Leroy Watches Jr. & the Badass Bull (Bloodsong Series) (2 page)

Leroy’s shoulders dropped. He fiddled with his cereal bowl. “You know what weekend it is.”

“Yes, I do. It’s the first day of your grandpa’s Meeting. And it’s the last Meeting. He won’t be givin’ those retreats any more. But son, you could drive to the rodeo with me, go to my party, and then take a plane down to New Mexico …”

Leroy dropped his spoon, and then choked. He sputtered, finally hitting himself in the chest with his fist. “There’s nothin’ I’d rather not do than get on an airplane. I’d rather bungee-jump off the gorge with those crazy rich people.”

“Well, son. Doesn’t Grandfather talk about growing and doing new things?”

“No. He says that the Great One will bring the lessons we need to us. He didn’t say anything about going out and buying an airplane ticket.”

“Leroy, this sounds like one of those Great One things calling you.”

“Like hell, Dad. Besides, what would I buy the ticket with? Every penny we’ve got is tied up for the next fifty years.”

That sly grin that appeared on his father’s face now and again was there. “Well, son, I’m going to bullfight at a
rodeo
. I don’ know anyone as good a bulldogger as you. You’re a calf roper, too. The best. You rope and steer wrestle around the ranch when you need to, but son, you’re better than the best of them on the circuit.”

“I don’t want to bulldog or rope calves, either.”

“They said the purses for the championships at the Golden Olden Days Rodeo will be about $2,000 a class. Enter those two classes and win––and you
will
win––you’ll have $4,000, enough for a ticket and what you need to finish that cabin.”

Leroy sat up straight. A warm glow spread through him. But he slumped. “I’d like to finish the cabin with my winnings, but I don’t have a ropin’ horse or a bulldoggin’ horse. I couldn’t practice if I wanted to. There’s three feet of snow outside. An’ the horse trailer’s got a busted axle.”

“I can just see the fancy stove you could buy with that money. Kitchen sink, too. Maybe a dishwasher …”

“I can’t do it, pop. I don’t have a horse. You need a
horse
to rodeo.” That grin on his father’s face made him crazy. “And you can’t fight bulls. You’re fifty-eight years old an’ you got arthritis all over. You can’t run no more. You look like a wrinkled-up old man.”

The grin went away, replaced by a look of such yearning that Leroy melted. “Son, I’ve never won a trophy, I’ve never had anyone give a speech about me. I’ve never
given
one to say how much rodeo means to me. I want this so much. Won’t you help me?”

“How?”

“I want you to heal me. Just enough to get through the rodeo.” Longing, yearning. And the sadness that comes at the end of a life spent working and loving a ranch reached out and touched young Leroy. His father hadn’t allowed him to heal him since his mama died.

“OK. I’ll do it. But you know how my healing is these days.”

“Yeah. About as reliable as a one-footed hen. That’s why I want you to come along: for touch ups.”

“Shall we finish up what we were doin’?” Leroy Sr. said after breakfast. He already had been grinning, but the size of the grin he was wearing when he stood up might have torn the top of his head off.

Leroy Jr. moved toward the parlor and the Christmas tree with its chipped, thirty-year old ornaments and a couple of presents under it, but his father beckoned him to the porch. “See what I got for you back here. I think you’ll like it.”

His father opened the door to the screened room and pulled Leroy out. “What do you think of that?”

Leroy stalked toward the equipment, cautious, the way he’d approach a mountain lion. A big metal box with vents sat there. He didn’t know what it was. Then a water heater––he recognized that––a washer and dryer. Mounds of doorknobs. Sinks. A tub. And the cabinets for a whole kitchen and the bathrooms, too.

“How do you like what your pop got for you? They’re almost new. Those crazy rich people over the hill ‘r’ remodeling their whole house. Pretty much tearin’ it down and building it back three times the size. I asked ‘em if I could take the discards on account of you building your cabin. They said, ‘Sure,’ as you can see. That big box is a heat pump. You can have air conditionin’
and
heat. They even brought all of it over here. We may be able to get more stuff, too.”

Leroy was flabbergasted. “You finished the whole inside for me.”

“Well, yeah. I could see how hard you were working. You weren’t gonna get that thing done in a month of Christmases. Now it will just take you maybe a week’s worth.”

His father had never done anything so nice for him in his life.

“Dad, I’ll go to that rodeo with you and see that you get through it in one piece. That’s a promise.”

2

SPECIAL AGENT AUSTIN ZEMSKY

“Get that sumbitch! Take his head off!” FBI special agent Austin Zemsky sat in a banged up van parked in front of a ragged warehouse on a bleak street. The interior of the van was ringed with sound equipment and computer monitors, all but one of which were broadcasting views of a warehouse across the street.

The final screen showed a huge cowboy jumping off of a horse and twisting a steer’s neck, trying to wrestle it to the ground.

Three other men were in the van with Austin. All stared at him.

“Get him! Oh, shit! The bastard got away.” Zemsky punched the air the way people do when their favorite team loses big. “I can’t believe the steers he drew. He was supposed to be the champion again.” Shaking his head, Austin pushed a button, redirecting the computer’s camera back to the warehouse.

“What’s the matter with you? Haven’t you seen rodeo before?” the agent fired at his team members.

“Don’t worry about it, guys. Austin’s got a rodeo fetish. He does this every year. It’s the National Finals Rodeo, the Super Bowl for people who like to mangle animals. He’ll be normal in a little while, after the bucking bulls. If he’s ever normal.” That was Ed, his partner, grabbing a laugh at his expense. “I heard that Austin wanted to be a cowboy when he grew up, but his asthma got in the way.”

“Shut up, Ed. This is top-flight sports. I don’t know why it’s not as popular as football. Look at this,” he popped the button. The screen showed a massive bull with droopy ears, a dowager’s hump, and saggy neck slamming the young cowboy on his back against the arena wall. “Oh, my God, look at that! It’s going to kill him!”

The cowboy leapt off the bull, hitting the ground with his feet in high gear. The bull was after him before any of them could draw a breath.

“Now watch what happens,” Austin pointed at the screen, a smile lighting up his face. A tiny little man in an oversized, shocking pink dress appeared. He pulled the matching curly wig off of his head and ran after the bull. He began beating it on the butt with the wig. The thing whirled and went after him. The little man ran flat out, diving into a metal barrel turned on its side an instant before the bull began battering it with its sawed off horns.

“See. That’s a bullfighter. They used to call them bull clowns, but fighter fits better. Bulls are so big that men on horseback can’t chase them off. Those funny guys protect the cowboys. Bravest men I ever saw, except for us.” Austin smiled. “Rodeo is America’s sport.”

“He’s always like this,” Ed told the others. “Worse than a Redskins fan. His wife says he’s been this way as long as she’s known him. Asthma kept the world from having a great cowboy.”

The others chuckled. Austin punched the button again. The computer showed someone sneaking up the north alley. Austin barked into a mic, “We got him. He’ll be coming out on Richards. All teams––we’re on.”

“OK, guys. Let’s fight crime.”

And so they did. No one said a thing about his breach of almost every FBI regulation by tuning the monitor to the rodeo and watching it while on duty.

That was the good part of his life. They made a clean arrest and put another ring of bad guys where they deserved to be. After way too much legal process in Austin’s mind, but this is a civilized society. Having done his duty to his country, Austin entered the truly dangerous and uncharted wilderness: home.

The cab dropped him off. Austin looked up at his two story colonial house, similar to every other edifice in Washington DC. He took a step toward the front door––his foot slid. “Oh, shit!” He barely kept himself from falling on the icy driveway. No one had shoveled that slab of asphalt all winter.

December was always lousy in Washington. The rest of the year was, too. Freeze your ass off in snow and slush during the winter; fight tropical bugs and swampy heat in the summer. He hated DC.

The big bag of Christmas presents he’d picked up at the airport didn’t help his balance. Coming home two days before Christmas was cutting it tight, but he’d made it. No one could sulk about his lack of commitment to his family.

“Hey, guys! I’m here.” He unlocked the front door. It swung open and he entered the silent foyer. “Sylvia? Jimmy? Hannah? It’s dad. I’m home. Today is the day I come home, remember?”

The place was empty. Austin put the presents under the tree, noting that his wife had done a good job of getting gifts for everyone in the family, except him. A couple of boxes that might have held socks had his name on them. He felt his spirits drop.

He followed his nose into the kitchen, finding a note from his wife on the table:

Austin,

It’s Jimmy’s solo performance at the talent round up. The winner gets an automatic shot at American Prodigy. He’s worked so hard with his guitar; I just had to root for him. I know you’ll understand.

I left a casserole in the oven, tuna-noodle, your favorite. We’ll be back as soon as we can. Hannah’s on an overnight at Carrie’s.

Sylvia

He’d hated tuna-noodle casserole since she fed it to him eight nights in a row. She was recovering from pneumonia; it’s true. But there was a time when
nothing
could have kept her from greeting him. In a see-through peignoir, too. She’d look at him in that cute, funny way, and they’d
run
to their bedroom.

He’d been in the field for six months. Didn’t she want to see him? He sure wanted to see her. He couldn’t stand it much longer.

You didn’t have to be a genius to know they were in trouble. Socks for Christmas? Sylvia’s note didn’t say “Dear Austin” or “Love” or even XOXO. Who was Carrie? He didn’t know any Carrie. And he didn’t know that Jimmy played guitar. Yeah, they were in bad shape.

He would figure out a way to fix their family. He fixed everything else; he could fix this.

Austin went to his study and sat behind his desk. He would make things so tight that nothing could break them apart. And then he’d tell Sylvia that he was going out in the field again soon, another classified job. He knew its duration this time: nine months.

What could he do that would bind them into an indivisible unit? The image of that clown diving into the barrel came to him. That’s what he needed: a last minute save that could cement their crumbling universe.

“He didn’t win, but he sure did do a good job,” Sylvia stood next to Jimmy, as the kid shoveled tuna-noodle casserole into his mouth. She glowed with pride for their offspring, patting his back and kissing the top of his head. Austin winced. How could she kiss that mass of greasy hair? He looked like Elvis. What kid wanted that in 1996?

“Maybe you’d like to play for me some time, Jimmy?” he asked pleasantly.

Jimmy sniffed and threw his head back as though he’d suggested water-skiing in the alligator infested Everglades.

“I’d like to hear you play.”

“Yeah, well …” His son got up, put his plate in the sink, and left the room.

“He’s shy about playing, Austin.” Sylvia watched her son retreat, beaming.

“Why do his pants hang down?” The kid’s jeans barely covered his ass. His boxer shorts showed. A looped steel chain was tucked into his pocket. “He wasn’t like that when I left.”

“It’s the latest thing, Austin. All the hip-hop musicians dress like that. Jimmy plays hip-hop.”

“You mean what those ghetto kids play on the street? All ‘mother fucker’ and words like that, disrespecting our society?”

“Jimmy’s not like that, Austin. He talks about social issues and bangs a rhythm on his guitar. Plus he
plays
the guitar. Those street kids don’t. The clothes are just to fit in.”

This happened in the six months he’d been gone? Sylvia had allowed this degeneration. How much farther would their household drop while he was on his next mission?

“Jimmy’s fourteen?”

“No, he’s fifteen, Austin. His birthday was a month ago.” She had a mean look on her face. He had forgotten Jimmy’s birthday, but he didn’t mean to.

“He’s changed so much.”

“He’s becoming a man.” Sylvia smiled proudly.

Austin changed the subject, his eyes roaming over her lush form. “Hum. You look beautiful, Sylvia, as always.” Long brownish hair, gray eyes, chiseled nose. Great figure.

“I’ve been taking tai chi and Pilates almost every day. It shows, doesn’t it?”