Dead Peasants Read Free

did, he retrieved his cell phone. “Boss, it’s done.”

4
    Jack drove west on Camp Bowie Boulevard, listening to the clatter his tires made on the red brick paving laid by the Works Progress Administration in the Great Depression. Memories from thirty and forty years ago flooded back as he turned right on Hillcrest. After a block he saw Rivercrest Country Club and turned left on Crestline. He passed the clubhouse and drove slowly down Alta Lane until he spotted the house he wanted. Situated on almost two acres with giant pecan trees shading the front, it had six bedrooms, including a large master suite overlooking a heated pool and hot tub. The driveway circled the house to a six car garage. Sitting on a bluff above the Trinity River, the back yard sloped down the hill toward the river and the afternoon sun. In the distance was the old bomber plant, called various names over the years, including Convair and General Dynamics, but now closed. Jack’s dad had worked there for thirty years.
    Jack stopped at the curb and listened for a moment to Willie Nelson warning mamas not to let their babies grow up to be cowboys. Then he climbed from his old red pickup and reached behind the front seat for his cane. His knee felt pretty good today, and he might not even need it. Still, he never knew when he was going to make a wrong step and have it collapse under him. He leaned against the front fender of Lucille, the name he gave his truck when it was new, and surveyed the house. It had a front porch extending the length of the house with a veranda of equal length above it. Both had elaborate wrought iron railing. He liked it. The realtor had told him it was unoccupied; so, he walked to the house, climbed the four steps to the porch and peered in the windows. The room on the right of the front door was the living room with a room of almost similar size to the left, this one lined with bookshelves. Behind the study was an entry into what appeared to be the dining room. He was standing at the top of the steps, leaning on his cane and surveying the golf course across the street when a green Lexus pulled up behind his pickup. Wow, he thought, as the realtor exited her car, Fort Worth could get more interesting in a hurry. The realtor’s biography on her website put her around forty, but she looked thirty. He guessed she was about five feet, four inches tall. Her short, auburn hair glistened in the afternoon sun. She wore blue pants and a long-sleeved white shirt open at the collar just enough to show a hint of cleavage. As she approached, Jack saw her eyes were emerald green, his new favorite color.
    Colby Stripling glanced at the red Dodge Ram pickup as she parked. When she walked toward the house, she saw a middle-aged man wearing a white T-shirt, jeans, cowboy boots and a Texans cap.
Why am I wasting time on this guy? Maybe I can take him out west of town and sell him a tract house, something he can afford
, she thought. Still she put on her best realtor’s smile and reached out her right hand. “Good afternoon. I’m Colby Stripling.”
    “Pleased to meet you, Colby,” Jack replied. “Name’s Jackson Bryant. Call me Jack. I’ve already taken the virtual tour of this place, and I like it. The owner willing to come off that five million he’s been asking for the past eight months?”
    Colby decided to cut this showing short. “Look, Mr. Bryant, It’s tough to get a mortgage of any kind in this economy. Do you really think you can get one for a house this size?”
    Jack grinned. “No, ma’am. I was just figuring to pay cash. Now can we have a look around?”
    Still not sure if this guy was for real, Colby nodded and unlocked the front door. She stepped aside so Jack could get the full effect of the two story entry with its crystal chandelier and curving staircase to the second floor. Jack stepped in and nodded his approval as Colby turned to show him the living room. Next they entered the study and made their way back through