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Fort Stockton, Texas

Spring, 1971

There are two kinds of people who move to Fort Stockton.

The first kind arrive because they intended to. They found work with the railroad, the schools, the oil companies, the county, or one of the ranches that stretched toward the horizon until they finally surrendered to New Mexico. They bought houses because they planned on staying long enough for the mesquite trees to grow tall enough to complain about. They joined churches before they unpacked their dishes. Within a month they knew everybody worth knowing, and by Christmas they had acquired at least three different recipes for green chile stew and a standing invitation to somebody’s dove hunt.

The second kind came because life had quietly run out of other places to send them.

Fort Stockton rarely asked which kind you were.

It simply watched.

That was one of the town’s more remarkable talents. Most places greeted newcomers with casseroles, welcome wagons, or questions. Fort Stockton preferred observation. It had long ago discovered that a person’s mailbox, automobile, grocery cart, and choice of church generally answered every question worth asking without anyone having to ask it.

The Romano family arrived on a Tuesday morning in late March.

At least, they were the Romano family until somewhere east of Abilene.

By the time they crossed the Pecos River they had become the Gardner family, though none of them had yet grown accustomed to answering when someone called them by their new names.

Guido Romano was now Guy Gardner.

His wife Angela had become Anne.

Their oldest son Vincenzo was suddenly Vincent.

Little Maria was now Mary.

The federal government had invested several months and a considerable amount of taxpayer money convincing four people they had been someone else their entire lives.

Unfortunately, no amount of paperwork had managed to alter Guido’s personality.

Special Agent Charles Foley understood this before they’d even left Austin.

Foley had the permanent expression of a man who expected every telephone call to become more complicated than the previous one. At thirty-eight he already carried enough gray around his temples to suggest either remarkable experience or remarkable frustration. In truth, it was both.

He had hidden accountants in Wyoming.

Union witnesses in Idaho.

One retired numbers runner in Nebraska who embraced anonymity with such enthusiasm that Foley himself forgot where he’d been assigned.

The Gardner family, however, promised to become something altogether different.

Guido stared through the windshield as they rolled beneath the weathered “FORT STOCKTON” sign.

“So this is it?”

“This is it.”

“It looks…”

He searched for the proper word.

“…flat.”

“It is.”

“Ain’t nothin’ here.”

“Exactly.”

“I don’t like exactly.”

“You don’t have to like it.”

Guido looked toward the endless horizon where earth and sky had apparently signed a peace treaty.

“How far’s Dallas?”

“About five hundred miles.”

“Houston?”

“Farther.”

“Any Italians?”

Foley smiled.

“I’m hoping not.”

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The government-owned Plymouth sedan turned into RoadRunner Estates, where every ranch house appeared to have been assembled from the same blueprint by contractors who considered excitement an unnecessary expense. Red brick. White trim. Two-car garages. Young trees trying their best to convince everyone they weren’t sticks.

House Number 412 sat halfway down the block.

Fresh paint.

Fresh grass.

Fresh mailbox.

Fresh identities.

The moving truck contained surprisingly little.

A kitchen table.

Four chairs.

Two mattresses.

Several lamps.

One television.

Three cardboard boxes marked “KITCHEN.”

One marked “BOOKS.”

And another marked “MISC.”

Agent Foley knew that last one actually contained approximately forty-three thousand dollars in cash, three handguns, and enough government paperwork to start a small republic.

He preferred not to think about it.

Across the street, an elderly gentleman spent an unusually long time examining his sprinkler heads.

Next door, a woman watered flowers that had already received enough moisture to survive Noah’s flood.

Three houses farther down, another resident stood motionless beside his garage while holding a wrench that hadn’t turned a bolt in nearly fifteen minutes.

Foley noticed every one of them.

“So,” Guido observed quietly, “everybody’s watchin’.”

“They’re curious.”

“They’re nosy.”

“They’re Texans.”

“I noticed.”

By lunchtime everyone on the block knew the new family owned remarkably little furniture, had no dog, no barbecue grill, no bicycles, and somehow possessed enough dark suits to outfit a funeral home.

Nobody had spoken to them.

Nobody needed to.

The children began school the following Monday.

Alamo Elementary accepted Vincent and Mary with surprising efficiency.

The principal had received instructions from Austin that certain records would arrive later under separate cover.

No records ever did.

When she called to inquire, she was politely informed the matter had already been handled.

It hadn’t.

The secretary shrugged.

Government paperwork had a curious habit of defeating common sense.

Vincent quickly learned that West Texas children considered New York accents almost as entertaining as circus performers.

“You talk funny.”

“I do not.”

“You said ‘cawfee.’”

“It’s coffee.”

“No, it ain’t.”

Mary fared better.

Six-year-old girls possess an astonishing ability to ignore geography when choosing friends.

Within a week she was jumping rope with neighbors who never once questioned why she seemed unfamiliar with everything from bluebonnets to jackrabbits.

Children adapt.

Adults compare notes.

Agent Foley returned every three weeks.

Sometimes he drove a Ford.

Sometimes a Chevrolet.

Once an Oldsmobile.

Government cars excelled at looking forgettable.

Unfortunately, Agent Foley himself did not.

He visited just often enough for people to notice.

Not often enough for them to understand.

Three weeks after the move came the first crisis.

It arrived in the form of an automobile.

Guido folded the local newspaper and slid it across the kitchen table.

“I need a car.”

“You have a government vehicle.”

“I ain’t drivin’ that Plymouth forever.”

“You’ll have something permanent.”

“I want a Cadillac.”

Foley sighed.

“We’ve discussed this.”

“I drove Cadillacs.”

“You drove stolen Cadillacs.”

“They still counted.”

“The answer is no.”

Guido leaned back.

“I ain’t drivin’ no Chevrolet.”

“You are absolutely driving a Chevrolet.”

“I ain’t.”

“You are.”

“I’ll walk.”

“No, you won’t.”

“I’ll make trouble.”

Foley closed his notebook.

That sentence always meant exactly the same thing.

It meant Guido intended to become Guido again.

And that could not happen.

Cactus Chevrolet-Oldsmobile sat shimmering beneath the West Texas sun, its rows of polished cars gleaming like fresh-cut hard candy.

Salesman Tommy Hollis spotted them before they reached the showroom doors.

He recognized government shoes.

He had no idea why.

Some people simply looked official.

Foley shook his hand.

“My friend needs transportation.”

“We can certainly help.”

“I want a Cadillac,” Guido announced.

Tommy laughed politely.

“Well… you’ve come to the Chevrolet store.”

“I noticed.”

Foley quickly redirected everyone’s attention toward a medium-blue Bel Air sedan parked near the service office.

“Perfect.”

Guido stared at it as though someone had suggested he marry his cousin.

“…That’s ugly.”

“It’s dependable.”

“It’s blue.”

“Yes.”

“It looks like a refrigerator.”

“It’ll get you where you’re going.”

“It’ll get me depressed.”

Tommy wisely remained silent.

Guido wandered away.

Past the Biscaynes.

Past the Impalas.

Past a green pickup.

Then he stopped.

Sunflower Yellow.

White vinyl roof.

Chrome stretching nearly from sunrise to sunset.

A brand-new Caprice coupe.

He opened the driver’s door.

Ran his fingers across the Sandalwood cloth bench seat.

Touched the woodgrain steering wheel.

Smiled for the first time all morning.

Then he walked to the rear.

Opened the trunk.

Studied it carefully.

Reached up and tapped one of the decklid ventilation openings with two fingers.

Closed the lid.

“This one.”

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Foley felt the first headache beginning somewhere behind his left eye.

“No.”

“Dis one.”

“It’s far too conspicuous.”

“It’s beautiful.”

“It is yellow.”

“So?”

“Everyone will remember it.”

Guido shrugged.

“They’ll remember da guy drivin’ it too.”

“That’s exactly what we’re trying to avoid.”

Guido folded his arms.

“I ain’t drivin’ dat blue thing.”

Tommy pretended to examine a window sticker that he had already memorized.

Foley looked toward the sales office.

“Excuse me.”

He disappeared into an empty office and closed the door.

Twenty minutes later he emerged looking like a man who had successfully argued with Washington but lost anyway.

He handed Tommy a purchase authorization.

“The yellow one.”

Tommy blinked.

“The… Caprice?”

“Yes.”

“The loaded Caprice?”

“Yes.”

“The one with the four hundred?”

“Yes.”

“The one with…”

“Yes.”

Tommy stopped asking questions.

Some sales were too good to examine closely.

Tommy Hollis had been selling Chevrolets for nearly nine years, and if there was one thing experience had taught him, it was that unusual customers generally came with unusual instructions.

He simply hadn’t expected those instructions to arrive from the federal government.

Agent Foley signed the paperwork with a fountain pen that looked expensive enough to belong to somebody else, then quietly folded the purchase authorization into his briefcase before Tommy could accidentally read more than the heading.

The title would arrive later.

The financing would be handled elsewhere.

The registration would be delivered by courier.

The license plates would appear in the mail.

Everything about the transaction seemed designed to answer questions before they could be asked while somehow creating three new ones in the process.

As Guido admired the Caprice beneath the showroom lights, Foley rested both hands on Tommy’s desk.

“Mr. Hollis, I need you to understand something.”

Tommy nodded.

“Of course.”

“You are not to discuss this sale with anyone.”

“Certainly.”

“Not your wife.”

“I understand.”

“Not your golfing partners.”

“Absolutely.”

“Not your pastor.”

“I wouldn’t dream of it.”

“Not anyone.”

Tommy gave the solemn nod of a man accepting the launch codes to the nation’s missile silos.

“I appreciate your discretion.”

“I have always been discreet.”

Agent Foley smiled politely.

He had no way of knowing Tommy Hollis had once managed to keep a surprise birthday party secret for nearly forty-eight hours, a personal record that remained unmatched in the Hollis household.

The promise lasted until supper.

His wife Ruth noticed immediately.

“You’ve been awful quiet.”

“I’m thinking.”

“About?”

“I can’t say.”

She looked up from buttering cornbread.

“You can always say.”

“I honestly can’t.”

“Tommy…”

He held out for another twelve seconds.

“I sold a car today.”

“Well, that’s wonderful.”

“It wasn’t the car.”

“What then?”

“The people.”

Ruth waited.

Silence in a marriage is like leaving pie unattended at a church supper. Somebody eventually helps themselves.

“They weren’t normal.”

“How so?”

“I don’t know.”

“They pay cash?”

“Yes.”

“Oil people?”

“No.”

“Movie stars?”

“I don’t think so.”

“Bank robbers?”

Tommy chuckled.

“I doubt it.”

“So who were they?”

He leaned across the table.

“I promised not to tell.”

“You already are.”

“…Government.”

That single word accomplished everything Agent Foley had hoped to prevent.

By bedtime Ruth had shared the information only with her sister, who possessed what she proudly described as “excellent judgment.”

Excellent judgment happened to include Thursday morning appointments at the Klip-N-Dye Beauty Salon.

By lunchtime three beauticians knew.

By three o’clock so did two schoolteachers, the pharmacist, a feed salesman, one deputy sheriff, and the Methodist choir director.

Nobody knew exactly what the government wanted with the new family.

That small inconvenience never slowed a good rumor.

Some believed they were nuclear scientists.

Others insisted they were Russian defectors.

One particularly imaginative fellow suggested they were relatives of President Nixon sent west to avoid protesters.

Within a week everyone in Fort Stockton had constructed a different explanation.

Nobody guessed the truth.

The Caprice quickly became the most recognizable automobile in town.

It wasn’t merely yellow.

It was optimistic.

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Sunflower Yellow shimmered beneath the relentless Texas sun until the big Chevrolet appeared almost illuminated from within. The white vinyl roof looked crisp enough to have been ironed that morning. Every strip of chrome reflected storefronts, grain elevators, and passing clouds with embarrassing clarity.

Children pointed.

Teenagers admired it.

Older ranchers dismissed it as “too pretty to be practical,” which generally translated into reluctant approval.

Guido adored every inch of it.

Every Saturday morning he washed it in the driveway.

Not because it needed washing.

Because somebody might be watching.

He polished chrome that already reflected like mirrors.

Vacuumed carpet that contained exactly three grains of West Texas dust.

Applied tire dressing until the sidewalls looked wet.

Neighbors noticed.

One afternoon Mrs. Cardenas from across the street wandered over carrying a plate of oatmeal cookies.

“Y’all settling in?”

“We’re gettin’ there.”

“Where’d y’all move from?”

Guido smiled pleasantly.

“Ohio.”

She nodded.

“What part?”

“…The northern part.”

“There are several northern parts.”

“The cold one.”

She accepted that answer with the same expression people reserve for crossword puzzles missing three letters.

“You folks have family?”

“Not anymore.”

That much, oddly enough, was true.

Agent Foley’s visits grew less frequent.

Each time he arrived he found the Gardner family looking more Texan and somehow less comfortable.

Anne had learned to make chicken-fried steak.

The children spoke with only the faintest trace of New York left in their voices.

Mary had developed an affection for horseback riding.

Vincent played Little League.

Only Guido remained stubbornly unchanged.

He still wore tailored suits to the grocery store.

Still ordered pasta whenever restaurants clearly specialized in barbecue.

Still referred to everyone over sixty as “Boss.”

One afternoon Foley found him washing the Caprice for the third time that week.

“How’s life?”

“I miss New York.”

“You miss being somebody.”

“I was somebody.”

“You were somebody people wanted dead.”

Guido smiled faintly.

“Details.”

“You’ve stayed alive because you’ve followed instructions.”

“I’ve mostly followed instructions.”

“You bought the yellow Chevrolet.”

“It’s a Caprice.”

“It’s yellow.”

“It’s classy.”

“It glows.”

Guido stepped back to admire the car.

“It oughta.”

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The Lucky Lady Lounge occupied an aging building whose respectable front entrance and considerably less respectable rear staircase had coexisted peacefully for decades.

Wednesday nights belonged to poker.

Officially nothing happened upstairs.

Unofficially everyone knew better.

Guido started playing sometime that autumn.

Nobody could later remember exactly when.

He simply… appeared.

At first the local players welcomed fresh money.

He rarely spoke.

Never drank much.

Never celebrated victories.

Never complained about losses.

He simply played.

Week after week.

Month after month.

Mel Canton first noticed the newcomer because Guido never bluffed.

That should have made him predictable.

Instead it made him dangerous.

Good poker players study cards.

Great poker players study people.

Mel prided himself on being the second kind.

Unfortunately Guido had spent most of his adult life sitting across tables from men who considered losing considerably more hazardous than embarrassment.

Compared to Brooklyn…

West Texas was relaxing.

Nobody has ever completely agreed on what happened the second Wednesday in February.

There were nine men in the room.

Every one of them later described events differently.

One swore Mel slipped an extra ace into the deck.

Another insisted he’d hidden cards beneath the table.

Someone else claimed Guido never raised his voice.

One fellow remembered Guido smiling.

Another was absolutely certain he never did.

The only details upon which everyone agreed were these:

There was shouting.

There was one loud crash.

Somebody went through a chair.

And Mel Canton required eight stitches above his eye, two cracked ribs, and nearly six weeks before he could comfortably sit a horse again.

The sheriff arrived twenty-three minutes later.

The poker game had ended.

The room had been cleaned.

Nobody seemed eager to remember much.

As for Guido…

“He left.”

“When?”

“Before.”

“Before what?”

“…Everything.”

It was the least helpful collection of eyewitnesses the sheriff encountered during his entire career.

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The following morning RoadRunner Estates awakened to an unusual silence.

The curtains at Number 412 had disappeared.

So had the furniture.

The mailbox stood open.

The garage sat empty.

Fresh tire tracks led toward the street.

Nothing else remained.

No forwarding address.

No moving truck.

No explanation.

The children never returned to school.

Attendance records simply ended.

Agent Foley never came back.

Within forty-eight hours the house belonged once again to the federal government.

Within two weeks someone else lived there.

Life continued.

Fort Stockton, however, possessed an excellent memory.

Three mornings later Tommy Hollis unlocked the used car gate at Cactus Chevrolet.

Halfway down the front row he stopped.

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There sat the Caprice.

Perfectly parked.

Perfectly clean.

The keys rested on the driver’s seat.

The tank was full.

The ashtray empty.

The owner’s manual missing.

The registration gone.

Every fingerprint carefully wiped away.

Tommy stood beside the driver’s door for nearly a minute before calling the manager.

Neither man asked the obvious question.

Who had brought it back?

Some mysteries improve by remaining employed.

The car was inspected.

Detailed.

Priced.

Placed on the front line.

The window card simply read:

1971 CHEVROLET CAPRICE
LOW MILES
ONE OWNER

Tommy stared at those last two words longer than anyone else.

Technically…

They weren’t wrong.

The Caprice sold three weeks later to a banker in Midland.

He never knew its story.

Neither did the next owner.

Or the the one after that.

Automobiles travel surprisingly well.

Rumors seldom leave home.

Years drifted by.

RoadRunner Estates filled with children riding bicycles beneath taller trees.

The Lucky Lady changed ownership.

The upstairs poker games became smaller.

Mel Canton eventually laughed about the beating, though he never again cheated at cards with nearly the same enthusiasm.

Tommy Hollis retired after selling his final Chevrolet.

Every now and then someone would ask Tommy whether the strangest customer he’d ever had was the fellow who insisted on buying the bright yellow Caprice instead of the blue Bel Air.

Tommy would smile.

“That wasn’t the strange part.”

“What was?”

“Most folks come to Fort Stockton looking for something.”

“What were they looking for?”

Tommy would think about that for a long moment.

“I don’t believe they were looking.”

“Then what were they doing?”

“Hiding.”

“Did it work?”

Tommy would glance toward RoadRunner Estates.

“Depends who was looking.”

There are stories that grow larger every time they’re told.

This wasn’t one of them.

It remained remarkably small.

A family no one truly knew.

A government man nobody could remember describing.

A poker game nobody claimed to have witnessed correctly.

And one Sunflower Yellow Chevrolet Caprice with a white vinyl roof that spent two years trying its level best to avoid attention while succeeding brilliantly at exactly the opposite.

Some folks later insisted the family had been spies.

Others favored organized crime.

One elderly rancher maintained until the day he died that they were counterfeiters from Chicago.

Nobody ever proved anything.

The government never confirmed they had existed.

No newspaper ever printed their names.

No photographs ever surfaced in a family album.

They simply passed through Fort Stockton the way a summer thunderstorm passes across the desert.

Briefly.

Unexpectedly.

Leaving behind just enough evidence for people to argue for another fifty years whether it had really rained at all.

Around town, the old-timers eventually settled on a single piece of advice whenever newcomers tried a little too hard to fit in.

They would nod toward RoadRunner Estates, smile to themselves, and say, “If you’re trying not to be noticed in Fort Stockton, don’t buy the brightest car in Texas.”

Then they’d chuckle softly, because everyone knew exactly which car they meant.

And everyone, without exception, still called it “that yellow Chevrolet.”

Even though Guido Romano would probably have corrected them one last time.

“It wasn’t a Chevrolet.”

“It was a Caprice.”

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