|
|
|
|
|
|
|
free-spending Yankee snowbirds who in recent years had started to make South Padre a viable alternative to Florida for the holidays. The second package was slightly more intriguing; it was addressed to Ruthie. And it was anybody's guess where she might be. He shook the cardboard box a couple of times, decided the contents were still intact and wondered what to do with it since there was no return address on it. He walked out of the stale-smelling old building for the marginal comfort of the midmorning south Texas October sun. |
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
It was too late. Moxie spotted him the moment he stepped out of the shadows. |
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
"Boss Bart!" the wiry little Mexican yelled across the expanse of sun-parched and cracked macadam. "Everybody been looking for you." |
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
Bartholomew was trapped. He sighed, opened the door of his pickup, threw his mail on the threadbare seat, shut the door again and waited. |
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
Moxie was headed straight for him, occasionally disappearing in the maze of tourists' cars still dotting the parking lot. Moxie wasn't easy to keep track of; he was all of five feet four in height and not much wider in any feature of his emaciated anatomy than a wooden pencil. His crop of jet black hair and razor-thin moustache were the highlights of a |
|
|
|
|
|