Thin Slice of Life

Chapter 25

After leaving the bank, Charlie wandered toward the harbor in a daze, thinking about the newest member of the Sweetwater family. He wondered how he’d missed the obvious blood connection when he’d met the boy the first time. In his mind he began to compare line of jaw, the epicanthic arc of eyelid, the curve of neck, and the delicate flowering of ear—not to mention the blondish hair the kid kept stuffed up under his ball cap. Raul was a darker, skinnier version of his dad. That the boy had taken it upon himself to walk from Matamoros to Fulton—over two hundred miles of rough, thorny brush country— believing that somehow he would be able to find his assumed dad from a scribbled address on a five-year old post card, was right in line with Johnny’s impetuous trips in the other direction, to Mexico, where he had courted and impregnated the boy’s mother (a sporting lady) in Nuevo Laredo thirteen years ago. Both father and son acted out of an outlandish optimism and a reckless disregard for convention and good sense. Yep, Raul fit snugly into the Sweetwater family mold. His natural ease at sea somehow brought the equation full circle. Tio Carlito, he thought. Shit. He recalled the fuddy-duddy old fart from the My CHAPTER 25 162 25| Three Sons television show. Ol’ Uncle Charlie. At the harbor Charlie was astonished to discover that Charlotte Plummer’s, a venerable old seafood restaurant jutting out over the water, was open for business. Hungry enough to eat the giant squid from 20,000 Leagues Under the Sea, he entered and sat at a booth near the entrance. Without looking at a menu, he ordered a mug of beer and a Fisherman’s Platter, which consisted of fried everything, plus buttered Texas toast and a tiny bowl of watery coleslaw. The American Heart Association had not designated his menu selection as “heart healthy.” For Charlie, however, it was just what the doctor ordered. The restaurant was about half full—mostly locals, but also some Red Cross workers, half-exhausted from the arduous storm cleanup, a few insurance adjusters in short sleeve shirts and clip-on ties, and a large table of very vocal out-of-towners freshly arrived from Dallas to check on their toy boats and their ticky-tack second homes. The windows and storm shutters were open to admit the late afternoon breeze. A pretty Vietnamese waitress brought him his beer, apologizing that it wasn’t cold. “Still no power for beer cooler,” she explained. As he waited for his food and sipped his rodeo-cool beer he gazed out the open window at the boats in the harbor. The slips were beginning to fill up again as the shrimpers returned to port. The berth where the Ramrod docked was conspicuously empty. He noticed with a start that his truck was gone too. “Son of a bitch,” he said, leaning out the window, anxiously searching the parking lot for his lemon-yellow pickup. “Son…of...a… bitch,” he repeated. When he pulled his head back inside the window, Marisol was standing in front of his booth. “Speak for yourself,” she said. “You lose something?” “Yeah, my boat, and now my truck.” Marisol giggled. “I don’t know about the boat, but your truck is in the parking lot.” Charlie looked out the window again. “No. It’s not.” “The restaurant parking lot,” she cocked a thumb toward the door. “I borrowed it this afternoon. It’s right outside.” 163 |25 Charlie blinked, and then sat down. “Borrowed it?” “I hotwired it, like you suggested. Miguel showed me how. Anyway, it’s easier than I thought it would be. Just run a wire from the battery positive to the coil, and voila!” “Voila, you’re now a car thief,” said Charlie. “And you an officer of the court, sort of.” Marisol had changed out of the Patty Hearst attire she had on that morning and wore a sleeveless white cotton shift. Her coal black hair was tied back loosely with a fat piece of yarn. She was the most gorgeous car thief he’d ever seen. “Don’t be such a mamón,” she said laughing. “My car is still stuck on Key Allegro. I can’t get it until the bridge is repaired. Mind if I sit down?” “By all...