functions, but had seldom spoken to her.

"Now, what can I do for you, Professor Waller?" she asked straightening her already neat desk top.

"I want to give some money for a scholarship. It will be for entering freshmen women who meet the hardship requirements. Five hundred dollars per year. With our esteemed treasurer's financial acumen, he should be able to make it last for years." He tossed the three checks onto her desk.

The woman stared at the three checks and said in a quivering voice, "Why professor, this is so generous of you!"

"This is to be named the 'Dorothea Zinger Memorial Scholarship,'" Waller told the woman as she scribbled down the words.

Waller rose to leave.

"Who was she, professor?" the woman asked

"Damned if I know," Waller walked out of the office.

Miss Bires frowned. She had never liked Waller. "Why couldn't he be like that nice Professor DeGroot?" She clipped the checks to the forms that she had typed up and hurried down the hall to the treasurer's office. She returned to her office and made certain that she had all of her bureaucratic bases covered. Miss Bires was very efficient.

Waller went home and cooked a hamburger and read for a while after he ate. Then he went to bed.

### Chapter Twenty-One

### The Circle

The weather turned cold and gray again. Christmas was getting closer. Waller sat in front of his fireplace sipping a beer. Suddenly, he had an idea. At one time he had thought about making a giant circle around the state. Take a train to a town, learn some its local history and continue on. He would publish a paper relating his findings. He had never done it, but now he had another idea. He would circle around the season. He went to a closet and got a stack of railroad timetables that he had collected for the project. He got a sheet of paper and began to plan.

He lit a cigarette and charted his course. He would leave on the twenty-third and return on the twenty-sixth, completely missing the season.

On December twenty-third, Waller dressed. He wore a gray, herringbone jacket over a blue shirt. He had packed a small suitcase with warm clothes. He locked up and went to the garage and got into the Bonneville. He drove into Dallas and parked in a lot behind the old station, remembering the last time that he had been there. It was beginning to sleet, so he grabbed his suitcase and hurried into the building. He purchased a one way ticket to Shreveport on the Texas and Pacific.

The blue and cream-colored train pulled into Dallas on time. Waller sat in a coach for a while, then went to the diner and had an excellent breakfast as the Louisiana Eagle sped toward the east. After breakfast, he read the Dallas Morning News as the wet fields and woods passed by his window.

The T & P pulled into Shreveport at noon and Waller detrained. He walked from the small station to the street. It was not as cold, but it was raining. He took a cab for the short ride to the other end of town to Central Station. He bought a ticket on the Kansas City Southern Flying Crow and noted that it was departing on time at one fifty-three P.M. He walked across the street to a café and had a sandwich and a beer.

The Crow rolled in from Kansas City and Waller got into the warm, clean coach, glad to be out of the rain and cold. He went down to the end of the consist and located the lounge car. He bought a beer and watched as the rails receded in the Louisiana rain. The lounge attendant was a rotund Negro named Leon. Waller chatted with Leon as the train pushed on through the rainy afternoon. Leon had stories to tell and Waller had nothing but time.

The train pulled into Beaumont and Waller bade Leon farewell. It was much warmer in Beaumont. A muggy Gulf breeze swept across the platform as Waller walked three blocks to the Southern Pacific depot. He purchased a roomette on the Sunset Limited. He paced the platform and smoked until he heard the air horn in the distance.

Baggage carts rolled out, passengers emerged from the station and the train ground to a halt. Waller located his Pullman sleeper and climbed aboard. He found his roomette and stepped inside. He wasn't hungry, so he summoned the porter to turn down his bed. He stripped and slipped into the white sheets and was soon asleep. Los Angeles was a long way off, and the hogger was making up for lost time.

The rocking motion and click-clack of the wheels pushed Waller into a deep slumber. He slept through stops in Houston and San Antonio where the locomotives were refueled. He awoke to a blue sky in West Texas. It was Christmas Eve. He washed up in the steel basin, dressed and went to the dining car. He had a delicious breakfast and returned to his roomette. He sat watching the barren landscape rush by. He got off in El Paso at two-thirty in the afternoon. He went inside the station and bought a ticket on the Texas and Pacific to Sweetwater. He walked the platform and smoked. Tomorrow was Christmas Day. So far Waller had avoided the holiday.

Waller walked across the street and had a bowl of chili. He walked to a seedy store and bought a six-pack of beer. When his train came in, he boarded and went to his roomette. The train left at four seventeen P.M. He smoked, sipped the beer and looked out at the vast nothingness of West Texas.

He had a close connection in Sweetwater. He wanted to catch the northbound Santa Fe number twenty-eight to Amarillo. If he missed, he would be stuck in the godforsaken town until the next morning when he could catch southbound number twenty-seven to Houston.

He walked to the rear of the train and stood on the open platform as the night rushed by. He watched the telephone poles go by until he spotted a white mile marker. He looked at the second hand of his watch. When the next marker went by, he looked at the second hand again. He did some calculations and found that the train was hitting eighty-seven miles per hour on this straight track. He felt more confident that he would make his connection. He walked back to his roomette.

When the train ground to a halt in Sweetwater, Waller jumped to the platform and ran to a waiting cab. He jerked open the rear door, tossed his bag inside and slid into the seat.

"Santa Fe station!"

The gray-haired man grunted, shoved the meter down and drove over bumpy streets to a faded yellow wooden building.

Waller tossed the man a ten dollar bill and ran toward the platform. The shiny, silver train was just rolling into the station. When it stopped, the conductor stepped down to the red brick platform.

"Got time to buy a ticket?" Waller asked.

"Jump on. I'll collect from you when we get moving."

Waller climbed aboard and went to the lounge car. He got a beer and settled into a chair. It was ten forty P.M. After a while, the conductor strolled in and sold him a roomette. Waller went to the room. The bed was already down. He asked the porter to wake him up fifteen minutes before they hit Amarillo. He stripped and immediately fell asleep in the cozy, warm darkness. The silver train rolled northward across the cap rock toward the panhandle.

The porter awoke Waller at four-thirty in the morning. Waller dressed and took his bag toward the vestibule. He lit a cigarette and looked at the passing darkness. The train slowed as it hit the yard in Amarillo and came to a halt in the frigid blackness. Waller dropped to the platform and hurried to the depot. No cab was in sight. He entered the station and asked a man seated behind the ticket counter how far it was to the Ft. Worth and Denver depot.

"It's not far, sir." The man smiled sleepily. "Hold on for a minute and I'll take you there."

Waller lit a cigarette and waited. An old man with a beard came in from the outside. He looked at Waller and went into a doorway to the ticket agent's office. Waller could see him through the window. He spoke quietly with the other agent for a moment, then he sat down behind a desk and began reading some train orders. The first man came out of the doorway and walked over to Waller.

"Ready?"

Waller nodded and grabbed his bag. He followed the man to a pickup truck. They got in and headed off. The man said nothing and Waller was glad for the silence. After a few blocks, he turned and stopped in front of a brick building.

"You got about thirty minutes,"

Waller thanked the man and hurried into the station, glad to be out of the driving north wind. He purchased a ticket for a roomette to Houston from a faded blonde who appeared to be half asleep. No other passengers were in the station. Soon, he heard the air horn from far away.

The woman gathered yellow train orders and hung them on the end of a long pole. She donned a parka and stepped outside. She walked toward the track and raised the pole. As the locomotive rolled by, the engineer hooked the string with his elbow and pulled the orders inside of the window as he eased to a stop.

Waller grabbed his bag and stepped into the frigid wind. He loped down toward the rear of the train where a Negro in a white porter's jacket had opened the vestibule and set out a yellow stool.

"Good morning, sir." He took the bag from Waller and followed him up the steps. He raised the steps and closed the door. He led Waller down to his roomette. Waller tipped the man and settled in. It was warm in the Pullman. It was six thirteen on Christmas morning. The Zephyr gained speed as it headed out of the panhandle toward Ft. Worth.

Shortly after eight o'clock, Waller went to the dining car and had breakfast. He returned to his roomette and watched the bleak scenery. He smoked and read a newspaper that someone had left in the diner. He had lunch as the train rolled past large grain silos and into the outskirts of Ft. Worth. The train got refueled at the station. Waller got off and paced the platform alongside the sleeper. Toward the front of the train, several people had gotten off and were met by family and friends.

The sun had finally came out and it got a little warmer. Waller noticed a run-down, abandoned brick building off to his right. Weeds and litter surrounded the edifice. He walked back and boarded the train. The Zephyr headed toward Dallas.

At Union Station, more passengers got off. Waller idly noted his automobile resting in the parking lot behind the station. The weak sunlight radiated off of the chrome. The train pulled out and headed to Houston. Waller had a beer in the lounge car and read a newspaper.

He got off in Houston and went outside. It was rainy and humid in Houston. He walked back inside and purchased a ticket on Santa Fe to the tiny town of Milano. The agent also was able to sell him a ticket on the Missouri Pacific from Milano to San Antonio.

Waller prowled the large, mostly empty station until his train departed at ten o'clock. A few winos were curled up next to a hissing radiator near the baggage room. He smoked and waited.

He boarded the train that was headed toward Lubbock. Waller sat in a coach and read a magazine that he had found. A few hours later, the train slowed for the stop in Milano. Waller got off at twelve-fifty-eight A.M. Christmas was over. The train continued on its journey and Waller walked to the small wooden depot. The night was becoming foggy. Dogs barked in the distance. Waller hoped that the MoPac was running on time.

From the northeast, he heard the wail of the air horn. The signals blinked red. Train orders were looped on a stand beside the track. A blazing white blight burst out of the blackness and the dark blue locomotives braked to a stop. Waller entered an open vestibule that the flagman had lowered for him. He walked back to the Pullman and got into the bed in his roomette that was ready for him. He slept soundly.

The porter roused him at four-thirty in the morning. He washed his face and dressed quickly. He was looking forward to a hot shower and a shave. He took his bag and waited in the vestibule as the train threaded through a maze of tracks. He tipped the porter and got off at the old station. He walked a block to the MKT terminal and bought a ticket to Dallas. He watched the sun come up over the old city. He sat on a bench smoking and reading a newspaper.

The MKT pulled out at seven o'clock on December twenty-sixth. He had avoided Christmas. He went to the dining car and ate breakfast. The Special rolled through the central Texas countryside and arrived in Dallas just after eleven o'clock. Waller got off and walked slowly to his car. He tossed the bag into the back seat and drove to Womack. He parked in his garage, collected his mail and went upstairs. He stripped, shaved and spent a long time soaking in the shower. He pulled back the sheets and tumbled into bed.

He slept late on the twenty-seventh. From that day until the start of classes, he worked in his office, ate heartily and slept late. He went into Ft. Worth on New Year's Eve and went to a large club. He drank and danced. He ended up with a woman named Cindy. Waller took her to brunch the next day and they watched the Cotton Bowl game on television. Texas defeated Navy much to Waller's delight. He left Ft. Worth at dusk and returned to Womack, promising to call Cindy soon.

The next day, Waller sat in his office on the empty campus. "1964," he mused. He remembered sitting on his deck a year ago thinking what a great year 1963 promised to be. Waller shrugged. He had to forget last year. He was thirty-two years old. He had a long life ahead of him. He had more money than he could count, a campus full of pretty girls and an easy job. Things would be fine.

On a cold Tuesday, Waller had just returned from the classroom and dumped his materials on his desk when he noticed that DeGroot had followed him in. He sat at his desk while DeGroot sat across from him.

"What did you do for Christmas?"

"I circled around it," Waller smiled.

DeGroot sighed and lit his pipe. "This sounds like another Xerxes tale that defies convention. By the way, San Diego was wonderful, as were all the traditional ways the folks celebrate the holiday season. Waller smiled. "Actually, this was rather peaceful in its own way." He began to talk as the north wind bent the leafless trees of Womack.

### Chapter Twenty-Two

### Slip Sliding Away

January and final exams came and went. The weather had been cold and unattractive. Registration for the spring semester passed and Waller began teaching his courses again.

February was much colder than usual. Icy winds howled across the campus.

"Nothin' but a bobwar fence 'tween here and Canada," chucked old Terry Malley as he pushed his broom across the floors of Cowder Hall. The building was empty as Waller made his way to the front door. "Keep it warm, professor," he called to Waller.

"I'll try, Terry" replied Waller as he braced for the blast of frigid air that awaited him as he pushed open the door.

Waller always appreciated the heater in his car as it warmed quickly. He turned the fan to high and let the air bathe him. "Fucking weather," he muttered. He pulled into his garage and jogged swiftly to his door. He went upstairs and tossed off his heavy jacket. He started a fire in his fireplace, grabbed a beer and began cooking a pan of soup.

He stacked some records on his turntable and leafed through the newspaper as the fire began to roar. The wind blasted against the windows and it got colder. After he ate, he slouched on his sofa listening to the music and staring into the fire.

In Dallas, Marcello's had been packed, but now the dinner crowd was thinning out some. Blue smoke rose to the ceiling, loud music came from the jukebox and voices filled the room. In a while, the late night groups would come for pizza after movies and ball games.

Marcello had been everywhere, telling stories, lies and jokes. The fat man seemed to know hundreds of jokes. Someone has to make up jokes, Waller had once thought. Maybe Marcello was one of those persons.

Talking about politics, sports, the economy and a myriad of other topics, Marcello would stop at every table and regale the patrons with his comments. Once he made the rounds, he would park his bulky frame upon a stool behind the bar at the cash register.

At Marcello's, the waitress left the bill on the table and the customer would take it to the cash register where the bartender or Marcello would ring up the sale and make change.

That night, the sports editor of the Dallas Morning News had been in with two of the Dallas Cowboys beat writers. Marcello had spent a lot of the evening chatting with them. After they had departed, he resumed his spot on the stool by the cash register. It was getting close to ten o'clock. The late-night crowd would be coming in soon.

A man got up from his booth and headed toward the bar where Marcello was giving change to a couple. He paused to look at a television mounted on a wall. He waited until the couple had walked out of the door, then he walked slowly toward the cash register. The man acted as if he was handing his bill to Marcello. Suddenly he wadded up his bill and flicked it into Marcello's face as he went toward the door.

"Hey you, come back!" yelled Marcello as he lumbered around the end of the bar and headed toward the door. He went outside and saw the man walking slowly along the sidewalk. There was no one else around. Marcello began to run after the man yelling. Years of smoking, eating rich Italian food and paying scant attention to his health slammed into Marcello with one blazing, wracking pain.

He stopped in mid stride as if impaled by an invisible lance. Without a sound, the large body dropped onto the cold, dirty sidewalk. Broken glass, dog shit and debris made a wreath for the large head, slack in death. The open, black eyes stared at nothing.

The man turned as Marcello fell. He looked around. The street was empty. He walked back to the body lying there and placed a thumb on the neck of Marcello. There was no pulse. The man turned and walked quickly down the block. He slipped the small automatic pistol back into a holster on his belt. He looked back and saw two of the waitresses running toward the dead man. One of them was screaming loudly. He got into the rental car and drove off.

"Easiest hit ever," he laughed. He headed back to the motel next to Love Field. He hoped to snag an early flight back to New York the next morning.

Waller stood in front of the fireplace. It was getting late and the fire was burning down. He would head off to bed soon. Chuck Berry was in the midst of "Memphis" when the phone rang.

It was Kirby Smith, one of his senior students and an Alpha Kap. "Did you hear about Marcello?" he asked.

Kirby and some buddies had driven into Dallas to see the latest James Bond movie, "From Russia with Love." After the movie, they had headed over to Marcello's to grab a late pizza and some brews. They found the area full of cops and reporters. The restaurant was closed. There were groups of people standing around, and someone told the story to Kirby.

After Kirby hung up, Waller added some logs to the fire and got another beer. He stood in front of the fireplace thinking. "Marcello knew and now he's dead. Pat, Ray, me and Del Mato know."

Even though it was likely that Marcello had a lot of money, he would have reacted like he did to the man's actions.

Waller knew very little about Del Mato's organization, nor did he want to. He had come to realize that Marcello had been a lot closer to the top than he had first thought. He wondered how many layers were between Del Mato and Marcello. He figured not many, if any at all. Waller smoked and paced the living room.

"Marcello knew, and Marcello's dead," kept running through his mind. He turned off the stereo, finished his beer and shoved the remaining coals far back in the fireplace. He went to bed, but didn't sleep well.

The press gave Marcello's death a lot of coverage. The police had no idea who the mysterious stranger had been. Just a fluke it was reasoned. Marcello had been in poor physical shape.

Marcello had no relatives. An attorney had drawn up a will that funneled all of his assets into a foundation, which in turn funded a trust. The beneficiary of the trust was controlled by Del Mato.

A group of local investors purchased the restaurant from Marcello's estate. It was a gold mine, they figured. They kept the name and the menu.

Waller never went there again. The old cook disappeared and the bartender and waitresses all quit. Within a year, the placed was closed. Eventually, the building was razed and the vacant lot became infested with weeds. A "For Sale" sign stood lonely sentinel.

Soon after Marcello's death, a large blast of warm air from the Gulf of California drove Northeast across the deserts of Big Bend. It crashed into the icy air coming from Canada over Womack.

Early in the morning on a Thursday in mid-February, it began to snow. The snow fell all day long. Huge flakes quickly stuck to the frozen ground. Milan became a frenzy of snowball fights and joyous laughter. Snowmen sprouted all over campus. Students came into classrooms dripping wet, red-faced and laughing.

The snow continued throughout the night. As the warm air continued to flow northeast, the temperatures began to rise. Waller stood on his deck that night and looked at the white sky and white ground. It was eerie, quiet and beautiful.

"Marcello's dead," he repeated to himself. "He knew, he knew."

### Chapter Twenty-Three

### Rerun

When Waller rose on Friday, the sky was clear and blue. He went out to get the newspaper and was astonished at how much it had warmed up during the night. By the time he left to go to the campus, it was over sixty degrees. Snow still covered the grassy areas, but the trees were running faucets and pools of water accumulated in the streets.

Students, who the day before and been bundled in coats, were in short sleeves. The euphoria of the snow flowed into the awareness that it was Friday. The weekend was nigh.

Waller dismissed his final class of the day early. It was now warm enough to put the top down on the Bonneville. He stopped in Womack for a quick lunch and drove home. He thought about golf for Saturday, but decided that it would be too muddy.

He hadn't had the canoe out since the time that he had paddled around Lake McIntosh last August. He took his stereo out onto the deck and plugged it in. He stacked ten record albums on the changer and filled a cooler with ice and beer.

He pulled the canoe from his garage. It needed a good scrubbing, so he placed it on the grass, attached a garden hose to the faucet and began to scrub the aluminum shell with cleanser and a brush. He sprayed it inside and out until it gleamed in the sunlight. After it dried, he lashed it to the Pontiac and secured it. He tossed a life jacket and a paddle into the backseat. He looked forward to running the river on Saturday.

By the time that he had finished, it was eighty degrees. "Goddamn Texas weather," he said to himself. "Freeze one day and burn up the next." He shook his head as he rolled up the hose and put it back into the garage. He spent the rest of the day washing clothes, cleaning the apartment and balancing his checkbook. He drove into Womack and ate dinner at a cafeteria. Afterward, he wondered why. The food was tasteless. He vowed not to return.

Waller got up at eight o'clock on Saturday morning. It was very warm and there was no wind. He ate breakfast out on his deck. He watched his neighbors drive off to take advantage of the warm, sunny day. The tennis group was at the courts, golfers toted their clubs to cars and some boats were hitched up to head to Lake McIntosh.

Waller washed his dishes and pans. He was wearing swim trunks, worn sneakers and a golf shirt. He gathered a cap and some lotion and filled his cooler with beer and ice. He stuffed some bills into the pocket of his trunks.

He locked his front door and placed the cooler into the back seat of his car. He threaded through the emptying complex to the street winding across the wet hills and turned off into the small park. He parked his car under a large tree and off-loaded the canoe and carried it down to the edge of the river. He got the cooler out of the car and locked his car.

He put the cooler into the canoe and edged the bow into the rushing waters of the Fernando. It was ten o'clock and rapidly warming up. A gentle breeze from the south rippled the waters of the river. The melting snow had swollen the creeks that fed into the Fernando. The current was swift. He would make good time down to T.G.'s camp today.

Waller pushed off of the riverbank and the current pushed him along sideways until he dug deep with his paddle and guided the canoe along the twists and bends of the river.

Graceful herons knifed beneath the leafless trees. Small fish swam below the surface and aged turtles sunned on protruding logs. Waller loved the river. The outside world seemed to disappear. He was totally alone.

He floated and drank beer, then he paddled hard for quite some time. Soon, he became hungry. He hoped that he could find the old market where the Negro sold barbeque. If the rusting, old windmill was still near the bank, he could probably find the market. He floated under a canopy of trees. Soon, he heard the screeching of old metal and knew that the windmill was around the next bend.

After he rounded the bend, he angled toward the right side of the river and floated. The noise became louder. A large, brown cow was standing knee deep in the water staring at Waller.

"Afternoon, bossie," he said, saluting her with a beer can. He could see the windmill above the bluffs of the river. He ran the canoe up on a sandy strip and got out. He tied the rope to a tree and stretched his legs. He climbed up the bluff and tried to remember the way to the market. He heard the sound of an automobile to his left, so he walked in that direction until he came out beside a pitted, asphalt road.

He remembered that the market was to his right, so he walked in that direction. After a few hundred yards, he could smell the hickory smoke. He rounded a curve and spotted the old wooden building. A weather beaten sign above the door was illegible.

He entered and stepped around the unburned ends of logs that protruded from the fire pit. Not much light filtered into the room. At a ragged card table next to a window, four ancient Negroes were playing dominoes. A dog lay sleeping in the middle of the wooden floor. Behind a small counter stood an elderly Negro with white hair and smooth, brown skin.

"Yassuh," the old man said to Waller.

"How are you doing, Lionel?" Waller asked as he walked up to the counter.

"Mistah Walla, you ain't been heah in fo'ever," the old man said. His white teeth glistened in the dim light.

"Been pretty busy, Lionel."

"Can't see you workin' too hard," the old man grinned.

"Got any ribs left?" Waller asked.

"What you want with dem ribs?"

"Little sausage, some beans and bread," replied Waller.

The old man reached under the counter and tore off a sheet of white butcher paper and slapped it down on the counter. He opened the top of a large container and pulled out a long rack of ribs dripping fatty juices. He snatched up a shiny cleaver and neatly chopped off several fat ribs. He laid them on the paper He opened another container and pulled out some links of sausage with a greasy stick. He chopped off two lengths and dropped the rest back into the box.

He laid the sausage on the paper and deftly whacked them into small slices. He put six slices of white bread onto the paper along with some pickles. He got a bowl of beans and a fork. "What do you want to drink?"

"How about a large bull," Waller replied.

The old man reached into a tub full of ice and retrieved a tall can of Schlitz malt liquor. "That will be three dollah eighty-two," the old man said.

Waller wondered how the old man always figured the amount to charge. There were no prices posted or a menu anywhere. Waller would have paid much more in Ft. Worth and it wouldn't be near as delicious. He dug into his swim trunks and put a crumpled five dollar bill onto the counter.

The old man straightened the bill, banged the old cash register noisily and gently laid the bill inside of the drawer. He made a production of counting out Waller's change.

"Thank you," said Waller as he walked to the only other table in the room which was between the domino players and a wall.

The meal was juicy and delicious. The sauce was hot and tangy. He ate hungrily and washed down the food with the malt liquor. The exercise had made him ravenous.

When he had finished, he turned toward one of the domino players, "Got a smoke, Dillard?"

The old man handed him a pack of Pall Malls and a battered lighter.

Waller shook out a cigarette and lit it.

"Thanks," he smiled.

"Sho'" said Dillard. "I heah the new president's gonna give us whatever we wants," he laughed.

A skinny man on Dillard's left chuckled, "All's I wants is some tight pussy."

They all laughed. "How 'bout some loose shoes?" cracked another man.

"I jes' wants a warm place to shit," said another man.

They slapped their knees and laughed loudly. Waller joined in on the laughter.

"If he can get that through the Senate, I'll vote for him," Waller laughed. He stood up. "See you guys later."

"Take care, professor," they said and went back to their game.

"See you, Lionel," he said to the old man behind the counter as he walked toward the door.

"Come back soon, professor," he waved.

The sunlight was blinding. Waller had to wait a moment before walking back to the river. His insides felt like a volcano. He sang out loud. He was feeling great today.

He untied the canoe and slid back in the river. He floated for a few miles. Then he heard the sound of Crisscross rapids. He visualized the moves that he needed to make and soon was in the grasp of the treacherous white water. He steered hard amongst the ragged boulders and was glad to get through with only a scratch on the port bow. He had never seen the river so high and fast. He safely negotiated the rapids at Honeysuckle Hole and floated for a while. He pulled a beer from the cooler and levered it open. The sun was warm on his back. Soon he was at T.G.'s landing.

He beached the canoe and walked toward the shack. No one seemed to be around. He walked to the rear and spotted T.G. mowing a scruffy plot of grass.

T.G. saw Waller and shut off the lawn mower. He walked over to Waller.

"You ran down the river today?"

"Yeah. I need a lift back to the park."

"Pretty fast, was it?" asked T.G.

"Amazing. Crisscross was almost covered. It was hard to see the rocks."

T.G. wiped his face with a rag. "Goddamn hot for February," he complained.

"Beats that damned snow!" Waller laughed.

"Yeah, but when it was snowing, I could sleep all day."

They got into T.G.'s pickup truck and backed down to the edge of the river. They loaded the canoe and gear. They wound along the back roads and were soon at the park. T.G. flipped the canoe on top of Waller's car and they secured it. Waller got his cooler and put into the backseat. He handed T.G. five dollars and opened a can of beer. He handed it to T.G. and got one for himself.

"Mighty pretty on the Fernando today," Waller said.

"You didn't bring that little blonde this time," moaned T.G.

"No, she's breaking hearts over in Carolina, I imagine."

"You're a lucky guy, professor," T.G. grinned. He drained the can of beer, crushed the can in one large hand and tossed it into the bed of his truck. He climbed into the truck and coaxed the old starter to life. "See ya, professor," he smiled and drove out of the park.

Waller got into his car and drove back to Womack. He removed the canoe from his car and stowed it in the garage. He parked and closed the garage door. He carried the cooler upstairs and put the remaining beers in the refrigerator. He cleaned out the cooler with soapy water and dried it.

He stripped off the swim trunks and headed to the shower. He looked into the mirror. "Got a good start on my tan today," he thought. He flexed his shoulders. Tomorrow, he would be pleasantly sore. Except for the white band around his buttocks, he was a reddish brown.

He turned the water to hot and let the spray sting the reddened flesh. He soaped off and rinsed for a long time. He sang some Hank Ballard songs echoing into the wet tiles. He emerged from the shower, dried off and wrapped the towel around his waist. He walked to the kitchen and got a beer from the refrigerator. He took it to the steamy bathroom and dried his hair some more. He combed his hair and stepped out on his deck. It had cooled down some and the air felt good.

The phone rang, interrupting his mellow mood. He walked over and answered it.

"Xerxes, this is David Warner."

David was an old friend from Texas and an Alpha Kap. He had a successful accounting practice in Dallas and Waller had not seen him in a long time. Waller smiled as he remembered some of the adventures that he and David had participated in while in college.

"Hey, David, what's going on?"

"Not much. Listen, Rock's father died yesterday. I didn't know if you would get the news out in the country. Rock is coming in from Virginia early tonight."

"Damn, I'm sorry to hear that. Iz was a great old guy."

"Yeah. Well I just wanted to let you know," David said.

"I'll call Rock. I suppose that he will be at his mother's place."

"Probably."

"Let's get together sometime," Waller said.

"We'll have to do that," said David and hung up.

Waller sipped his beer. Lunch had been so filling that he decided not to fix dinner. He went out onto the deck a thought about Izzy Rock and the summer he had lived in his house. He lifted his beer can toward the sky and said, "Here's to you, Izzy. You were a great guy."

He slipped on some shorts and got the Dallas phone directory. He looked up the number and dialed. A woman answered. He asked for Jim and was told to hold on. He heard dishes clattering and women's voices buzzing.

"Hello."

"Hey, Jim." Waller said.

"Xerxes!"

"Sorry as hell," said Waller.

"Yeah."

"What are the arrangements?" Waller asked.

"The service is Monday at three o'clock at Barker's, then I've got to get back to Virginia. I'm in the middle of a big trial."

"I'll be there Monday," Waller said.

"See you," said Rock. Then he said," Hey, I heard that Ross was dead."

Waller was silent for a long moment. "How did you hear that?"

"Jack told me," Rock replied.

"It's news to me. See you on Monday." Waller hung up the phone.

"Fuck!" he muttered. "Marcello, and now Ross?" He needed to verify this.

He looked up Jack Flonger's number. Jack had been an Alpha Kap from Dallas. He and Rock had been good friends in high school. Jack was a devious fellow who always had a scheme or an angle to get money without working too hard for it. He had flunked out of school and was selling used cars in Dallas.

A woman answered the phone.

"Hi, Hallie, is Jack around?"

"Who's calling?" the woman asked.

"Xerxes Waller."

"Oh, Xerxes. I haven't seen you in forever."

"Been busy."

"I can just bet," she laughed. Hallie was a girl that Jack had met at Texas and later married.

Jack got on the line. "How's it hanging, professor?" he asked in a smoky voice.

"Good!" Waller said. "Hey, I just heard that Ross was dead."

"Deader than shit," Jack said.

"How, when?" asked Waller.

"It's kind of weird. You know his folks live in that big house on Pearson Road? Well one night, the fire department gets a call and rush over there. The rear of the house is on fire. They think he set it. The folks are in Europe. They put out the fire and notice Ross' car on the back of the driveway. The engine is running and they look under the car. They discover Ross with a hose from the exhaust in his mouth and he's one dead fucker."

"When did this happen?" asked Waller.

"Shit, it seems that it was on Christmas Eve," Jack replied. "Mason kept it out of the papers and television. But it just kind of got around, you know."

"Damn shame. Well I got to go, but I just heard it from Rock and couldn't believe it."

"Believe it," Jack said. "We need to get together sometime, boy."

"Sure," Waller hung up.

He went outside again. Ross was dead. Marcello was dead. "Fanning knows and I know. Del Mato knows." He had been on his circle trip when Ross died. Waller shuddered in the night air. He was worried.

"How did they know about Ross?" Del Mato had said to get a pal or two to help. Neither he nor Marcello knew about Ross or Fanning.

Then he remembered something that Marcello had said about Lucian Page.

"Even a hotshot like Page has people watching."

And later, Marcello had smirked at Waller and said, "You don't start teaching yet. We checked."

Waller hadn't taken any precautions about being followed. Someone could have followed Ray out of Louie's. Someone could have parked along a fence line and watched Fanning and Waller at the farm. Strong binoculars would have made it easy. Then the two men would be checked out and their habits known.

"Was Ross the primary target when whomever came down from New York?"

It had to be from New York, Waller figured. He remembered how quiet and subservient Marcello had been in the presence of Del Mato. Marcello would only take orders. New York would orchestrate the hit. Maybe Waller had been the intended, but he had been hundreds of miles away and moving. So they took out Ross instead.

Waller sat in his dark apartment. This was a part of the deal that he had not thought about. Even though the frame-up of Lee and his subsequent execution had been accepted, the other players had to be eliminated. Then only Del Mato would know.

He felt responsible for Ray's death. He remembered his shinning eyes and smile as had listened to Waller lay out the plan. He should warn Fanning, but the big man had left the farm. No one that Waller knew was aware of the man's whereabouts.

Waller went inside and locked the door. He turned out the lights and went to bed. His mind kept repeating, "Ross knew and Ross is dead."

Waller awoke on Sunday. It was still quite warm for February, but high clouds were blowing along from the southwest. Waller ate breakfast and drove to his office. He worked for a while and thought about Ross and Marcello. Both incidents seemed to be accidents on the surface, a heart attack and a suicide. But he had a good idea that things were not as they seemed. Del Mato was ruthless and smart.

Waller had never taken a sabbatical. This might be the time to get out of the country for a while. He kept dwelling on Ray's death. The man he knew would never have killed himself. But he hadn't known the post-November Ray. Maybe it had eaten at him. Ross had aimed for the head. Maybe that vision swept into his subconscious the same way the necktie crept into Waller's nightmares. Maybe the enormity of the event became more than Ross could bear.

But Ross was tough and shrewd. A suicide was unlikely. "What of the mysterious stranger who had lured Marcello into a terminal foot race in the icy darkness? Was that an accident?" A sabbatical seemed like a very good idea.

On Monday, he went to the office of the department head. The old man saw him immediately.

"I've been wondering if you were ever going to take a break," he smiled.

"Yes, I think that getting away and doing some research will be valuable," Waller replied.

"I'll get the paperwork moving. Enjoy your time off!"

Waller drove into Dallas after his last class. He ate lunch at the Brass Rail and headed toward the funeral home. The place was full. Iz had been a well-respected man in the city. Waller sat in the rear of the room. He met with Jim briefly after the service.

He shook hands with Jim and told him how sorry he was.

"Thanks," Jim looked devastated and sad. "Coming to the house?"

"No, when are you heading back?"

"Late tonight. I have to be back in court tomorrow."

"Take care, buddy." Waller shook hands and walked to his car. As he drove back to Womack, he began planning for his departure from Milam.

On Tuesday, he drove into Ft. Worth and purchased a Colt .38 caliber, snub nosed revolver, a small shoulder holster, and a box of ammunition. He wore the gun everywhere. He began to wear a coat and tie to class to cover the shoulder holster. He locked the garage each day and did not go out at night. His car would be safe at the campus. Milam had an excellent security force that patrolled the campus. He only went to the grocery store on Saturday when the parking lot was crowded with people. If someone were tampering with his car, people would notice. Even so, whenever he turned the ignition key, he braced for a blast. He would drive slowly and check his brakes frequently. He always looked for a tail when driving.

He went to a novelty store and purchased a fake spider's web. He cut it down to make it smaller and inserted two small nails at the very top on his front door and the adjoining frame. He put it in place each time that he departed and unhooked it before he entered. He would notice if it were ripped in two. If that happened, he would not enter his apartment.

On a rainy Sunday in April, Waller awoke and dressed. He went down and got his newspaper. He separated the sections that he never read and piled them onto the advertising inserts. He ate a bowl of cereal and read the sports pages. He took the cereal bowl to the sink and washed it. He lit a cigarette and sat back down at the table.

He picked up the local news section. On an inside page Waller saw the headline: "Local man killed in motorcycle accident."

Waller read the article and almost stopped breathing. He dropped the paper and began to pace the room. He sat down again and picked up the paper.

"Pat Fanning, age thirty-six, was killed late Friday night when he lost control of his motorcycle on Highway 180 west of Palo Pinto. Highway patrolmen on the scene speculated that Fanning hit a low water crossing and was thrown into an outcropping of sandstone along the highway. Fanning was not wearing a helmet. A 1953 graduate of the University of Texas, he was a local investor in Dallas. Fanning was a sergeant in the Marine Corps serving in the Pacific theater at the end of World War II. He is survived by his father, former Virginia congressman, Eldridge Fanning of Richmond, Virginia, a sister, Susie Fanning of Houston and grandmother, Etta Gaunt of San Antonio. Services are pending."

"Fuck!" muttered Waller.

He went through the litany. "Ross knew and Ross is dead. Marcello knew and Marcello is dead. Fanning knew and Fanning was dead. I know. Del Mato knows."

"Another 'accident,'" he thought. "And I'm the only one left."

Waller went and applied for a passport on Monday. He taught his classes and stayed in his apartment. The end of the semester couldn't arrive soon enough.

When exams were finally over, Waller graded the students for the last time. He deliberated about a girl in the last class that he was grading. Charlie Robinson was a pretty and vivacious girl. She had always been one of his favorites. He flipped through her blue book quickly, wrote "A" on the cover and recorded the grade for the semester in his grade book. He walked down to his secretary's office and turned in the grades. He drove to Ft. Worth and. bought a money belt. Then, he drove to the cemetery. He opened the safe and packed the money belt with bills. He placed the pistol in the safe. He couldn't clear customs with it.

He had his belongings put into storage. He loaded his record collection, stereo and television into his car. He donated his canoe to a local Boy Scout troop. He had sold his car to an Alpha Kap named Van Forrest and given his records, television and stereo to the fraternity. He had Goodwill pick up most of his clothes at the same time the Boy Scout troop picked up the canoe, life vests, cooler and paddles. Forrest came and got the car and paperwork. Waller had packed one large suitcase and waited for DeGroot to pick him up. He had DeGroot drive him back to the campus for one last look. All the while, Waller looked behind them. No one was following. DeGroot drove him into Ft. Worth and dropped him off at the T&P station. Waller bade his old friend good bye. DeGroot was retiring and moving to San Diego. He invited Waller to visit. Waller said that he would, but thought that he probably wouldn't.

### Chapter Twenty-Four

### Travellin' Man

Waller walked into the old station and purchased a ticket for New Orleans. He boarded the train and went to his roomette. Later, he went to the diner and ate breakfast. The countryside was green and soothing as it rushed past the window. At lunch, he sat with a pretty girl whose husband was in the Navy. She was going to visit him at a base in Mississippi. Waller took her to the lounge and bought her a drink as the train rolled through Louisiana.

Waller recognized some of the crew from his trip during Christmas. When the train came to a stop in New Orleans, Waller's new friend rushed to catch her connection to Biloxi on the L & N train. Waller stowed his bag in a locker and purchased a one way ticket to New York on the Southern Crescent that departed at six A.M the next morning,

It was five-thirty in the evening and the old city basked in the setting sun. Waller hailed a cab and rode to Pascal's Manale. The same woman who had been there when Waller had spent the summer there long ago was taking names for a waiting list.

She smiled at Waller, "You're still the only 'Xerxes' I've ever written down. It'll be about twenty minutes for a table."

The restaurant was packed as usual. Waller walked to the old bar and shoehorned his body into a spot. The bartender slid a chilled schooner his way.

Soon, the woman called his name and led him into the crowded dining room. A waitress came over to the table with a menu. "No need for that," he smiled. "I'll have barbeque shrimp, fries and another cold one."

The woman went off with his order and returned to tie a large, white bib around his neck. She reappeared with a large bowl of fat shrimp immersed in a reddish broth. She placed it before him, and brought the fries and beer.

A messy thirty minutes later, Waller wiped his face and cleaned his hands in a fingerbowl. His face oozed sweat from every pore. "Best food anywhere!" he smiled to himself as he lit a cigarette and finished off his schooner of beer.

He paid his bill and got a cab back to the Quarter. He went to several of his favorite haunts until it was nearly dawn. He swayed back to the station and reclaimed his bag. He walked to the silver train and found his roomette.

Waller idly thought about the pitiful MOG when compared to this immaculate train that would speed him through his hometown of Birmingham, then Atlanta, Charlotte, Washington D.C. and finally into New York City. He had the porter make down the bed, stripped and slumbered through the Southland as the Crescent blasted northeast.

He slept until the late afternoon. He washed in the basin and dressed. He went to the dining car and enjoyed a fine dinner as the train sped along. He returned to his room and slept until an hour before the train rolled into Grand Central Station. He tipped the porter and waded into the crowd. He went out to the street and hailed a cab.

He tossed his bag into the seat and got inside of the cab.

"Idewild," he told the stocky driver.

"Kennedy," the man corrected him. "They're naming everything for that son of a bitch now. Even that place in Florida where they shoot off them rockets."

The man jerked the cab through a jumble of cars, buses and trucks. Waller tried to relax and hoped that he made it to the airport alive. Whatever he had heard about New York City cabbies was true. They cruised along weaving through traffic with the horn blaring. A thought crossed his mind that this was Del Mato's city. He would be out of it soon.

Waller tipped the driver generously and walked into the busy terminal. He looked at the departure screen. A Swiss Air to Geneva was departing in an hour. He purchased a one way ticket and began going through the red tape of presenting his passport and searches. Finally he was able to board the plane and settle into his seat.

He had no seat mate. He dined, slept, read and walked the aisle until Swiss Air flight 131 set down in the small country. He cleared customs and located a small hotel where he slept off the jet lag.

It was early in June of 1964 and Waller felt safe at last. Marcello knew and Marcello was dead. Ross knew and Ross was dead. Fanning knew and Fanning was dead. After a while, he went out from the hotel and walked around, getting his bearings. He found a restaurant and managed to order a good meal. He found a bar and drank Swiss beer. He decided that the Swiss women were nothing special. He opened a map of Europe. He had bought a Eurorail Pass in Dallas that was good for a year. He could travel anywhere on the continent first class.

He decided to head north for the short European summer then, spend the winter in Spain, Italy and Greece. He was due back at Milam by August of 1965. Money was jammed tightly in the money belt. He drank and wondered if he would ever return to Milam.

The beauty of the small country was incredible. Waller travelled through the country, walking through villages and hiking along lakes. He soon discarded his suitcase and bought a large pack, hiking boots and a casual, utilitarian wardrobe. He let his beard grow.

He found the industrious Swiss to be friendly and intelligent. He became used to the harsh cigarettes when his supply of Marlboros was gone. He knew that he should be spending his time in libraries and universities taking notes and researching material for his lectures. He kept putting it off. He had plenty of time. He would do most of it in England where there was no language barrier.

The New York Times printed a European edition in English, and Waller would pick up a paper once in a while to keep abreast of what was happening in the States. The new president was pushing his Great Society program through congress. Negroes were marching for their "civil rights." American troops were flooding into Southeast Asia.

Waller followed the Rhine upward toward Belgium and The Netherlands. He found the Dutch women to his liking. Summer nights in Rotterdam were sweet and memorable. He reluctantly took a small ship across the English Channel from Oostende to Dover.

The white cliffs loomed as Waller stood on the deck smoking. "Jolly old England," he mused. He purchased a BritRail Pass and boarded a train to London. After seeing the sights in the bustling city, he headed down to the coast. At Hastings, he toured the battlefield where William of Normandy had defeated Harold and conquered England.

He had taught about this place and the battle for years. Now he stood on the ground where the arrow had pierced Harold's eye and swung the momentum of the battle to the Normans. Waller stared at the ancient stone ruins trying to push his mind back into the time of that fateful day. He could almost hear the clash of sword and shield, and the cries and grunts of the battling warriors. This had been one of the turning points of history. The blood of hundreds of men had dried on this soil.

Waller lit a cigarette and thought about another turning point nine hundred years later on a distant shore.

He didn't find the English to be very hospitable, so he caught a night train to Scotland. He got off of the train in a gray, dim world. He found the Scots to be much friendlier. They seemed to have a lust for life. He met a dark-haired lass who sang ancient songs in a bygone dialect as they sipped Scotch in a dark pub. She led Waller to her small room above a shop, where he spent a delightful few days.

He hummed the words of one of the songs as he headed north. He decided that he could not leave Scotland without playing golf on one of the famed courses where the game had begun. His clubs were in storage in Ft. Worth. He rented a set at the club and was assigned a caddy named Duncan, who appeared to be quite old. Waller hadn't played in a very long time.

He finally found his swing after four holes and was driving the ball well on the hilly links. On the par five fifteenth, his four wood shot had landed on the green and rolled about ten feet from the pin. Duncan handed him a putter and he lined up the putt. It was straight and slightly uphill.

Waller stood over his ball. As he drew the putter back, the image of the silk necktie flashed in his brain. He stood up and walked away from his ball for a moment. He returned to his stance, but his hands were shaking. He pulled the putt badly, but made his birdie. Duncan said nothing to him as they walked to the next tee box.

His concentration was broken. He quickly played the last three holes and walked back to the clubhouse. He tipped Duncan and returned the clubs. He rode in a cab back to the town. One of his favorite pastimes was destroyed. The image that thrust jagged waves into his nightmares now invaded his mind during the day.

Waller took a ship to Ireland and soon tired of the swarms of children who ran around everywhere. It was now late in July. He took another boat to Wales and a train back to Dover. He took a boat to France and got on a train bound for Denmark. He spent the remainder of the summer in Sweden and Norway. He relaxed and tried not to think. The Scandinavian women were most hospitable to the tall American scholar.

As summer waned on the continent, Waller dropped down into Germany, slowly making his way south. He enjoyed the old castles, the heavy food and delicious beer. He spent a few days at Octoberfest in Munich.

One day, he bought a New York Times and leafed through the paper. The new president had commissioned a blue ribbon panel to investigate. The panel finally concluded that Lee had been the sole gunman and the shots had come from the rear of the limo. A new group sprang up in the country. The press called them, "conspiracy theorists." Many of these people wrote books. A lawyer named Mark Lane wrote a book entitled, "Rush to Judgment."

Lane thought that the shots had come from in front of the vehicle. He made note of the MOG overpass as the possible place. He hired an expert to go to the roof of the printing company building and attempt to fire three blank rounds at a target going away from him at an angle in rapid succession with a bolt-action rifle. The expert couldn't replicate it. The car would be under the overpass before he could get off the third shot. Now, people would gather on Long Avenue and point at the railroad overpass. The government criticized Lane's theories as not credible.

Waller smiled. Somewhere, Del Mato would be amused.

The weather was getting colder, so Waller headed to the south of Spain. He found a cheap room in a small hotel and spent the winter. During Christmas, he thought about his trip of the prior year. Now, the professor was lying on a warm beach on the Mediterranean, sipping a Spanish beer and watching the ladies. He had polished the Spanish that he had taken at Texas and was becoming quite fluent.

Waller had been thinking about Milam for some time. He finally decided that he did not want to return in the fall. He wrote a letter to the department head resigning his position. He was no longer an associate professor of history.

When spring rolled around, Waller moved slowly northward. One beautiful morning, he was sitting at an outdoor table in Salzburg. He gazed at the snow-covered peaks and sipped a beer. He had purchased a copy of the New York Times at a newsstand. He had folded it and carried it under his arm without looking at it. It sat on the table as he relaxed.

He lit a cigarette and unfolded the paper. "Mafia Boss Slain," the headlines screamed. "Lieutenants killed in bomb blast," the lower lines read. Waller continued to read, "Anton Toma Del Mato, aged 51, reputed to be the head of the city's most powerful mob family was killed instantly along with his three top aides when a powerful bomb exploded in his limousine late Monday night in the Bronx. Del Mato was considered by the FBI to have controlled the drug, gambling and prostitution rackets in the Eastern U.S. This assassination was the latest in a string of violent acts by the rival Camarillo family to take over the lucrative drug trade in the city. Del Mato's henchmen reportedly killed six members of the Camarillo family last week."

Waller sipped his beer and read the article two more times. "Goddamn!" he said quietly to himself. "Del Mato's dead. They are all dead. They knew and they're dead."

The article said that the turf wars had begun in April of the prior year when one of Del Mato's heroin runners had been killed in Florida. Tensions had simmered all summer and fall. Then, one of Camarillo's key men had disappeared in November.

Waller pondered these facts. It was likely that Del Mato had been forced to focus on what was happening in New York. He could always eliminate Waller when things got under control. He knew where Waller would be and his daily routine.

Waller shuddered and felt a wave of relief settle over him. Del Mato was dead.

Waller moved northward. He found more and more American youths roaming the continent. They wore their hair long, had beards and dressed in odd clothing. They talked incessantly about peace and love. They hated the war that was raging in Southeast Asia. Waller was amused. They were very different from Milam students. They had attended the public universities in Wisconsin, California and New York. Drug usage seemed to be the main focus of their gatherings.

"Can't draft me in France," a long-haired boy would say to Waller.

Waller found the idealistic, long-haired girls easy prey. They seemed to be in every big city that he passed through. He roamed the continent as 1965 wound down.

Waller bought a newspaper in Athens one day. He noticed another article about the conspiracy theorists. More people now would gather and point at the overpass. If they had been there early on a morning in July of 1965, they would have seen the Texas Star passing by on its last journey to Kansas City. The I.C.C. had finally granted permission to stop service. The MOG had reached an agreement with the city of Dallas to sell the right of way so that a new toll way could be constructed to the rapidly expanding northern suburbs.

A developer named, Neal Sleeper, had assembled a group of investors and purchased the MOG's aborted golf course. He completed a nine-hole course with a clubhouse, and surrounded it with an enormous apartment complex dubbed, "The North Village."

Highway 1066 was widened and new roads were built. The MOG finally removed the tracks from the branch line. The bridge over Jackson Creek was made into a crossing for golf carts. The golf course designer built a long par three hole that crossed the creek. Soon, many wayward golf balls would join locomotive 88A as it slumbered in its watery grave far below the cart path.

Waller travelled back to Spain and took a ship to the island of Ibeza where he stayed until April of 1966. He met a nurse from Finland, a tall athletic woman named Brigitta. They shared a room and the lazy days on the beach. After they parted Waller returned to Spain, and then Portugal.

After a few weeks, he decided that it was time to return to the States. He flew into New York and arrived in early June. He took a cab to Penn Station and got a roomette on the Spirit of St. Louis. He spent two days in St. Louis getting acclimated to America again. Then, he got a roomette on the Texas Eagle that would arrive in Ft. Worth the following morning. It was very hot in Ft. Worth. Waller took a cab to the airport and rented a car. He drove to the storage warehouse and arranged for his books and papers to be shipped to Milam. He sent the rest of his clothes and his golf clubs to Goodwill.

He packed the few remaining clothes and personal items in his pack and drove to the cemetery. The plot was well maintained and the shrubs were green and healthy looking. He opened the safe and put the pistol, holster and ammunition into his pack. He got some bricks of bills and placed them into his money belt.

He replaced the fake shrub and walked over to Dorothea's grave. Red and yellow flowers were in full bloom and the plot had a manicured look to it. The parents were not there. Waller smiled. Two Dorothea Zinger scholarship students would be attending Milam.

Waller returned to the rental car and sat in the driver's seat for a moment. DeGroot was gone. There was no one that he wanted to see at Milam. His driver's license would expire at the end of June. He went back to the airport and turned in the car. He took a cab into downtown Ft. Worth and spent the night in a cheap hotel.

He awoke on another hot June day. He was thirty-five years old. He had no job, nor wanted one. He no longer played golf or ran the Fernando in his canoe. Ross was dead. Fanning was dead. Marcello was dead. Del Mato was dead. They all knew.

"I know," he kept repeating to himself. "I know."

He did not want a relationship with a woman. He had a fortune stashed away. He knew. No one else knew. He began to wander. The scenery in Texas paled in comparison to Europe. The summer was hot and seemed to pass very slowly. When autumn approached, he wandered down to Galveston, then over to Mobile and finally to Key West for the winter.

He enjoyed winter on the island. It had a flavor that was different from the mainland. He finally made his way back to Ft. Worth in the summer of 1967. He discovered the old, abandoned building next to the rail yard and moved in. It was off the beaten path for other wandering bums. The soup kitchens and shelters were miles away on the south side of the city. He spent his days wandering the city.

"I know," he would grin at surprised strangers who would recoil and move quickly away from the tall man with white hair and beard. His piercing blue eyes looked quite crazed.

"I know," he would mumble over and over as he sat on his bench drinking the days away.

The worst was when the nightmares came. He would thrash and scream out as the necktie exploded in his brain. He tore at his head trying to make it go away. He would wake up shaking and sweating.

### Chapter Twenty-Five

### See Spot Run

Sometime ago, Waller had found a dog. It was a black, medium-sized canine of dubious parentage. When Waller had first noticed the dog, it was sniffing around his place early on a spring morning. Waller found some scraps of bread in his pack and placed them on the wall outside of the fence. The dog ignored them for a while, but eventually went over and sniffed the crusts.

Waller leaned against the wall of the cellar and watched the dog. Finally, the dog ate the bread. He raised his head and looked at Waller with coal black eyes. He wagged his scruffy tail and wandered down the tracks and off into some bushes.

Before he headed home the next night, Waller rummaged through the dumpster behind the Stone Hotel and found some scraps of meat and other discarded food. He put the food into a brown paper bag. When he got back, he placed the food on the wall. He went through the fence, down the stairs and leaned against the wall finishing his last quart of Old Milwaukee. The night was dark and still. A long freight train rattled northward. Signals blazed a deep red color. Insects whined in the darkness.

The black dog appeared suddenly at the wall. He sniffed at the meat then, quickly vacuumed the food into his mouth. He retreated a few feet, sat and began licking his flank.

"You need a name, old man," Waller said softly. "How about 'Spot?'"

The black dog looked at Waller and panted.

Waller could not guess how old the dog was. He appeared to be full grown. He wore no collar. His hair was short and coarse. Spot never barked.

The ritual began that spring. Waller would arrive home with food. Spot would eat and then lie down along the fence. The next morning, Waller would feed him whatever was left over from the previous night. Spot would look at him, pant and then wander off doing whatever he did during the day.

Waller couldn't remember how long he had known Spot. He guessed about seven years, but it could have been longer. Once, when he was very drunk, he told Spot. Spot sat and panted.

"Spot knows," laughed Waller, flinging a cigarette butt into the darkness. He drained the bottle of beer. "Spot knows."

One chilly day in the fall of an unknown year, Waller noticed that Spot did not seem to hear him anymore. His eyes were cloudy and he had trouble walking along the rocky ballast of the trackside.

"Getting old, Spot," he said as the dog wobbled down the tracks.

Several days later, Spot could not get up after he ate. Waller petted the black coat and talked to the dog most of the morning. He located a butcher shop during his wanderings and bought a nice T-bone steak. When he returned at night, Spot was still in the same place. He perked up at the scent of the raw meat and eagerly tore into the steak. But then he sank down into a pile of darkness.

The next day was misty and gray. A brisk north wind promised an ugly day. Waller put on his parka and rolled up his sleeping bag. He put on his pack and climbed up the steps. He gazed at the edge of the wall where Spot slept. He walked over and petted the old dog.

"I am going take care of you, old guy."

Spot opened one cloudy, black eye and yawned. Waller ate breakfast at the diner, then walked to the bus station and got a cab.

"Where to, Mac?" the burly Negro driver asked.

"I need to take my dog to a vet," replied Waller.

The man looked baffled. Waller tossed thirty dollars on the front seat. "I'll tell you where to go."

The man shrugged, pocketed the bills without hitting his meter and rolled off down the street. "Another nutcase," he thought to himself.

Waller directed him to the dead end street and told him to wait. "I'll be right back!" he shouted as he jumped from the cab and clambered up the embankment.

Waller returned moments later carrying Spot. The cabbie got out and helped him lay the dog across the rear seat. "Wassa matter wit him?"

"Just old and sick, I think. Know of a vet around here?"

"Yeah," the driver turned and headed south, went under the Interstate and into an area of small businesses. He pulled up in front of a white building on a corner.

Waller gently scooped Spot out of the seat and the driver closed the door. "Sorry about yo dog, guy," he drove off into the gray day.

The building looked freshly painted, the hedges trimmed and grass clipped. A sign in the entranceway read, "David Lipscomb, DVM."

Waller carried Spot through the door and entered a warm waiting room. The room smelled of animals, wax, dog food and antiseptic. A sturdy red-haired girl behind a counter asked how she could help.

"My dog is old and sick," replied Waller.

The woman looked at the tall, bearded man. His clothes were worn, but clean and pressed. He had a pack with a bedroll on his back. His eyes were a piercing blue color. The man looked intelligent, but slightly mad. He cradled a limp, black dog of unknown pedigree in his arms.

"What's your dog's name," she gently asked.

"Spot."

"Hi Spot." The woman smiled at Spot with a sad look on her face. Then she came out from behind the counter and led Waller to an examination room. "The doctor will be with you shortly," she softly shut the door. Waller carried Spot into the small room and gently set the dog on an aluminum table. He looked around at the gleaming instruments, a counter and a linoleum floor.

A door from the inside of the room opened and a solidly-built man in his early thirties wearing a white coat stepped in.

Waller noted expensive black shoes and creased gray slacks beneath the coat. The man had curly, dark hair and wore gold-framed glasses. He extended a large hand to Waller. "Doc Lipscomb. How old is this fellow?" He gently rubbed Spot's back.

"Dunno. I've had him about seven years or so. He seemed pretty old then."

The vet looked at Spot's paws, teeth and ears. He shined a light into his eyes, took his temperature and listened to his heart.

"I'd say that this old fellow is about sixteen. He seems to have had an interesting life."

"Spot's not doing too good, is he?" asked Waller.

"I think that it would be best to help him on his way, sir. He's winding down. He won't get any better. This is old for any dog of his size."

"I agree," said Waller.

The vet opened a drawer and removed a vial. He inserted a short needle into it and filled the syringe. He stuck the needle into one of Spot's forepaws. Spot closed his eyes and his head dropped to the table. The vet took his stethoscope and listened briefly to the dog's heart.

"That quick?" asked Waller.

"It doesn't take but a second, sir. Old Spot is OK now. You can leave now. I'll take care of Spot."

"But I owe."

"You owe me nothing," the vet said. "That was a good thing that you did for your dog." He wrapped the lifeless dog in his arms and went back into the center of building.

Waller walked outside into a cold rain. He walked quickly toward the library and read in the warm building. The rain stopped around two o'clock. He bought three quarts of beer and returned to his place. It was lonely without Spot.

He drank the beer, then unrolled his sleeping bag and soon fell into a drunken sleep.

It had been many years since Spot had died and Waller had not thought about him in a very long time. But in this warm, summer night, he had dreamed about Spot.

Spot was very young and fit. He was sleek and very black. Spot was running very quickly toward Waller. His tail was wagging and his tongue was hanging out. But it was as if the dog was on a treadmill. He ran and ran, but never reached Waller.

Waller woke with a start. The dream had been very vivid. He could not go back to sleep. He walked to the bus station in the early morning darkness and used the bathroom. His stomach hurt badly. Cramps caused him to double over in pain. He sat on the toilet. Gas and water exploded from his body. The odor was rank. He sat weak and shaking for a few moments. Finally, he found enough strength to rise and pull up his trousers.

He couldn't face trying to eat breakfast. He walked very slowly to his bench by the river. He sat as the bright sun rose and the summer day began to get hotter. He let the healing sum burn into his midsection.

He thought of the dream. He thought of other dreams. One had been about his dead father. In another one, his dead grandfather was walking on the campus of Milam. His grandfather had probably never heard of Milam College.

The common thread was that they were all dead. Waller wondered if this was an ominous sign of some kind.

He thought of Dee Jayson long ago in that sweet spring in Mississippi. They had had long discussions on the topic of dreams. He could not remember any of the conclusions reached.

Many years ago, on a day when he had been quite drunk, he had a fantasy about Dee and Lynn meeting. He knew that both women would go far in their fields. They were intelligent, shrewd and ambitious.

The academic world was one of conclaves, conferences, seminars, conventions and meetings. He envisioned a scenario where they would be at the same event. They would be drawn to each other, handsome, rising stars. They would meet over coffee, lunch or a drink. Milam College would come up in the conversation.

"Milam!" Dee would exclaim. "Did you ever know a Professor Waller?"

Lynn would study the dark beauty and smile to herself, "That bastard!"

The conversation took various twists and turns in Waller's imagination. The chance of them meeting was slight, he knew. And indeed, if it ever happened, he would never know. But it was a good way to while away an afternoon.

So now, many years later, he thought again of the fragrant, lovely girl of the Mississippi nights. And he thought of the meaning of dreams.

Having eaten nothing all day, Waller bought two quarts of beer and returned to his bench. It was over one hundred degrees now. "Beer cures whatever ails a man," he laughed out loud.

It would sooth his aching stomach. It did for a while. He smoked as he walked back to his place in the darkness of the July night.

### Chapter Twenty-Six

### Go Tell It on the Mountain

Spot loomed again in his mind. "Gotta tell someone. Gotta before I die!" he muttered. Suddenly, he began an endless hacking cough. He could not stop or catch a breath.

Finally he was able to gasp some clean air. He slipped down to the cellar floor and grabbed his knees. "Gotta tell someone," he kept mumbling.

The night was humid and very still. Insects sang ugly songs, and music from a faraway nightclub drifted through the hot air.

"Tomorrow," he said as he dropped off into a black sleep.

The next day blazed into being. No breeze stirred the dry leaves on the stunted trees beyond the fence. Waller felt very weak. He shrugged out of the bag and rolled it up tight and neat as he had done for countless years. He tied it to his pack and felt a blaze of pain in his midsection.

He knew that he could not make it to the bus station, so he painfully climbed the steps and walked to the side of the building. He dropped his trousers. A flood of evil smelling black liquid spewed onto the rocks and dirt. A red pain knifed through his stomach.

He pressed both of his fists into his aching stomach and closed his eyes tightly. After the pain eased, he made his way slowly to the diner and ate very carefully. The food stayed down. He left the diner and walked to the library. He got the Dallas Morning News and tore out the section that listed phone numbers of the various departments He went to a pay phone and dialed.

"Dallas Morning News," a woman's voice came over the line.

"Fern Miles, please."

"One moment, please."

The phone rang several times and then clicked over to voice mail.

"Goddamn!" muttered Waller. He hated the modern world.

"This is Fern Miles. I'm not able to take your call. Please leave your name, number and a brief message. I'll call you back as soon as possible." The phone made a beeping sound.

"Fern, my name is Mr. X. I have the biggest story that you will ever write. You can't reach me. Be at your phone at eleven-thirty and I will call you back." Waller replaced the receiver and went to get the Wall Street Journal.

At precisely eleven-thirty, he dialed the number again. This time the voice of a young woman came over the line.

"Fern Miles."

"Yes, Miss Miles. This is Mr. X. I left a message earlier."

"What do you have to tell me?" the woman asked.

"I can't tell you over the phone. But it's big. Really big. I need to meet with you. Do you know a little place called the 'Junkyard?' It's two blocks from your building. Been there forever."

"I've seen it," the woman said.

"Be there at four-thirty tomorrow and you'll have your story." Waller directed.

"How will I know you?"

"I'll find you," Waller hung up the phone and went outside into the blazing sunshine.

Fern left her desk and went to the office of her editor. Bulky Mel Cogswell was leaning on his desk reading. Fern tapped on the glass and entered the office.

Mel looked up. "What's up, Miles?"

"Guy that sounds like a kook called. He says that he has the story of the century."

Cogswell sighed and lifted his phone. He called Jack Neville at the city desk.

"Need to intrude on your turf. My star reporter has been invited to learn a big secret."

"Send her over permanent and she can do that night and day," Neville replied.

"Fat chance!" Mel snorted. "She's making my little section look so good that the big dogs are taking notice."

"Yeah. No problem. Let her run with it. Hey, going to Louie's tonight?"

"Does a hobby horse have a wooden dick? I'll be there as soon as I clear up some crap here."

"Buy me a cold one," Jack hung up.

"Go for it, sugar," Mel said to Fern as he returned to his reading.

Fern was twenty-eight, single and pretty. She had earned her Master degree in Journalism from Northwestern. She had interned on the Tribune and gotten her first job with the Louisville Courier Journal doing obits and fluff pieces. She had spent two years at The Daily Oklahoman before coming to Dallas.

Fern was an intelligent woman and a good reporter. She lived frugally and spent most of her time at the paper. She eventually wanted to get married and have a family, but set an arbitrary age of thirty-two to see how far she could go in her profession.

She was a small woman with glossy dark hair that fell to her shoulders. She had dazzling blue eyes and gleaming white teeth. She jogged and worked out in a gym, so her petite figure was toned and firm. She dressed well and enjoyed a good time. Her wit and laughter made her area of the paper a fun place to work.

She had been assigned to the business section. Some of her stories made it to page one of the front section. Business was booming in the city. Mergers, foreign trade, NAFTA, corporate relocations, record earnings and minority ownership were commonplace. There was always something to write about. Fern was busy as hell and loved every minute.

She had heard from recruiters in New York and the West Coast. She was mulling over her next move. The phone call had been an unwelcome intrusion in her work. She had several stories going at once and needed to do some interviews. "What could that odd-sounding man have that was so earth-shattering?" She sighed and went back to her keyboard.

The following day, she returned to her office from a defense contractor's plant. After grabbing a sandwich, she began piecing her story together. She kept glancing at her watch. Finally, she stuffed her tape recorder and note pad into her large purse and went downstairs. She walked out of the air conditioning and into the blast furnace of the Texas heat.

Fern was wearing a white skirt, sandals and a blue sleeveless blouse. The hot wind whipped the dark mane of hair. Passing men gawked at the small woman as she walked the two blocks to the lounge called the "Junkyard."

It was a blue-collar joint. Pressmen and deliverymen of the paper had been going there for decades. At four o'clock in the afternoon it was mostly empty. Two men in postal uniforms were playing pool. Three men who appeared to be construction workers sat at table. A fat red-haired woman sat on a stool at the bar softly crying as she sucked on a cigarette,

Fern walked to the far back wall and sat in booth facing the door. She looked at her watch. It was four o'clock.

A tired looking woman came and took her order for a Diet Coke. Fern spread her papers and began editing her story about the new fighter plane contract that the contractor was bidding on. If the company won the bid, thousands of new jobs would be created in the area. Fern checked her figures and cost projections. She edited some comments from the company president and a top Air Force official. She looked at her watch. It was four-thirty.

Fern leaned back in the booth and watched the door. No one entered. One of the construction workers put money in the juke box and played some country tunes. He glanced at Fern and went back to his table. He said something to the other men who turned to look at her and they began talking.

The waitress brought Fern another Diet Coke as the clock edge toward five. Several men came into the bar, but they were in pairs or trios. They ordered pitchers of beer and began games of shuffleboard and pool. An ambulance sped past the bar with its siren wailing.

The door opened and a short man wearing a straw hat came in and walked to the bar.

"What's going on down there?" asked the barmaid as she set a bottle of Lone Star in front of him.

"They stopped down under the tracks. Some bum probably got rolled or something. Hey, you seen Fluffy lately. I got a deal for him."

"He was in the other day."

At five-thirty, Fern gathered up her papers, left some money on the table and walked out of the bar. It was extremely hot now. She walked back to the News building and decided to work until seven. She thought that a pizza would be good for dinner, but Dallas didn't have any places that could make a decent one. She missed the great pizza in Chicago.

The older reporters at the paper told her that once Dallas had had a great place for pizza. The place was called, "Marcello's." But the owner had died and the restaurant had gone out of business.

"Sure!" she joked with the men. "Good pizza in Dallas."

"It's true, Fern'" they would say. "But you weren't even born then."

### Chapter Twenty-Seven

### Omega

After Waller left the library, he kept repeating, "Tomorrow, tomorrow. I know. Everyone will know soon."

He felt well enough to drink now. He bought three quarts at the little store. He made his way toward the river "I know," he mumbled loudly.

Two women from a convention, wearing badges and obviously lost, wandered close to Waller. He stared at them with wild blue eyes, "I know!" he shouted.

The women quickly crossed the street to get away from the wild-looking man.

"Spot knew and Spot's dead!" he yelled after them as they hurried deeper into the armpit of the city.

It was very hot as he shuffled toward his bench. Suddenly, a knife of pain drove through him from his front to his back then, it was gone. He felt weak and knelt on the grass for a moment. He felt better and continued walking. He lit a cigarette.

The smoke that he inhaled felt as if it were stripping away layers of his lungs. His hands shook violently. He flipped the cigarette away into some bushes.

"Goddamn it," he mumbled and sucked the cold liquid from the bottle that he had just opened. He tried to remember how old he was, but couldn't.

"Not gonna beat old granddad," he grimaced. The crazy dreams, the intense pain. He was fading fast.

"But, they will know," he thought over and over.

It remained light very late that July night. By the time Waller staggered home, he had consumed five quarts of beer and eaten nothing since breakfast. He was quite drunk and repeated his litany as he stumbled along.

"Marcello knew and Marcello is dead. Ross knew and Ross is dead. Fanning knew and Fanning is dead. Del Mato knew and Del Mato is dead. Spot knew and Spot is dead. I know, I know."

He fell forward onto the rock ballast and threw up over and over until nothing was left in his stomach. He rolled over and tried to get up. It took all of his strength to regain his feet and slide down the steps into the cellar.

That night, the vision of the silk necktie wedged into his mind and he tore at his head to dislodge it. But the image grew larger. He screamed out in the blackness, but no one heard his mad raging.

The July sun slammed against his face. Waller knew that it was getting late in the morning. He rolled over and began a fit of coughing until he felt like he would never breathe again. Finally, he gasped enough air into his ragged lungs to sit up.

"Gonna tell today," he thought over and over. His head felt like it had been ripped open. A pounding pain pushed against his eyes.

He slid into the corner and sat propped up for a long time. Finally, he was able to stand and dress. He gathered up his pack and slowly climbed the steps. He parted the fence and stepped to the rocky ground. He tied the fence back into place and began to walk.

Pain grasped Waller's body like a vise twisting his midsection. He staggered to the base of a tree and dropped his pants. Foul brown water burst from his body. At last he felt empty. He took clean socks from his pack and wiped himself. He flung the socks into the bushes. He hugged the tree trunk tightly and stood in the hot sun for a long time.

He didn't think that he could eat anything. He had no desire to smoke. He was not sweating in the heat of the morning. The sleeves of his blue shirt were rolled up and the sun was burning his forearms, face and scalp. Finally, he pushed away from the tree. He shouldered his pack and headed toward downtown. He found that if he walked slowly, the pain would not knife into his midsection.

He decided to try a cigarette and it caused a spasm of coughing. He tossed the pack of cigarettes and his lighter into the street. Gasping for air, he walked to the bus station and sat on a bench for an hour. He thought that he should try to eat something, so he walked slowly to the diner.

He slowly bit into a piece of egg and it stayed down. He was able to eat a little more, then he seemed to be very full. He paid his bill and turned to leave. Suddenly he stopped and pulled a wad of bills from his pocket and handed them to the old cook. Without a word, he turned and left.

He headed for the small store. It was one-thirty. He had about two hours to kill before he caught the train to Dallas. He bought two quarts of Old Milwaukee and slowly walked along the blazing pavement.

"I know," he yelled at a passing car.

"You will know tomorrow!" he told a group of nuns who gathered their skirts and hurried past.

He sat in the sun and killed the first quart. He walked to the bushes and pissed. Then he sat back on his bench and opened the other beer. Soon it was time to head to the station. He dropped the empty bottle into the trash barrel and began trudging along the hot sidewalk.

He went into the run-down old station and bought a ticket to Dallas. He walked to the platform and waited in the shade. He had departed from this place over thirty years ago on his way to Europe.

Amtrak rolled in and people got off. Waller got on and sat in a coach seat. He would be in Dallas by four o'clock and meet the young reporter. By tomorrow, the world would know.

"I know," grinned Waller.

Shortly after the train pulled out of Ft. Worth, Waller felt a burning pain deep in his stomach. He staggered to a bathroom and crashed down on the toilet.

Raging knives of pain sliced into him as he voided an endless stream of black liquid. He felt very weak and nauseous. Gas rumbled from his stomach into the steel commode and an ugly odor filled the small compartment. The train rumbled across the flat mid-city area. Waller grimaced in pain and drove both fists into his midsection.

Someone pounded on the locked door then, finally went away. Waller's mind wandered. His vision became blurry. Mixed images swirled in his brain. A huge silk necktie. Spot. Ross grinning at him. A large, white golf ball speeding toward him. He screamed as the engineer sounded the air horn for a crossing.

Finally, he was able to wipe himself and pull his pants back up. He flushed the chemical toilet and stumbled back to his seat.

"I know," he mumbled, and a frightened woman carrying a baby recoiled from his area.

The train slid into Dallas. Waller was the last one to get off. Families and friends were laughing and shouting around him as he inched along the platform heading to the street.

It was two blocks to the bar where he would meet the girl. He noticed that a thermometer on the concourse wall read one hundred-three degrees. Waller welcomed the oppressive heat. It warmed his body. He felt his forehead and it was dry. He wondered why he wasn't sweating.

The right side of his chest felt like it was on fire. Just above his navel was a sharp ache that twisted and jerked downward. He pressed both hands into his stomach to ease the pain. He walked very slowly to a series of stairs that would take him down to street level. He could then cross the street and walk to the bar.

The sky was a deep blue and it was very still. The train sounded its air horn twice startling him. It began to roll slowly past and Waller grasped the handrail and inched down the steps one at a time resting frequently. At the bottom of the stairs, Waller had to sit down. He leaned against the concrete wall and sat on some dry, yellow grass. He drew his knees tight against his midsection and moaned loudly. The train's air horn wailed in response as it slowly wound out of the station. A ragged, blazing fire tore through Waller's body.

Waller screamed in pain. A tongue of flame seemed to reach back and grasp his spine and bend it into the fire.

A large red cloud pressed against Waller's face, blotting out the sky. The cloud turned black and moist. In the far distance, growing slowly larger was the silk necktie. Waller could make out every fiber of the silk, the minute design and the carefully tied knot.

"Ross knew and Ross is dead. Fanning knew and Fanning is dead. Marcello knew and Marcello is dead. Del Mato knew and Del Mato is dead. Spot knew and Spot is dead."

The fire burned and consumed. "I knew," said Waller.
