The Jealous Kind (Holland Family Saga #2) - James Lee Burke Page 0,50

and put it on a paper napkin and pushed it toward him. “Aaron says you’re the best friend he’s ever had. He says everybody respects you.”

There were strings of electric lights in the trees, and I could not tell if the shine in Saber’s eyes was from their reflection or not.

“How’d you know where we were?” I said.

“Called your mom. Krauser popped up today. He came by the house right after Jenks did.”

“What’s Krauser want?”

Saber looked at Valerie, not sure how much he should say. “He works part-time for the probation department. He says he knows I’m going to end up in Gatesville. He can get me into a youth camp of some kind that’ll protect me.”

“You mean summer camp?”

“No, it’s some kind of political crap.”

“What did your parents say?” I said.

“Neither of them finished grammar school. They think Krauser is big shit, the intellectual of the Houston school system.” He glanced at Valerie. “Sorry.”

She smiled at him with her eyes.

“Stay away from Krauser. Don’t listen to anything he tells you,” I said.

“Tell that to my old man. He eats up Krauser’s war stories. ‘Ole boy from South Carolina blew the treads on a SS Panzer and put a flamethrower on it. We nicknamed him Hotfoot.’ ”

“You okay, Sabe?” I said.

“Sure.”

“You could fool me,” I said.

“I think I’m going to turn myself in,” he said.

“You’re sure that’s what you want to do?”

“Jenks says they found the brick and they’re going to dust it for fingerprints.”

“Then why tell you about it?” I said. “Why not just bring you in?”

“I don’t know. I don’t know anything.”

A car passed. It had straight pipes, and the engine roared like a garbage truck. The guys inside it were big, their arms tattooed and hanging out the window, the sleeves cut off or rolled to the shoulder. One of them yelled something. Saber kept his eyes on the car until it turned the corner at the end of the block. “You know who those guys are?” he said to Valerie.

“I couldn’t see their faces.”

“How about the car? A ’49 Hudson.”

“No, I don’t remember seeing it,” she said.

“Did you recognize them?” he said to me.

“No.”

“They look like bad news,” he said. He stared at the street, then at me. “I think they’re dogging us.”

“They’re just guys. If they wanted a beef, they would have stopped.”

“You don’t know that.”

“What’s going on, Sabe?” I said.

“Nothing. I don’t take guys like that for granted. I’ve had my fill of them.”

“You want to play a round of miniature golf?” I said.

“No, I got to get home. I don’t feel too hot. I got to get off the dime. You don’t let the enemy take the high ground. Rule one of the Army of Bledsoe, right?”

“Why not spend more time with Aaron and me?” Valerie said.

“Me?” he said.

“The rodeo and the livestock show are coming up,” she said. “My 4-H club has some exhibits.”

“That would be pretty simpatico,” he said.

“Can I tell you something?” she said.

“Go ahead.”

“Quit fighting with these people,” she said. “One way or another, they’ll all disappear.”

“I don’t think it works that way.”

“Yes, it does. Don’t go seeing things, either,” she said. She reached across the table and squeezed his hand. I think she almost had him convinced.

The car loaded with big guys came by again, slower this time, one guy sitting up on the passenger window bare-chested, shooting us the bone across the roof. Saber stood up from the table. A narrow object protruded from his boot, stiffening inside the leg of his jeans.

“Sit down,” I said.

“I’m tired of these guys,” he said. He gave them the Italian salute.

The car kept going, crossing the intersection, its straight pipes shaking the air. I pulled up the cuff of his jeans. “What are you doing with that?”

“Taking care of myself. Not taking any more shit. Sorry, Miss Valerie.”

“Give it to me, Saber,” I said.

“I’ll give it to you when people like Krauser and guys like that bunch in the Hudson get off our backs.”

He had a sheathed British commando knife strapped to his calf. It was doubled-edged and dark blue and made of steel, including the handle, the blade tapering to a razor-sharp tip, an absolutely murderous gut-ripper you could buy for $2.95 and a coupon from any men’s magazine.

Saber wiped his place clean and threw the napkin into a trash can.

“Stay with us,” Valerie said.

“Thanks. See y’all later,” he said. “Let me know if those guys come back. Maybe get their license number. I think it’s time to start doing