Billy Bob and Hackberry Holland Ebook Boxed Set by James Lee Burke Read Free Book Online Page A

and clang loudly down the fire escape. “Who was that?” I asked.
    â€œA friend who stayed over. She’s late for class,” he said.
    â€œIt’s two o’clock in the afternoon.”
    â€œThat’s what I said. She’s late,” he replied.
    I nodded, as though his response made perfect sense. “Wyatt Dixon is out of prison,” I said.
    â€œI read about it in the newspaper,” he said. He started picking up clothes from the floor, some of which included a woman’s undergarments.
    â€œI ran him off our place last night. But he’ll be back. Watch yourself,” I said.
    â€œHe’s not interested in me.”
    â€œPeople like Dixon hate goodness. They try to injure it whenever they can, Lucas.”
    â€œI ain’t afraid. I know you sure as hell ain’t. So what’s the big deal?” He pressed a button on his stereo and the amplified voices of Bonnie Raitt and John Lee Hooker almost blew me out of the room.
    Â 
    BUT I COULDN’T get Wyatt Dixon off my mind that afternoon, or Johnny American Horse’s cavalier attitude about sharing information with me. I worked until late, my resentment growing. At 5:30 P.M . the courthouse square was purple with shadow, the trees pulsing with birds. I called Johnny at his house.
    â€œYou told Amber, ‘All those dudes are going down.’ How about some clarification on that?” I said.
    â€œAll power lies in the world of dreams. I have a dream about red ponies. It means I don’t have to worry about these guys who are after me,” he said.
    â€œThen why were you carrying a gun?”
    â€œDon’t represent me.”
    â€œWhat?”
    â€œYou heard me.”
    I felt my old nemesis, anger, flare inside me like a lighted match. Don’t say anything , I heard a voice say.
    â€œYou got it, bud,” I said, and hung up the phone.
    I wish it had all ended right there. But it didn’t.

    THAT EVENING, Temple and I had supper at a Mexican restaurant in town. The streets were full of college kids, people riding bikes over the long bridge that spanned the Clark Fork, tourists visiting the art galleries that had replaced the bars and workingmen’s cafés on Front Street. A tall man in a hat and a western-cut suit walked past the restaurant window. His face was lean, his skin brown, his lavender shirt stitched with flowers. He could have been a cattleman out of the 1940s. But Seth Masterson was no cattleman.
    â€œWhat are you staring at?” Temple said.
    â€œThat guy at the corner. He was a special agent in Phoenix.”
    â€œYou sure? He seemed to look right through you.”
    â€œI’ll be right back,” I said.
    I caught up with Masterson before he could cross the intersection. “Why, hey there, Billy Bob,” he said, as though my face had been hard to recognize in the failing light. “What are you doing in Missoula?”
    â€œChasing ambulances. You know how it is,” I replied. “How about you?”
    â€œA little vacation,” he replied, his eyes twinkling.
    â€œRight,” I said.
    â€œYou ought to come back and work for the G.”
    â€œGot any openings?” I said.
    â€œYou know me. I stay out of administration. Hey, I don’t want to keep you. Call me if you’re in Arizona.”
    â€œSure,” I said.
    He crossed the intersection, then went into the Fact and Fiction bookstore. My food was cold when I got back to the table.
    â€œWhat’s the deal on your friend?” Temple said.
    â€œRemember the story about the FBI agent who wrote a memo warning the head office terrorists were taking flight instruction in Phoenix? The memo that got ignored?”
    â€œThat’s the guy?”
    â€œHe was at Ruby Ridge and Waco, too. Seth gets around.”
    â€œYou want your food reheated?”
    â€œWhy not?” I said. But even after the waitress warmed up my plate, I couldn’t eat. I