Tuskers. Chapter 7

Rough first draft (be kind.)

Chapter 7

Hooking up the trailer with the motocross bike to his SUV just reminded Peter Gandry how much financial trouble he was in.  He owed money on the car, the bike, hell, even the trailer.

But the bike was the only thing that kept his fourteen year old son interested in hanging out with him, so he would do just about anything to keep it from being repossessed.  That would be too humiliating, and the last straw with Josiah, who already blamed him for the divorce.

He had two more meetings today, and then he could head for Phoenix to spend a few days with his son.  Besides, hauling the motorcycle around would look wholesome to the clients, like he was an outdoorsy kind of guy, and a good father.

Morales was waiting for him in Lucille’s Diner, at the back table, already eating his breakfast.  Peter decided to overlook the insult since he couldn’t afford breakfast anyway.   He was getting that desperate.  The last sale he’d made had been to the dyke sheriff from Oregon.  He was just thankful he hadn’t had to fuck her.

“Just coffee,” he said to Mary, the waitress.  He gave the cute girl his best smile.

He knew his most valuable sales attribute was his full head of black hair, his dark brown eyes and long eyelashes, his long lanky, cowboy body.  He covered his one weakness, a slightly receding chin, with a dark beard, cut long in the all the right places.

None of his charm worked on Morales, who was a hard case.  The Mex (he used to think Spic, but it had got him in big trouble with his Chamber of Commerce buddies when he’d let it slip into a joke once) drove a beat up old pickup and lived in a beat up old house, so Peter figured he needed the money.  But despite owning acres of prime land, he wouldn’t sell a single acre, no matter how much Peter offered.

He had a Hail Mary, last ditch plan.  He’d noticed how Morales eyes strayed and followed the shapely bodies of tall blondes.  In fact, he’d seen the Mex nearly drool at the sight of Jenny Hunter, one of the newcomers to town.  It so happened that the woman had inquired about a position in the Gandry Real Estate Company, and he nearly had her aboard.  (Now he wouldn’t mind fucking Jenny, even if she was twenty years older than him).

Her first job would be to work on Morales.

The money he was offering wasn’t his, sadly.  Bart Hoskins, the banker, had extended him credit for this one project only, and was keeping an eye on him so that he couldn’t divert it or siphon it off for his bills.

“I have thought of your offer,” Morales said, with a thick accent.  “I will sell you one acre of land.  One acre, to see what you do.”

The Mex shoved the map with the plots marked on it, and pointed to a piece of land very close to the river.  Peter started getting excited.  He figured it was probably a piece of shit property, but it was the first time Morales had made the slightest concession.

If he couldn’t swing Morales into selling a few dozen acres in the next several months, Peter was sunk.  Morales was one of two original landowners in the valley who still had big enough chunks of desirable land to create a subdivision.

Peter pulled out his checkbook with a flourish and wrote out the check right then and there.  Get Morales spending a little money, give him a taste of the good life, and all things were possible.

He stood up.  “You won’t regret it, Flaco,” he said.  “Can we meet again in a week?”

Morales nodded his head, “Sure, sure.”

“Good!  I’ll see you same time, same channel!”  He turned and walked out of the diner, conveniently forgetting to pay for his coffee.

***

Flaco finished his meal, feeling a little badly for the real estate agent.  He had no intention of selling the man any of his useful land.  The plot he’d just sold was one of those awkward pieces of land that was so angled and bordered by roads and natural features that it wasn’t really useful for anything.

He pocketed the check and waved at Mary. His credit was good all over town.  He may not look like he had much money, but he always paid his bills.

He also felt a little chagrined at his phony accent.  When he’d first met Peter Gandry, he’d used the accent as a joke, (his daughter thought it was hilarious), and then when the real estate agent had bought into it, he’d felt as though he needed to keep it up.

Truth was, he probably spoke better English than Gandry.  It killed Flaco that the people of this valley treated him like an immigrant when his family had lived here long before any of the Northerners had showed up.

He walked out to the car and saw a javelina under the shade of the tree.  When he was growing up, he rarely saw the skunk pigs.  When he did see one, they were usually running away.  This one was particularly big and bold.  Flaco was whistling as he unlocked his pickup, but when he looked into the eyes of the creature, he stopped mid-tune.

The yellow eyes seemed to be measuring him, as if wondering if he could take him down. 

Flaco crossed himself and got in the car quickly.  He was pulling out of the parking lot, when a pack of the javelinas blocked his way.  He honked, but they didn’t move.  He was ready to get out of the care and shoo them away.  Then one of them turned and looked at him.  Again, it was a shock.  Intelligence and malevolence radiated out of those eyes.  Was it the same pig?

He looked in the rear view mirror, and realized that the first pig was now just a couple yards behind the car.  If he had gotten out of the car, he could have been blind sighted.

He honked again, and then edge forward until the javelinas slowly, contemptuously, moved out the way.

  He drove home, deep in thought.  At the one stoplight in town, he pulled out the check.  It was free cash, and he wanted to do something frivolous with it.

He walked into his house, looking around first.  The pigs had scared him that much.

His daughter, Alicia, lived with him, along with his five your old grandson, Felix.  His son-in-law was in Afghanistan. 

“Pack your bags, daughter,” he said.  “I’m taking you to Hawaii.”

“What?” she laughed.  “It’s the middle of the school week.” 

Alicia taught third grade at the local school.

He waved her comment off as if it was no concern.  “You’ve just got the flu.  We’ll be back in a week.  Come on, you haven’t been on a vacation since Enrique left.  My treat.”

“You really mean it?  Felix too?”

“No, we’ll leave Felix here,” he said with a straight face.  “Of course I mean it!  We’re leaving first thing in the morning.”

He went to his office and closed the door.

He crossed himself again as he thought of the javelinas.  Those creatures hadn’t been normal.  They were possessed or something. 

Flaco thought something bad was about to happen to this town, and he wanted to be gone when it happened.  

Besides, he’d always wanted to try surfing.

***

Peter Gandry had one more meeting before picking up Jenny Hunter at 5:00.  As he drove down the street in front of Lucille’s Diner, he saw a group of javelinas crossing the road.

He speeded up and swerved, and caught one of them on the flank, sending it flying into the air.  He looked in the rearview mirror to see it land on its head, unmoving.  Then he took a survey of his surroundings to make sure no one saw what he did.

He hated the damn pigs.  They were going to be the death of the community someday, if word got out to the snowbirds about how destructive they were. 

Bart Hoskins was waiting for him at Earps, the more upscale restaurant at the base of the refurbished hotel in town.  The hotel was in trouble, he knew, but he’d been forced out of that deal early, which had turned out to be a lucky thing for him.  Fuck them.

Bart had also already ordered, and Peter felt the same weird mix of resentment and relief.

“How’s it going with Morales?” the banker said, without preamble.

“Great!  I bought an acre from him.”  He produced the check record and showed the banker the plot on the map.

“Useless,” Bart said, bluntly. “I know that plot.”

“Yeah, but the money softens up Morales for the next one.  Trust me, I know how it works.  I’ve got another plan in the works, too.”  He was thinking about the tall, sexy-for-all-her-age-blonde, Jenny Hunter. 

Bart just grunted.

“How’s it going with Pederson?” Peter asked, changing the subject.  Pederson was the other local landowner in the valley who had viable swathes of land.

“You can forget about that,” Bart said, waving his fork.  Dismissing it.

“Why?  The old guy must have huge property taxes, and he barely farms it.”

Bart put down his fork and knife and examined him.  “Well…I’m not supposed to say anything, and if you repeat this, I’ll deny it but…Lyle Pederson could buy and sell you and me twice over and not even blink.”

“Oh,” Peter said, deflated.  So it was down to the Mex, Flaco Morales, who showed no real enthusiasm of letting go of anything.

“Look, Peter.  I’ve been patient with your debts, because I know you’re trying hard.  But really, you’ve got to get Morales onboard in the next couple of weeks or I’m going to have to close you down.”

By habit, Peter almost wound up a spiel, and then he fell silent.  He was just too tired.  He wasn’t going to make it, he could see that now.  It was all going to shit. 

His five o’clock meeting with Jenny Hunter was his last chance.

He slipped out of the restaurant before the bill arrived.