Southern Select (The Dutch Curridge Series Book 2)

by Tim Bryant

  "That's so many different songs, it's whatever you want it to be," he said.

  I asked Cholly if he knew Cat Man, and he said He'd known Cat Man long as he could remember knowing anybody. He didn't want to tell me where he lived though.

  "I don't work for the Sheriff no more," I said. "I'm working for Cat Man himself."

  Cholly laughed hard at that.

  "You working for Cat Man. Don't that beat all."

  On my way back to the truck, I saw an elderly woman walking a bag of groceries home from the Ninth Street Grocery, a block south of the pool hall. I asked her where she was going. She pointed toward Grove Street, so I walked her and those groceries right past Cholly and up to her front door. On the way, I heard her whole life story. How her husband William had gone to war in the Philippines, fighting for his country, but came back all shot up and without a job. How he'd begged for a job for a few years, then begged for money for a few more, then fell asleep on the railroad track one day while he was waiting to hitch a ride and got sliced into three separate parts.

  "You wanna know the funny part?" she said. "Well, it's sad, really, but it's kinda funny too."

  "Sure I do," I said.

  "When they buried him in New Trinity, they only buried two of the parts. I wouldn't of believed it, if I hadn't seen it with my own two eyes."

  I didn't have the heart to ask which part they'd thrown out. She thanked me for being a gentleman, and I thanked her for the story.

  "You don't happen to know if Omer Simms lives around this neighborhood, do you?"

  "Is he of any relation to Chauncey Simms?" she said.

  I took a chance.

  "I believe he might be."

  "Chauncey Simms and his family lives on Hatcher Street, down in Stop Six now," she said. "They been moved down there for a long time now. Longer than William's been gone."

  I didn’t spend a lot of time in Stop Six anymore, but it had once been like a second home to me, so I knew it well enough. Vita Calhoun still lived there on Dildock Street, just around the corner from Hatcher. I had promised Miss Vita that I would look in on her from time to time, and I had failed miserably at that, so much that it felt foolish to try to make up for it now. I gave the old lady a twenty dollar bill and wished her well.

  Turns out I almost didn't recognize Miss Vita's house. Someone had given it a coat of white paint. The old fence had been torn down, and there wasn’t a chicken in sight. An old hound dog lay on the porch, a big wide porch which was also new to me.

  Around the corner and down a few blocks, I found the Simms house. It was smaller than Miss Vita's, having all been built at the same time where her's had been expanded on several times over the years, but it was a nicer place. I pulled into the driveway and parked behind a 1940 Plymouth Roadking. I'd once bought a 1934 Austin Chummy off Junious Banks so he could purchase a Roadking.

  A man walked out onto the porch of the house and straight down into the yard. He was dressed in a suit coat and an undershirt.

  "This the Simms residence?" I said.

  "It is," he said.

  "You Chauncey Simms?"

  "That I am."

  "I have something I need to give Omer," I said.

  I reached across the seat of the truck and brought the guitar across. When he saw what it was, he stepped back and held his hand up.

  "I'd appreciate it if you just take that thing and move on along," he said. "I really don't want any of you guys coming around here no more."

  Chauncey probably knew about the guitar, the compartment, the drugs, the whole shebang. If so, just my standing there with it in my hand put me in some bad company. For all I knew, he thought there was money inside it, and I was making a delivery.

  "Your pop hired me to get this back for him," I said. "Other than that, I got no skin in this game."

  A little girl came out on the porch and was walking back and forth, listening to us talk. Cat Man's grandkid. The scene was surprising domestic. I would have never guessed.

  "If I can just give it to him, I'll be on my way."

  No note was made of its dreadful condition.

  "My dad isn't here," Chauncey said. "He hasn't been here for a few days. I don't know when he's coming back."

  "He okay?" I said.

  "He'll be fine," Chauncey said.

  That's how I came to add Miss Kay to my guitar collection. James Alto took the strings off of her, glued her back together in a few places, then cut a piece of wood and used it to fill in the rest. When he was through, he shined her up and put new strings on her, and I bet even Cat Man wouldn't have recognized her. "Battercake Blues" never sounded so good.

  35

  My mama used to say "the rain falls harder on poor folks." I knew what she meant. When I walked into the Fort Worth Sheriff's Department, I was tired of getting soaked. Sheriff King had agreed to arrange a meeting between Jack Naylor, Melvin Chambers and me. I knew King and probably Mitchell were also going to be there, so I brought Slant Face and James Alto to be in my corner. All the way over to the department headquarters, they had pushed and pried, trying to get me to spill the beans. By the time we arrived, I wasn't sure I wanted them there, and I don't think they thought I was being very cooperative either. To be honest, I didn't really have any particular beans to spill. I wasn't sure exactly what I was going to say. A lot of it depended on a man I'd never met before.

  King made me feel right at home by setting the meeting up in the box. The interrogation room. He said it was the only room with a table that wasn't being used for something more important. We were off to a fine start. Jack Naylor was there when we arrived, dressed in a black suit with a tie. He was a smart looking guy, neatly trimmed mustache and a smile that looked like his son's. If he was trying not to look like an FBI special agent, he was failing miserably. He introduced himself and shook my hand. I wondered if he always dressed like that or he thought the occasion warranted it.

  Naylor, Melvin Chambers, Sheriff King and Dewey Mitchell sat themselves down, in that order, on the law side of the table. That left me, Slant Face and James Alto, who decided to bring his harmonica along, to sit on the suspect side. I knew it was the suspect side, and they knew I knew.

  "Dutch, I've called this meeting today at your request," Sheriff King said. "I've asked everyone else to steer clear. This is a private meeting. I think we're all on the same page, we got the same goal in mind, and that's to bring the person who's done these killings at Peechie Keen's Bar & Canteen to justice."

  Like me, the Sheriff liked to hear himself talk.

  "Since you're the one who called this meeting," he said, "I'll just call it to order and let you say whatever you want to say."

  I pulled the flask out of my coat pocket and took a pull for luck.

  "I just have three or four questions," I said. "Most of them are for Mr. Naylor. Assuming that he has the lion's share of intelligence on both Patrick Cavanaugh and his brother Anthony Cavanaugh."

  Melvin had his folder with him, but Naylor had a box. It wasn't a large box, but it held four or five times the papers that Melvin had. What I wanted was to go fishing through that box for a few hours and then continue with the meeting. I knew that wasn't about to happen.

  "Mr. Naylor, has the FBI been able to keep any kind of eye on Dr. Anthony Cavanaugh?"

  Naylor dug into his box, as if he was looking for the answer there, but then he stopped.

  "As far as I'm aware, Anthony Naylor is not a legitimate doctor," he said. "However, the Dallas field office hasn't made Anthony Cavanaugh a priority. You'd probably be better off contacting our people in Chicago or even Springfield."

  "I'm a private eye in Fort Worth, and I've heard that he's been in Thunder Bay, Ontario. Surely I don't know more than the FBI."

  "I've heard those rumors," Naylor said, "but they're only rumors as far as I know."

  "Do you know that Patrick Cavanaugh was in the U.S. Army from 1917 until 1929?"

  "Yes. I'm not sure of the years, but I know he was in
the Army. I know he served during World War I."

  "And was Anthony Cavanaugh also in the Army?" I said.

  "I understand that he wasn't accepted because he had flat feet," Naylor said.

  I hadn't known this bit of information, and I wrote it down. It didn't seem important, but sometimes you only see important in your rearview mirror.

  "Was there any other organization that either Patrick or Anthony was a member of?" I said.

  "Either? Both of them?" Naylor said.

  "Either or both of them," I said.

  Naylor looked at Chambers. Chambers shrugged.

  "I'll have to look over my notes," Naylor said.

  I took another drink and raised my bottle to Wiley, who didn't seem amused by my toast or the line of questioning. He looked at his watch and shook his head.

  "Anthony Cavanaugh was a member of the Oak Park Council Knights of Columbus. That membership was rescinded when he was indicted. He was a member of the Illinois State Medical Society. That was rescinded as well. Membership in the American Medico-Psychological Association seems to still be active."

  "That says a lot," King said.

  "And now what about Patrick Joseph Cavanaugh?"

  Naylor shuffled his papers around.

  "Patrick was a member of the Veterans of World War I and a member of the Veterans of Foreign Wars. He was a member of the Woodsmen Of The World Lodge and a member in good standing of the Bartenders Union of Illinois."

  Slant Face and Alto were leaning forward in their seats. So was Dewey Mitchell. King was leaned back, almost to the point of tipping over, with a cigar in his mouth. He was no longer staring at his watch.

  "To change the subject just a little," I said, "who is Walter P. Bismuke?"

  I had considered asking Bismuke himself to the meeting, but I was glad I hadn't.

  "I would like Melvin Chambers to answer this one first, and then Mr. Naylor."

  Melvin didn't bother opening his file.

  "Walter P. Bismuke was a known associate of Anthony Cavanaugh," Chambers said. He sounded nervous, like he was on the suspect side of the table. "He also knew Patrick Cavanaugh and came to Fort Worth with Patrick in, I believe it was 1953."

  "Do you know why he came to Texas?" I said.

  Chambers looked uncomfortable.

  "Is this off the record?"

  I looked to Wiley King.

  "You're not under arrest. Nothing you say is very likely to be held against you."

  Chambers coughed and cleared his throat.

  "I believe Patrick and Walter were working to either help Anthony Cavanaugh elude capture or help him retain as much of his money as possible, and probably both."

  I looked at Naylor.

  "Who is Walter P. Bismuke?"

  "The P stands for Philip," he said.

  That brought a chuckle or two.

  "And I think Chambers got most of it right. We know he had a close relationship with Anthony Cavanaugh. That's what put him on our radar."

  I only had one more question, and I wasn't sure of it. I didn't know exactly how to phrase it. I wasn't even sure what kind of answer I was hoping for. I considered tossing it out.

  "Do any of you have any leads on the case, specifically on the killer of Patrick Cavanaugh? Anything up your sleeve, any hunches, any information that isn't already public knowledge?"

  Wiley leaned forward.

  "Goddamn it, Curridge, if this was all a ploy for inside information, I'll have you arrested."

  "What's the charge?"

  "Wasting my time."

  "The FBI has nothing," Naylor said.

  I couldn't tell if he was holding back. I wanted to think I could trust him, but I knew better.

  "I got nothing," Melvin Chambers said. "You can look over my files."

  I was out of moves. I looked at Wiley King.

  "I hate to hurt your feelings, Curridge," he said, "but, at this point, we're looking at this as a case of somebody out to get the town's bartenders. We've got a tip that something is going down at the Crystal Springs on Friday. We've got two, maybe three agents assigned to the place, keeping an eye on things. We've already contacted the bartender pulling duty that night. With any luck, we'll have this guy off the street in time for your friend's Sunday morning paper."

  Melvin looked pleased. I wasn't.

  "Who called in the tip?" I said.

  "Shit if I know," King said, "if I knew that, I probably wouldn't be sitting here."

  "I believe it was a telegram," Dewey Mitchell said.

  "Did they specifically say that a bartender's life was in danger?"

  "I believe they said something or somebody was going down."

  Mitchell looked at King.

  "Can we divulge?"

  King stood up.

  "Go on."

  "The main reason we agreed to the meeting," Mitchell said, "we got a tip on this thing on Friday night. And the tip suggested bringing you into the case."

  Me. They were looking at me.

  "I got nothing to do on Friday night."

  Wiley didn't seem happy. He sat down again.

  "Not so fast, hot shot," he said. "I'm willing to consider it, but you were supposed to give us something in exchange. You wanna cough that up now?"

  It felt like my good luck pull was long gone, so I took another longer sip and tried to focus my mind. It was all math. One number after another, all adding up to something true. Something you could check on and rely on. All I had to do was focus my mind and hope the word that came out of it would be focused as well.

  36

  "The man buried in Mount Olivet is indeed Patrick Joseph Cavanaugh," I said. "But the man who worked at Peechie Keen's Bar & Canteen wasn't. His name is Anthony Cavanaugh, and he's probably packing his bags and getting ready for a long vacation somewhere down in Mexico right now. Possibly after Friday night."

  Wiley King shot up out of his chair again, and this time Dewey Mitchell followed. He had a look on his face, but it wasn't a look of disbelief.

  "Can you confirm that?"

  I told him that I was pretty sure I could.

  The way I figured it, the real Patrick Cavanaugh had shown up out of the blue. Maybe he'd just found out where his brother was hiding out. Maybe he'd gotten word that someone was claiming to be him.

  "Anthony saw it as an opportunity," I said. "It explains the gunshots to the face. He knew it would make identification almost impossible. He also knew the fingerprints would prove to be Patrick."

  "With him dead, Anthony would be free to split for Mexico," Slant Face said.

  I glanced at him and smiled.

  "After Walter Bismuke and Adolphus Merriweather were sent to grab as much of his loot as possible," I said.

  "This makes a real good story," King said, "but you got any evidence?"

  "It didn't add up for me," I said. "I knew Bismuke was loyal to Anthony Cavanaugh. That much was known. So why would he come to Texas with Patrick? It made more sense that he would be close to the good doctor."

  Wiley rolled his eyes.

  "That sounds sweet and all, but it ain't hardly evidence. If what you say is true, why kill Hick Hinson too?"

  I kept talking.

  "Why would he not?" I said. "He did it throw us off. Make us think it was something personal. Something to do with Peechie's or with barkeeps. And some of us fell for it."

  I looked at Wiley.

  "Anything else you got?" he said.

  "I was confused about one of the tattoos on Patrick's arm," I said. "The MOM tattoo. I'd never heard Patrick talk about his family, so it seemed strange that he would have a MOM tattoo. I know I'm not very close to my own mama, and you can search me. I don't have any MOM tattoos anywhere."

  "It's not a MOM tattoo," said Jack Naylor.

  "Right," I said. "It took me awhile to realize. I had been looking at it upside down there on the table. It was a WOW tattoo."

  "Woodsmen of the World," said Naylor.

  "Patrick Cavanaugh, as w
e know, was a member of the Woodsmen," I said.

  "So we know that's Patrick in Mount Olivet," King said. "You've proven that point. What else have you proven?"

  "I knew right from the first, it wasn't the Patrick Cavanaugh I knew. The more evidence we got that it was, the more troubled I got. I started questioning myself. Then, when I got over that, I started questioning Patrick. I started questioning the man I thought had been Patrick."

  "It makes more sense than anything I've got," Naylor said.

  The entire room changed at that point. It was as if the tables had literally turned.

  "Anthony Cavanaugh is laying low somewhere, waiting for money," I said. "When he gets that money, it's Katie bar the door. Mexico here we come. Now, I'm willing to bet there may be a hand-off Friday night at Crystal Springs. If you guys all want to opt out, that'll leave me, Slant Face Sanders and James Alto to bring this guy in. I'm willing to bet we can do that."

  "I'm willing to put a couple of our agents on this," Naylor said.

  It was Sheriff King's moment of truth.

  "I told you, I'd have two deputies keeping a look out," he said. "That's all I can do."

  When we adjourned the meeting, I felt pretty good. I didn't mention the money to Wiley, and he didn't bring it up either. He quietly disappeared, and left Dewy Mitchell to see us out to the parking lot.

  "See you Friday night?" I said.

  "You may or may not see me," he said. "You can bet your boots I'll be there."

  37

  That Friday evening, Slant Face, James Alto and I met up at the Crystal Springs Dance Pavilion on White Settlement Road. The Maddox Brothers and Rose rolled into town in a line of white Cadillacs, having just played Amarillo two nights before. A popular act from the West Coast, they were playing their way to the Louisiana Hayride over in Shreveport and then up to the Grand Ole Opry. They put on a hell of a show, but the support acts, guitar players Joe Maphis and Merle Travis, were every bit as good.

  Sadly, we weren’t there for fun and entertainment. We were there to spoil a possible meeting between two unidentified people in a crowd. One might or might not be Anthony Cavanaugh or whatever you wanted to call him, and if it was, he would very likely be in disguise. On the other hand, one or both might be accomplices of Anthony Cavanaugh, delivering somewhere between a hundred and two hundred grand to help finance his Mexican retirement. In other words, we weren’t sure what we were looking for, but we were pretty positive whoever showed up— if they did show up— wouldn’t expect us to be waiting for them. Maybe— just maybe— that would give us a small edge.