Swan Peak by James Lee Burke Page B

the insult or the apology. When he finished his gingerbread, he wiped his hands with a piece of toilet paper and threw the paper into the commode. “Life’s a bitch, ain’t it?” he said.
     
    DURING THE NEXT two weeks, Jimmy Dale built a floor for Troyce Nix’s horse trailer, then a desk for his office and a gun cabinet for his house. Nix seemed to pay little attention to Jimmy Dale except to check occasionally on the progress of the work.
    Then one scorching afternoon, while Jimmy Dale was running an acetylene torch in the shop, Troyce dropped a fresh set of state blues on a bench and told him to take a shower in back and change clothes.
    “What’s going on, boss?” Jimmy Dale said.
    “I just got you bumped up to full trusty. I need you to go in town with me and load some spool wire,” Troyce Nix said.
    “Hidalgo going, too, boss?” Jimmy Dale said, half smiling.
    Troyce Nix did not acknowledge the question.
    Jimmy Dale lathered himself under the showerhead inside the tin stall in the back of the shop, staring through the window at the clouds of yellow dust blowing across the hardpan. A skinny Mexican kid pushing a broom glanced back over his shoulder, then looked at Jimmy Dale. His shirt was wadded up and hanging from his back pocket, his skin peppered with sweat and welding soot from the shop, his back tattooed with an enormous picture of the Virgin Mary. “Watch your ass today,” he said.
    “We’re going to town for wire. It ain’t a big deal, Hidalgo,” Jimmy Dale said.
    “Make him use grease. I heard a guy say it was like a freight train.”
    “You close your mouth,” Jimmy Dale said.
    Hidalgo paused in his sweeping, his expression reflective, his eyes downcast. “I thought you was stand-up, Jimmy Dale. You can’t go out max time, man?”
    The trip to town was uneventful. Jimmy Dale loaded a dozen wire spools in the bed of the stake truck, chained up the tailgate, and got back in the cab with Troyce Nix. The only thing that bothered him was that the employees at the hardware store could have loaded the spools and Nix actually had no need of him. On the way back to the prison, Nix took note of the time and yawned. “It’s been a hot one, ain’t it?” he said.
    “Yes sir, and to be followed by a warming spell, I expect,” Jimmy Dale said.
    But Nix was not interested in Jimmy Dale’s attempt at humor. He turned off the state road onto a dirt track that led across a long stretch of cinnamon-colored earth and mesquite trees and scrub oak. The dirt track wound into a bank of hills and a canyon where a paintless frame house with a gallery was tucked against a bluff, one side of it shaded by a hackberry tree.
    “That yonder is my camp, a place where I drink whiskey and shoot coyotes and cougars sometimes. That windmill puts out the sweetest, coldest water you ever drunk. Take that sack out from under your seat.”
    Jimmy Dale reached between his legs and felt the tip of a paper bag. When he pulled on it, the bottle inside clanked against the seat.
    “Crack it open and hand it to me,” Nix said.
    “Boss, I don’t want to get in no trouble,” Jimmy Dale said.
    “All of you are the same, ain’t you?”
    “Sir?”
    “Under it all, you’re three years old and fixing to shit your diapers.”
    Nix took the pint of vodka from Jimmy Dale and cracked off the cap. He drank from the neck like he was swallowing soda water, his throat working smoothly, his eyes fixed on the shadows spreading across the canyon floor. He braked the truck between the windmill and the frame house. A dust devil spun across the hardpan and broke apart against the gallery. “Get out,” he said.
    “Boss—”
    “That wire ain’t for the compound. It’s for a mustang lot I’m putting in before the federal auction. I been off the clock and on my own time since noon. There ain’t nothing wrong that’s going on here. Now, you move your ass, boy. You’re starting to piss me off.”
    “Where you want it, boss?”
    Nix