Mason’s head was still throbbing from the night before.  The endless cups of Folgers Lucinda poured him at the Grounds for Divorce did nothing to help the condition subside, nor did the parade just outside the window.  The bourbon he’d downed in the bar of the Cattle Baron Hotel, topped off with several more in front of the huge stone fireplace of the barn that housed his collections of cars and books, had dulled his senses.  Not enough to where he couldn’t remember the coupling that had taken place on the back of the Cougar convertible, but even those details were sketchy.  Well, some of them anyway.

Eileen had seemingly kept up with him drink for drink, and she was a lot smaller in stature.  Yet, she seemed to be suffering none of the consequences he was.  Perched atop the back seat of the Presidential Black ’63 Lincoln Continental for the Parker McHale Day Parade through Fort Stockton, she looked as fresh as a pink daisy in the bright West Texas Sun.  Mason had no idea how.

The two of them had fallen asleep after the deed, or deeds, on one of the opposing worn leather couches, two heaps of sweaty, satisfied, naked flesh entwined atop the cowhide.  Mason would never look at the Cougar the same after that.  Had the bright morning sun, streaming through the tall windows on either side of the fireplace, not woken them up the guest of honor may have missed her own parade.  As it was, Eileen opened her eyes, glanced at her watch, the only thing she was still wearing, and noted the time with a degree of duress.

“Mason,” she said, “wake up!  The parade is in an hour and I have to get ready!”  They rummaged for clothes and keys and made their way out to Mason’s Mark VI parked just outside the barn.  “I guess I’ll see the new house next time,” Eileen noted as the Continental tore down the driveway.  I hope it’s as impressive as the barn was.”

Dropping Eileen off at the same side door to the Cattle Baron Hotel that they’d exited from the evening prior, Mason parked the Continental at the Piggly Wiggly and walked across the lot to the Grounds for Divorce.  “You look like a hammered goat turd,” Lucinda was quick to note as he sat in the booth in the front.

“Nothing like I feel,” Mason replied.  “Need.  Coffee.”

Mason couldn’t figure out how a parade could be so long in a town so small.  Thinking there would be time for the two of them to make it back to his place before the evening festivities was a mistake.  Eileen had a reception at City Hall, where she’d be given the keys to Fort Stockton by Mayor Goodman himself, and a small team of dignitaries who’d paid for the pleasure of sitting up close.  Pictures made with the famous author turned Hollywood producer would be the Christmas cards many of them. Sent out the following December,  Mayor Goodman’s were printed with the inscription, “Merry Christmas from Me and the Mistress of Murder”.  Pastor Peterson just shook his head when he opened it.

After the reception at City Hall, Perry Silverman had Eileen committed to a long interview for the Stockton Telegram-Dispatch.  Eileen couldn’t say ‘No’.  After all, Perry had financed her early career and worked the deal to get her first book published.  The Ladies of Second Baptist Book Club had arranged a mid afternoon tea directly following the interview.  The Book Club was actually thrown together hastily when they heard Eileen Parker McHale was coming to town.  It was actually just the Quilting Circle with a new name, but it gave all the members a chance to rub elbows with more sin than they could imagine, free from the guilt normally associated with such things.  Brother Bob and Mayor Goodman split the proceeds of the book sales made before and after the tea.

Mason caught Eileen out in front of the Cattle Baron late in the afternoon.  “Do you have time for a run back to my place to actually see the house?”

“Would like nothing better,” Eileen said.  “But I have to freshen up and fix my hair before dinner tonight.  Let’s plan on a moonlight swim at the end of the evening.  And a full tour.”

Depressed at how the day had turned out, Mason drove back to his spread outside of town by himself.  He threw down a couple Lone Star Longnecks before his shower, a couple more right after.  Somehow that seemed to help the throbbing in his head that had barely subsided from earlier in the morning.  He had a pretty good buzz going when he got back into the Continental and made his way back towards town to meet Eileen at the event.

The dinner and reception for Eileen Parker / Parker McHale had originally been scheduled for the Silver Slipper Supper Club.  Ticket sales were so robust, however, that it had to be moved to the cafetorium at Jim Bowie High School, “Home of the Fightin’ Knives”.  The crowd was well into the hundreds.  Mayor Goodman nudged Mason as he and Eileen made their way into the huge venue, “Bet I’ll sell four hundred books, just at this event!”  Mrs. Goodman, standing next to him, just smiled knowing her husband was a complete sleaze ball.  She had sold her soul to the devil when she married him and didn’t get a receipt.  There was no turning back at this point.

While the Mayor and Mrs. Goodman escorted Eileen to the head table, Mason went to the bar.  Mayor Goodman did everything he could to finagle his way to the seat right next to Eileen, but in a quick sleight of hand and step to the side, Eileen sat in between Whiskey and Franklin Danbury.  Resigned to his fate, the mayor sat beside his wife, on the other side of Perry Silverman.  When Mason returned to the table and saw the only spot remaining was next to the mayor, he turned around and went back to the bar.  That’s where he stayed till the food was served.  By dinner he was more well done than the flank steak catered by K-Bob’s.  When he sat down to eat, the room was spinning a bit.  

Two tables away, Dharma Drury was seated with her husband and six others at a big round table.  Mr. Drury had been diagnosed with cancer a year earlier and it was obvious by his looks he was not winning the battle.  Glancing at Dharma, Mason felt guilty.  Then his mind went other places and he felt even guiltier.

A program for the evening had been hastily put together and titled, “The Murderer Amongst Us”.  Mason looked over the schedule and saw that Mayor Goodman would be addressing the crowd as soon as dinner had concluded.  “Of course he would,” Mason thought to himself.  Then, a short introduction would be provided by Perry Silverman for the guest of honor.  Eileen was scheduled for a few remarks.  Sister Thelma would close the evening out with a prayer of some sort and a request for donations for the Pecos County Women’s Shelter.  Brother Bob had been angling for the closing prayer gig so he could plea for donations for the youth group to visit the Huntsville State Prison, but Eileen managed to override that.  “Those kids should be scared straight enough just sitting through his sermons, there’s no need for a hot bus full of hormone filled teens bouncing across Texas,” she insisted.

Across the table, Mason couldn’t help but notice that Eileen and Whiskey seemed to be deeply engaged in conversation throughout the flank steak and well into the dessert of Coca-Cola Cake with a scoop of vanilla Blue Bell on top.

The two knew each other, but not well.  They’d talked maybe a handful of times, but never about anything with any depth to it.  Whiskey was more fascinated by her due to her connection to Mason than anything else.  He knew she was a writer and Hollywood producer, but didn’t read and rarely went to movies.  There was no denying she was a beautiful woman.  And one who somehow was able to keep showing up in the life of his best friend, leaving a wake of ripples everywhere she went, like a flat rock being thrown into the middle of Lake Leon.

“What’s the scariest case you’ve ever looked at?” Whiskey asked her.

“No doubt the one in Parker Country, Indiana.  Five shot.  Four dead.  Thrill killings.  Horrible.”  Eileen explained to her young, obviously enamored, dinner guest.  She was struck by how different Whisky and Mason were, though they were the same age and best of friends.

“What made it the worst?” Whisky asked her.

Eileen set her fork and knife down on her plate, as though she didn’t want to be distracted by them.  She leaned forward and lowered her voice slightly.  “I got to stare into the eyes of the killers.  It didn’t take long for the dumb bastards to be caught.  Four of them.  They agreed to let me interview them in prison. Probably enjoyed the attention.”  She picked the knife back up from her plate and let it balance on the tips of her fingers.  “There’s something in the eyes of a murderer that can’t be fully described or understood.”

“I know,” Whiskey replied.  “I’ve seen it myself.  With my own mother.”

That short sentence was the most interesting thing she’d heard since she’d gotten behind the wheel of her SL 450 and left Santa Fe.  Whiskey had unknowingly vaulted himself into the position of someone she needed to get to know better.  Just as she began to ask him the first of many questions she had, Perry Silverman began his introduction behind the podium in the middle of the cafetorium.

He began by noting one of Fort Stockton’s most infamous murder cases from twenty-five years earlier.  The murderer, Angela Crane, and the victim, Angela’s much older husband, Theodore, were well known in town.  The case had firmly established Franklin Danbury as the most prominent lawyer in Fort Stockton.  The details of the trial, suppressed by many of the most prominent citizens in town, were what caused Silverman to purchase the Stockton Telegram-Dispatch in the first place.  Being reminded of that case from a quarter century ago made Eileen wonder how many other crimes had taken place in Fort Stockton, maybe some of which hadn’t happened so publicly.  Not counting the ones she already was aware of.

“So I present to you. . . Miss Parker McHale!” Perry led the applause as she made her way to the podium.  Mason signaled the waiter to bring him another double Scotch.

She glided to the small raised stage.  People who’d paid to get in, but not yet had a good look at the star attraction, gasped.  That type of beauty was never seen in person in Fort Stockton.  She entertained the crowd with twenty minutes of stories that in turn fascinated and shocked the audience.  Behind-the-scenes stories were offered about the Hollywood stars who’d been in some of the movies she’d written and produced.  She left out the more salacious parts that would tarnish her reputation or offend the baptists.  The delivery and content of her remarks were both flawless, though she’d prepared nothing ahead of time.  She was just that good at knowing her audience and putting on a show, catering to what she knew they wanted to hear.

At the conclusion of the evening, there were throngs of people waiting in line to buy copies of her books on display in the hallway.  Sister Thelma was inundated with checks for the Women’s Shelter.  Lucinda stopped by the table, leaned down, and whispered into Eileen’s ear, “Don’t let Mason drive.  He’s as drunk as Cooter Brown and will kill someone if he gets behind the wheel.  Probably himself.”

If Mason had heard, he probably would have disagreed, but he was focused on simply attempting to stand up straight.  It was a battle he was losing.

“We need to get him home,” Eileen told Whiskey.  “He can’t drive.  Help me get him in my car.  We’ll leave his Continental here and he can come get it tomorrow.  Follow me out to his place and help me get him into bed.”  

Whiskey was impressed by Eileen’s ability to grab any situation, figure out the best solution, make a plan, and implement it while everyone else stood around and watched.  “Yes, Ma’am,” is all he said.

The two of them, one on each side, stood Mason up and walked him out to the parking lot, then to Eileen’s red Mercedes near the entrance.  The top was still down, making it easier to get Mason into the passenger seat.  Once he was belted in, Eileen went to the other side and got in.  “I’m in that old green F-100 over yonder.  Follow me over to it and then you can follow me out to Mason’s place,” Whiskey said.  Eileen nodded in reply while attempting to keep Mason in an upright position in the passenger seat beside her.

The 1963 Ford F-100 was as simple as Whiskey was.  Dark green with white bumpers, black wall tires and small FORD dog dish hubcaps, Eileen noted there was something strangely more attractive about the short-bed pickup truck than the sports cars she was used to seeing men get into at her back home in Hollywood.

The next morning, Mason woke up near the edge of his bed.  He was laying on his stomach, placed that way in case he threw up, so he wouldn’t choke on it.  He’d been stripped down to his boxer shorts.  His mouth was dry and his head pounded like it was stuck in a kettle drum and someone was banging out The Eyes of Texas on top of it.  It took him a minute to get his bearings as to exactly where he was, but remembered little of how he got there.

Mason felt as though his bladder might burst if he wasn’t able to get to his bathroom soon.  He stumbled out of bed, stood in front of the toilet and relieved himself, aiming for the side of the bowl.  It was quieter than the stream hitting the water.  He glanced out the bathroom window, towards the driveway.  He noted his Continental was not there, nor was Eileen’s Mercedes.  The only thing parked just outside the side entrance to the house was Whiskey’s old green Ford F-100.  He shook off his member and slid it back into his boxers like a gunslinger re-holstering his six-shooter and made his way out to the kitchen.

The kitchen was empty, but there was a fresh pot of coffee in the Mr. Coffee atop the marble countertop.  Walking down the hall to the guest room, Mason scratched his balls with one hand while trying to not spill the hot black coffee held in the other hand.  As he passed the second guest bedroom and glanced in, he stopped dead in his tracks.

Facing the ceiling in silence, eyes closed, Whiskey lay in the middle of the bed buck naked, covered only in a sheet.  Mason couldn’t tell if Whiskey was reflecting on some of life’s deepest mysteries, or if he had stopped breathing altogether.  But he was firmly tied to the headboard, and had been for a while.