Greasing a campaign for future favors ...

When Jane Goolsby announced her intentions to run for mayor, Medina was one of the first contributors to her campaign, writing a check for $25,000. He had done business with First Cotton States Bank for many years, and had met Jane a long time ago and watched her career progress as she advanced all the way to the top. They frequently spoke whenever he was in the bank lobby, if only to exchange hellos, but theirs was only a business relationship.

A woman with her clout at the bank who also held power at city hall was Medina’s ideal kind of gal. He figured if he played his cards right, she might become his own personal twofer: She could give him the inside track on potentially lucrative business deals that had to clear city hall bureaucracy, and she could be the source of any special financing he might need to take advantage of such opportunities.

Plus she wasn’t at all hard to look at.

A Texas Ranger makes an impression ...

Ranger Harris stood off to himself and listened closely to the stories that were being told the detectives. His expression never changed despite what he heard. With that poker face, he would be a darn good card player.

Everything about the man matched my mental notion of a Texas Ranger. Tall, erect and angular, he had the commanding presence of one accustomed to being in charge. He concentrated on the person who was talking, and his intense dark eyes gave the impression he could tell when he heard a lie. There was no fooling this guy, or fooling with him. I bet he wouldn’t blink if he had to arrest his own momma.

The ivory-gripped Colt .45 in his holster added to the image of authority. Wearing boots and a Cowboy hat, the lawman looked seven feet tall.

An old brig rat talked of Chesty ...

One character at the Lejeune brig, an old Marine who had been around for 12 years or so and had gotten busted from staff sergeant to PFC for who-knows-what, made a game of seeing whether Sam or I was more gullible. He claimed to have served under Chesty Puller right before the general retired. We knew the years didn’t add up, but the old staff was sincere in telling some entertaining stories of Chesty’s escapades. He claimed to have been present when Chesty uttered his most memorable words in the middle of combat: “They’re on our left, they’re on our right, they’re in front of us, they’re behind us … they can’t get away this time.” Who didn’t enjoy hearing about the most decorated Marine in history, even if some old salt was just repeating lore of the Corps? The only thing we had to do is decipher the truth from fiction. Many times we’d get off duty and call B.S. on the line we had just been fed, but we never challenged the old guy.

Those were fun days when we lived lives of everyday Marines. We didn’t see combat; Vietnam was over; and our peacetime life was basically a job. The future was always uncertain, though, and that meant we were expected to blow off steam on liberty. Sam always drank more than I did, but he could handle it. I couldn’t. I’d go from being jovial to fighting mad in no time.

Getting locked up was a common occurrence for Marines on liberty in Jacksonville, and we parted with enough cash before the local magistrates that any semi-smart guys would have learned to leave booze alone. But our motto in those days was a hand-me-down from WWII, illegitimi non carborundum, “Don’t let the bastards grind you down.”

Frank remembers a day in the Corps ...

Sam finally lost his patience. “You did a stupid thing, asshole. Now shut up; I don’t want to hear any more about it. Your friend is dead, you killed him, and you are going to be locked up for a long time.”

With those few words, Sam’s demeanor transformed, and it stayed that way for as long as I knew him. He was no longer a happy-go-lucky, irresponsible 20-year-old. Instead, his persona was a blend of seriousness, negativity, and hard-heartedness. He never mentioned it, but I couldn’t help but think the shooting was a stark reminder of how dumb the two of us had been when we had practiced a few quick draws ourselves. We didn’t have as much fun on liberty from that day on. Then came the bar fight and we drifted apart.

The friend sitting across from me today was an older version of that kid who got a wake-up call back at Lejeune. He seems to internalize his emotions and there’s no telegraphing what he’s thinking. I don’t know whether he would back me up if trouble came my way. I wouldn’t want to count on it.

Follow Frank as his adventure in Dallas begins ...

If these guys knew what cards I’m holding, they would fold and walk away right now, or one of them might pull a gun and shoot me in the face. Either way, somebody is going to be flush with a big wad of cash when this hand is through.

It’s been going on for an hour, and two players have had the best luck among the four of us. Now I’m down to a few bucks and these killer cards, and I’m wondering what it’s going to cost to stay in the game. A better question might be what it’s going to take for me to get out of here with all the money on the table without getting hurt.

Looking into the cold hard eyes of the player across from me, I start thinking about an exit strategy. Should I keep my cool and let the game run its course in quiet, or would an abrupt offensive move be a better bet? My initial instinct is to be aggressive. It’s always been that way, but that behavior has sometimes gotten me into a lot of tight spots, and I’ve got the scars to prove it.

New novel

The first book in the Frank Knott crime/adventure series.