Texas 3 results

Starting a church of one’s own down South

Mob Rule: Part 34 As the sweat pours down like a late summer thunderstorm, Jack realizes the South makes its own rules that may, or may not, be entirely legal By John Armstrong We got back to the ranchhouse in the early afternoon, already so hot you could feel drops of sweat pop up on your body, run down your skin and evaporate before they got to the bottom. Lyndon had lent us cowboy hats for the ride, and I felt a little silly wearing mine until I learned your brains would literally bake without one. I did try fanning myself with it but it was like trying to cool yourself off with the air from a blast furnace and no real relief at all. I fully understood the idea of the siesta now and all I wanted was to lie somewhere in front of a fan with as little clothing as possible. I didn’t even care if Vanessa joined me or not; the idea of anything more strenuous than a nap seemed preposterous. But it was not to be. Bobby, Sydney, and Otis wanted Lyndon and I for a general ...

Texas hold ’em, then crush ’em

Mob Rule: Part 33 Jack ponders his place in the deck after a long ride on Lyndon B. Johnson's ranch that ends in a rickety shithouse By John Armstrong That night we slept in cool, fresh-ironed sheets while coyotes sang a lullaby through the open windows. I woke up with a smile, ready to eat again and go ride a bull, or perhaps just a horse to start with. I got my wish. After breakfast Lyndon asked if we’d like to ride out with him and see the house he was born in. His wife, whose name really did seem to be ‘Bird” though the hands called her Miz Johnson unfailingly, packed lunches and filled thermoses with water and tea. Vanessa was experienced with horses but I had some difficulty actually getting up onto the mine, a big bay named Baldy. Not that he lacked for hair; Lyndon said horses with a white patch on their face were commonly called bald-faced. I’d never actually seen one in the flesh and it was something else entirely to stand beside one. Do you have any ...

Courting the vote

Mob Rule: Part 31 The campaign begins to blur into a never-ending series of speeches, hotel rooms and handshakes until Lyndon B. Johnson offers Jack some Texas-style hospitality By John Armstrong It was just after ten when the phone rang. Personally, I had no plans to get up ever again unless forcibly removed at gunpoint. We were still in bed with a room service breakfast going cold on a tray; somewhere between the coffee and the first slice of toast it had been jettisoned in favor of more pressing activities. I stuck a pillow over it and it stopped for second then began ringing again almost immediately. Ignoring it further would just bring someone to knock on the door, so I kissed her one more time and picked it up and was told my presence was required in Bobby and Sydney’s war room. I begged 10 minutes to shower and then had to drag a naked woman halfway to the bathroom before she let me go. I tell you, that kind of thing does wonders for a man’s self-image. Two floors ...