“I remember Leopard!” Dylan said. “Raggedy little stuffy that you dragged around by the tail. I wonder whatever happened to that thing?”
“I threw it away after Brenda. Asher found it and kept it. He gave it back to me the year he graduated high school. Told me it was bad luck to give away a gift.” Then he glanced up at Asher. “Big brother always could talk me into believing just about anything.”
“I was ready to take on the world, but I hated leaving you two behind, and saying goodbye to Nora. The little critter was yours to keep,” Ash said.
“Where is it now?” Dylan asked.
“In a shoebox in my closet. Just in case I get tired of sleeping with the Glock.”
They laughed, and the moment passed. “Go on, both of you,” Ash said. “Get some sleep. I’ll wake Dylan when it’s time.” Then he began cleaning the kitchen, loading cups and flatware in the dishwasher before starting it up.
He made a fresh pot of coffee, got his handgun out of the bag in his room, popped in a clip, and took it with him to the living room, turning out lights as he went. He muted the TV, then used the light from the screen as a beacon when he made his first sweep through the bar, then back into the house, locking the door between. Last checkpoint was the back door and the basement door to reassure himself everything was secure.
It was going to be a long-ass night.
* * *
The Kingstons weren’t the only ones battling their demons. Everett was still sick. Freddie’s Aya crash was as miserable as the high had been crazy. He had the worst drug hangover he’d ever experienced, and was still sick with the flu. Amarillo at night was lit up like a Christmas tree. Lots of stuff going on, and they weren’t a part of it.
Freddie was stark naked under his covers, listening to the hum of the clothes dryer, and waiting for his pajamas to dry, wishing they’d never gone to the prison to visit their dad, wishing he’d never told them about that damn money. Wishing Everett hadn’t shot that man. Wishing he was still in jail with three squares a day and sleeping in a bed he didn’t have to pay for.
When he heard Everett get up and then later, heard the toilet flush, he called out.
“Hey, Everett?”
He heard Everett stop out in the hall, then walk to the doorway of his room. “What?”
“Are we still going to try getting into the Tumbleweed again?”
“Hell yes, we’re going back, just as soon as we get over this crap. If we don’t do it before Kingston gets out of the hospital, then it will be too late.”
“How will we know if it’s safe?” Freddie asked.
“Shut up, Freddie. Just shut up and go to sleep. Safety is not part of our lifestyle.”
“Yeah, all right, Everett. I was just asking, but can I ask one more thing?”
Everett sighed. “What is it?”
“Do you reckon my pajamas might be dry? I can’t get warm.”
“Damn it, Freddie. You fried your brain, not your legs. Why don’t you get up and see if they’re dry on your own? I’m going back to bed. I’m still sick, too.”
Freddie was even more worried now as Everett walked away.
His brother wasn’t going to give up on the money.
They could get themselves killed.
He was going to have to abandon the warm spot in his bed in hopes his pajamas were dry.
That Dallas jail cell was looking better every minute.
* * *
Asher was kicked back on the sofa with his laptop. He’d been running online searches on both Everett and Freddie Brandt’s names, looking for any kind of rental records in Amarillo that would tell him where they were now, but found nothing, until he began searching city utility records for new accounts, and found a new account under the name Everett Brandt.
“Score,” he said, snapped a photo of the address on his laptop, and exited the search, then opened another window in Zillow and typed in the address. He got a photo of the renovated motel that had been turned into apartments, and a map of Amarillo, showing him where it was located.
