Assassination in Galveston by A. Hardy Roper

Author:A. Hardy Roper
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: texas, cuba, espionage, galveston, bolivar, spy, fidel castro, hugo chavez, raul castro, cuban economy, army intel officer, cuban expatriot, missle crisis
Publisher: A. Hardy Roper

Chapter Thirty-One

Sunday, May 26 - Monday, May 27

Back at The Garhole, my mind wouldn’t let go. Stubbs’ vow to get the family land back seemed more than a casual comment. He was either consumed with self-pity or totally delusional. The idea of a man with no legs and no money battling a huge ranching corporation sounded pretty far-fetched to me. Then he became evasive and wouldn’t tell me how he planned to do it. Strange. I also couldn’t figure his adamant disregard for the VA and the army. Hell, the entire government.

I called Harry Stein. When he answered with a drugged-sounding voice, I knew I’d screwed up.

“Parker, you know better than to call me on Sunday afternoon.”

“Whoa, I’m sorry, Harry. Forgot about your nap.”

“Well, I’m awake now, thanks to you.”

“Real quick, and I’ll let you get back to it. You said 1845 was the last reported sighting of a Karankawa.”

“So?”

“So, remember the vet I told you I was going to see on Bolivar, Joe Stubbs?”

“Yes.”

“Well...the story Stubbs told me was that in the 1850s a local farmer found two half-starved orphans somewhere on Bolivar. The farmer took them in. The boy was killed in the Civil War, but the girl married a Stubbs, who Joe claims was his grandfather. Think it’s possible?”

“Sounds like a bunch of baloney to me,” Harry replied.

“Stubbs also claims his family owned a thousand acres on Bolivar, and a corporation stole it during the depression when the old man couldn’t pay the taxes. Says he’s got a plan to get it back.”

“Did he say what the plan was?”

“No. That’s all I got out of him.”

“I can check out his land claim through county records,” Harry said. “The rest of it is just too weird.”

“He’s alienated everyone he knows on Bolivar, even the local VFW members. The only friend he has left is Waylon Plum, an old Marine who runs a barbecue hut in Crystal Beach called ‘Porky’s Last Stand.’”

“That’s a hoot of a name,” Harry said. “Too bad I don’t eat pork.”

*

The next morning just after sunup, I drove to the beach for my five-mile jog. Forty yards from shore, two anglers stood chest high, casting lures into the calm surf. The morning sun glistened off their rod tips, sending a shimmering glare across the water.

Along the run, I watched several more fishermen trying their luck. I knew as the sun rose higher and heated the surf, the trout would move to deeper water, ending the fishing. That meant some of the regulars would be coming in wanting their morning brew and something to eat.

Back at The Garhole, I’d just finished boiling a second batch of shrimp when I heard a car drive into the parking area. I walked to the front of the bar, pulled up the hinged wall, and hooked it to the overhead latches. Open for business. The nondescript car in the parking lot looked like a rental. Inside, a woman checked her makeup in the visor mirror.

I went back behind the counter and waited, hoping it wasn’t another realtor wanting to list my property.

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