North Dallas Forty by Peter Gent

Author:Peter Gent [Gent, Peter]
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 978-1-4532-2071-9
Publisher: Open Road Media
Published: 2011-08-24T04:00:00+00:00

Friday

THE MORNING WAS COOL and crisp. The dew wet my boots as I walked to the car. The late fall sun was reassuringly warm as I guided the Buick through the front pasture toward the gate. Charlotte had looked beautiful on the kitchen steps, waving and telling me to come right back. I fought a melancholy premonition that told me not to leave but to stay there forever, raising cattle and watching the sun come up. First, though, I would have to deal with New York, Seth Maxwell, B.A., Clinton Foote, Conrad Hunter, fear, and me. Then I would stay there forever. I knew it the moment I stepped out the door, that was where I wanted to be. The new Brangus steer stared at me through the corral fence as I drove away.

The gate was open. As I drove through, a black fist shot out of the cottage window.

“Be cool, brother,” David’s voice rang out.

If I only could.

I waved and honked. What could I yell back? Power to the people?

I honked again as I turned onto the blacktop and sped toward the Look Magazine All American City.

The boarding gate was crowded with family, well wishers, and press people. Most of the team were milling around in the embarkation lounge drinking coffee and soft drinks served by brightly uniformed Braniff ground hostesses.

I had stopped by the house to change clothes and pick up some luggage, including my portable record player. I sat the record player down and looked around to see who else had arrived.

Art Hartman sat propped in the corner of the lounge. His head hung down on his chest and a gray 100X Resistol with a Fort Worth crease covered his eyes.

“Art?” I said, standing directly in front of him and bending down to try and look under the brim of his hundred-dollar hat.

“Uh.” His body shook slightly from the effort of the grunt but he made no move to look up.

“Art?”

“Yeah ... yeah.” He raised his head slightly and pushed the hat back with his thumb. He was unshaven and peered up at me with one horribly bloodshot eye.

“God,” I said. “What happened to you?”

“I spent a week with Maxwell, last night,” he moaned, trying to sit straight up. He kept sliding back into a slump.

“We went out for a beer and met these two gals,” he continued, smacking his lips and running his tongue along the insides of his cheeks as though his mouth were full of peanut butter. “They turned out to be married to guys that worked the night shift at Texas Instruments. Christ! What a night. Look at this.” He pushed back the brim of his hat to reveal a scab the size of a postage stamp on his forehead.

“A fight?”

“Fight—” he snorted out a painful laugh, wincing at the throbbing in the skull. “She bit me.”

“What’d you do? Try to rape her?”

“Me?” he exclaimed. “She raped me. God almighty, she couldn’t get enough. She made so much noise her kids woke up.”

“Jesus, Art, that’s really second-rate.

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