North Dallas Forty Read Free

fenders of the truck.
    The decision was made to road hunt. I was elected to drive. Maxwell sat next to me. The two assassins remained on the fenders.
    As we drove slowly along the gravel road, Maxwell ferreted another bottle of bourbon from beneath the seat. We passed it back and forth. The warmth of the liquor was relaxing me. I tried to settle back and enjoy the day. It was Monday, our day off. The day before we had beaten St. Louis—through no small effort on my part. There was no reason why I shouldn’t be having fun.
    As I reached for the hundred-proof bourbon the booming shotguns turned my attention back to the road.
    “You got him, O.W.,” Jo Bob laughed, barely keeping his balance on the fender. “Right in the ass.”
    “Goddammit,” Meadows howled, “I spoiled the meat.” They both laughed insanely, beating their thighs with open hands.
    A gray-striped cat was trying to pull itself off the road with its forepaws, its hindquarters shredded by a double load of number six shot. I stopped the truck and Maxwell grabbed his shotgun.
    “Jesus Christ, you two.” Maxwell was angry. He raised his gun and shot the tortured animal again. The force of the shot slammed the cat limply into the ground and made it skid several feet. A hind foot kicked out twice, stiffly. The animal twisted its head up and died. Maxwell looked at the dead cat, then back at his smirking teammates. He shook his head and crawled back into the cab.
    “They’re fucking crazy,” I said.
    “Naw,” Maxwell disagreed. “Just tryin’ to relax and have a good time.”
    I grabbed the bottle and took a long, stinging swig.
    “Well, I can’t relax as long as they got the guns.”
    “We’ll head back to Fort Worth in a bit.”
    “Do I have to ride in the back again?”
    Maxwell looked at me and shrugged.
    I had to and by the time we reached the Big Boy Restaurant where we had left our cars, I was numb. We returned cold, tired, drunk, and empty-handed. Jo Bob had thrown the remaining doves at passing cars.
    “Jo Bob, you take my car,” Maxwell ordered. “I’ll ride with Phil. We’ll catch you at Crawford’s place.”
    Jo Bob and Meadows looked quizzically at each other. They didn’t understand Maxwell’s desire to hunt or drink with me. His riding all the way back to Dallas in my car was pure bedevilment. I enjoyed their confusion.
    It was late afternoon. In a last gasp the sun had burned away the gray sky and had disappeared into the Panhandle. The air had warmed some and the best part of the day remained. Being in Texas is a skin feeling, strongest this time of day. There is a softness to the twilight. The days could be overpowering in their sun-soaked brightness, not so much now since the smog, but still incredibly vibrant. This afternoon, it was the predark peace that I needed, a quiet power I had never felt in the changing gray of the Midwest or the choking paranoia of New York.
    I love Texas, but she drives her people crazy. I’ve wondered whether it’s the heat, or the money, or maybe both. A republic of outlaws loosely allied with the United States, Texas survives, and survives quite well by breaking the rules. Now there is a new generation of Texans who want to do away with the rules. The old resist violently, unable to conceive of that dream of wealth, devoid of any rules to break.
    I took out my keys and bent to unlock my car, a brand-new honey-beige Buick Riviera with all the extras, an embarrassing car. Maxwell had sent me to the Buick dealer who sponsors his television show. He swore the guy would give me a great deal. I had wanted a used Opel.
    In one hour, the sales manager (the dealer had been too busy to talk to me) showed me how “for practically the same money” I could own a new Riviera and all the accompanying good feelings.
    A good salesman knows the purchaser is totally without sense—why else would anyone ask a salesman anything? Once you speak to a salesman you have shown your hole card. I not only spoke,