Chapter 1--BONE DRY

On the morning of Saturday, November 5—opening day of deer season—a
statuesque blonde beauty strolled out of the trees, pulled down her
khaki shorts, and peed beneath Cecil Pritchard's deer feeder.

"Well, suck a nut," Cecil said to himself, sitting in his deer blind a
hundred yards away. He looked down at his coffee mug, blinking dumbly.
Maybe he'd added a little too much Wild Turkey. And this was his
fourth cup. But when he looked up again, the Nordic goddess was still
there, hiking up her shorts. His brother-in-law would never believe
it.

The day had started normally enough. Cecil climbed out of bed at four
A.M. sharp, pulled on his camo coveralls, and brewed a pot of Folgers.
Nothing gets you going like the smell of fresh coffee, Cecil thought,
whistling happily. He would have loved a big plate of scrambled eggs,
bacon on the side, and a basketful of biscuits, but Cecil wasn't much
of a cook, and his wife, Beth, was still drowsing in bed. Goddamn
woman was as useless as a negligee on a nun. On weekdays, when he'd
come home from the machine shop at lunchtime, he'd usually find Beth
staring at the soap operas or Jerry Springer on TV, and Cecil would be
left to make his own lunch. The way Cecil saw it, that was a serious
infraction of the marriage vows. So, as he had prepared for the
morning hunt, Cecil made sure to stomp around the mobile home as
heavily as possible, kind of get the whole floor vibrating. It'd serve
her right if she couldn't get back to sleep after he left.

He met up with Beth's brother Howard at the ranch gate at five in the
A.M., just as planned—plenty of time to reach the blinds before first
light. Seeing as how they had a few minutes to spare, Cecil took the
opportunity to remind Howard what a lazy, good-for-nothing sister he
had. Howard heartily agreed while munching a breakfast taco his own
wife had prepared for him. Sorry I ain't got but one, Howard said
around a mouthful.

The men split up and Cecil proceeded to his elevated tower blind, a
beauty he had ordered from the Cabela's catalog last spring. Once
inside, Cecil readied himself for a long, relaxing morning hunt. He
loaded his Winchester .270, double-checked the safety and leaned the
rifle in the corner. He pulled out his binoculars and gave the lenses
a good cleaning. Then he poured a hot mug of java, added a generous
dose of bourbon, and waited for sunrise.

The black night slowly gave way to gray, and then the rolling hills of
central Texas started to take shape. The birds began chirping
tentatively and then went into full chorus. Cecil leaned back and
soaked it all in. He was sitting twelve feet up with a view that God
himself would appreciate. Man, this was living. Cecil waited all year
for this morning, and he just knew there was a big buck somewhere in
the woods with his name all over it.

That's when Cecil heard a car rambling along the gravel county road
that paralleled the ranch's eastern fence line. Weeks ago, Cecil had
considered relocating his blind, but the road saw such little traffic,
he had decided to leave everything as is.

Looking through his binoculars, Cecil saw a rusty mustard-yellow Volvo
easing down the road. It disappeared behind some trees and then the
motor faded away. Cecil had thought the occupants were gone for good.
But apparently, he was wrong.

Now, Cecil was staring slack-jawed at the blonde trespasser, knowing
that all his pre-season plans and preparations were wasted. He was
furious. The woman might as well have erected a flashing neon warning
sign—DEER BEWARE!—because no self-respecting buck would come within a
thousand yards of so much human scent.

Finally, Cecil managed to get over his astonishment and do something.
He stuck his head out the small window of the deer blind and yelled,
"Hey, lady! What the hell are you doing? Get your ass away from
there!"

The tall blonde casually buttoned her shorts, smiled, and flipped
Cecil the bird.

Cecil decided enough was enough, and rose to go give the woman a
serious tongue lashing, maybe escort her back to her damn rattle-trap
of a car. But as he stood, he spilled his coffee, dropped his
binoculars to the floor, and—goddamn it all!—banged his riflescope
against the side of the blind. Cussing loudly now, Cecil opened the
blind door and began to climb down the ladder—only to hear a car door
closing and the Volvo gently puttering off into a fine Texas morning.



At nine A.M. on Saturday, November 5, a thick-chested man with crow's
feet, jowls, and graying hair was throwing a hump into his live-in
Guatemalan housekeeper—but his mind was elsewhere and his erection was
starting to droop. The distraction was laying right there on her
nightstand: the Travel section of the newspaper. He could see an ad
that said: Barbados, from $549! Call your travel agent today!

****, if it were only that easy. But Salvatore Mameli—formerly known
as Roberto "The Clipper" Ragusa—couldn't just pick up and go like
normal people. His life was way too ****ed up for that.

A few months back—maybe it was more like a year now— Sal had forced
himself to take stock, to figure out how he wanted to spend his golden
years. After all, he probably still had a couple of good decades left.
He was only fifty-seven—knock wood—way past the average age of most
men in his former line of work. So what is it, he had asked himself,
that I really want out of life? It boiled down to this: He wanted to
live his life in peace, away from the Feds, in some distant country
where he wouldn't have to worry who was waiting around the next
corner. He wasn't asking much, really, but it would require a lot of
dough.

The irritating thing was, Sal still had plenty of money from the old
days—a small fortune that the government couldn't seize because Sal
had actually earned those particular assets through legitimate
businesses. But those accounts were eyeballed like a stripper at a
bachelor party. If Sal tried to make a sizeable withdrawal—especially
in cash—red flags would go up and he'd be surrounded before he made it
to the airport.

No, what Sal needed was fresh money that could be easily concealed.
Lots of it. Then he could make his break.

He could picture the location in his mind: definitely someplace
tropical, like this Barbados place. Maybe a small island that had no
extradition treaty with the U.S. Better yet, no rednecks, pickup
trucks, or country music. He'd had his fill of that ****.

Sal had lived in Blanco County, Texas, for three years now, which was
about thirty-five months more than he could handle. And Johnson City,
the county seat? Forget about it. You couldn't find decent Italian
food anywhere. You had to own a satellite dish to catch most of the
Yankee games. And everyone was so damn friendly, it made his asshole
pucker.

For two and a half years, Sal had simply laid low, trying to figure
out his next move. Unfortunately, the U.S. Marshals Service always had
its eyes on him so closely he could barely take a crap without a
marshal there to offer him toilet paper. Just a few more trials, they
kept saying, and then you'll be free to do what you want. Leave the
country, we don't care. But for now, you owe us. With your life. And
Sal had to admit that was true. He knew he could be rotting in federal
prison right now—assuming some wiseguy didn't shank him in the ribs
out in the yard. All of Sal's pull from the old days wouldn't mean
****. Some greaseball would waste him without batting an eye. That's
the way it was nowadays, no respect for men like Sal anymore.

So three years ago, as much as he hated to do it, Sal had chosen the
only alternative. The problem was, the trials could take years to wind
their way through the judicial system. After all, the Feds were in no
hurry. They were going after some heavy hitters, so they wanted to dot
every i and cross every t. And, of course, there could be mistrials,
appeals, and all kinds of delaying tactics that could keep Sal Mameli
squarely under the U.S. District Attorney's thumb for years to come.
With each day that passed, Sal couldn't help worrying that his former
associates were closer to tracking him down.

And he knew the kind of justice they would exact if they found him.

After all, Sal used to be one of the guys in charge of dealing out
punishment. That's where he had gotten his nickname, the Clipper. He
had done some nasty things to some nasty men, left bodies in the kind
of condition that would make the most hardened medical examiner
shudder. Sal knew what the horrifying possibilities were, and that's
why he kept a loaded .38 in his nightstand and a sawed-off
twelve-gauge under the front seat of his Lincoln. Every noise in the
hallway at two A.M. could be a goon with a garrote, instead of his
son, Vinnie, making a trip to the john, or his wife, Angela, sitting
like a zombie in front of late-night TV, a bottle of vodka by her
side.

But then, just six months ago, things had begun to look brighter.
Opportunity had pounded firmly on Sal's door, as it had so many times
in the past. For some reason—a drought, a low aquifer, or who the hell
knows why—residents all over Blanco County had begun clearing their
lands of cedar trees and other brush. At first, Sal had barely glanced
at the newspaper articles addressing the situation. Then, on a drive
through the country with Angela, Sal noticed the tractor-like machines
that were used to clear brush. They seemed to be everywhere, rumbling
over ranchland like so many Sherman tanks. This, Sal thought, could be
exactly what I've been looking for. After doing a little research,
finding out precisely what this land clearing was all about, Sal
realized there was an enormous amount of money to be made in the
brush-removal business. Hell, he had run a successful concrete company
back in Jersey, and had even taken on several juicy projects here,
before the water issue brought new construction to a screeching halt.
And this brush-removal business, how hard could it be? The concrete
business required large machines, cedar clearing required large
machines. All you needed was some operating capital and some big, dumb
guys to run the equipment. Piece of cake.

So Sal had jumped right into the brush-removal business with only two
things in mind: Number one: Stashing away some serious cash. Number
two: Buying a one-way ticket to some off-the-map Caribbean island
where nobody asked questions, checked for proper papers, or cared who
the hell you were in a past life. Sal could almost smell the salty
breeze and the coconut oil. He could picture a tanned, nubile
body—definitely not his wife's—lounging in the chair next to him.

Sal had noticed something else in the last few months: The Feds seemed
to be loosening their grip a little. He no longer had a team of
deputies on his tail every time he left the house, no longer heard
strange clicks on the line during every phone call. There was still a
plain-vanilla sedan outside his home on occasion, government plates,
but the fat putz inside was easy to handle.

It made Sal laugh to think they actually trusted him.

On the other hand, he had been their star witness half a dozen times
already, and they seemed to think he was a man of his word, that he'd
stick around to the end. With more freedom than he had had in three
years, now was the time to make a break for it. Or at least get the
plan in the works.

With his new business in full swing, the money starting to pour in,
Sal was consumed around the clock by thoughts of flight. That's why,
on this particular morning, as Sal was getting a piece of tail, his
heart really wasn't in it. He had too much to think about, including
tomorrow's meeting. Sal was getting together with a rich old *******
named Emmett Slaton, Sal's largest brush-removal competitor. Sal was
going to offer Slaton twice what his business was worth. Hell of a
deal, most people would say. Of course, the "deal" consisted of a
reasonable down payment now and a balloon payment next year that, in
reality, poor old Emmett would never see. It was the same arrangement
Sal had with several other area business owners. Better yet, Sal had
secured the down payments via a small-business loan at a local bank,
another obligation he had no intention of fulfilling. The idea was to
have as much money as possible coming in, and as little as possible
going out. Then, when the time was right, he'd skip the country,
leaving his creditors holding the bag.

If he tried the same stunt back home, he'd wind up with his throat cut
and his body tossed in the Hudson River. But down here? ****, who was
gonna stop him?

===========

This was Chapter 1 of my book "Bone Dry," about a Texas game warden.
Thought some of you outdoors types might like it. The book is
available at Barnes & Noble, Borders, Amazon, etc. Take the easy
way--just tell your wife you want it for Christmas.

Thanks!
Ben Rehder