by Bill Crider
Some of the records I wanted might not be on the bank's computer, however. They were probably too old.
"No problem," Johnny said, lifting his hat and running a hand over his bald spot. "They'll be on microfilm or fiche or something like that. All I have to do is locate the right bank. That'll take a little longer, but not much."
What he meant was that he'd have to get to the records in person, but I had no doubt that he could do it. If he chose to, he could look like a bank examiner or an oil millionaire from Odessa depending on what the occasion demanded. And he had the credentials to go along with the look. As the Texas expression has it, he cleaned up real good.
I told him what I wanted and asked how long he thought it would take.
"No doubt you wanted all this stuff about two hours ago," he said, settling his hat back on his head.
I admitted that he was right.
He sighed. "I wish just once somebody would come and ask me to get something they didn't need until next month."
"Never happen," I said. "Everybody's in a hurry these days. And by the way, Dino's paying."
Johnny's eyes lit up when I mentioned Dino. "Now there's somebody who'd appreciate my tank!"
"Don't even think it," I said.
"Hey, what're you talking about? Old Dino's been hiding out for so long that he'd be the perfect candidate." He gave the tank a fond look. "Can you think of a better way to withdraw from the world?"
I couldn't, of course. And that was just the trouble. Despite the fact that Dino had been doing much better lately, I was afraid that if he got into that tank, he might never come out.
"Forget it," I said. "Just do what I asked. OK?"
"You don't have to get pissy. If you want Dino to get out of the house, you should encourage him."
"I do. He and Evelyn have been out to see me a couple of times. I took him to eat at Shrimp and Stuff the other day."
"Get him to come over here. I won't even show him the tank. I promise."
I didn't see how he could avoid showing it to anyone, considering where it was sitting. Maybe he'd put a cloth over it and tell Dino it was some kind of altar to Poseidon. Anyone who knew Jimmy would probably believe it.
"I'll try to get him over," I said. "But don't count on it."
"I won't."
He stood up with no trouble at all. I had to struggle with the beanbag and got out of it only with difficulty.
"You're getting old, Tru," Johnny said.
"It's just that damn chair," I said.
He laughed. "Sure it is. Where are you going to be the rest of the day?"
I told him that I wasn't sure.
"Well, give me a call about five-thirty. If I'm going to find out anything, I'll know by then. And don't worry about having Dino pay me. This one's on the house."
"Dino has the money," I said.
"So do I. Don't sweat it."
That was fine with me.
I needed something to sit on top of Dino's chicken pot pie, so I went by McDonald's and got a quarter pounder with cheese, some fries, and a frozen yogurt. Yogurt is health food, isn't it?
Then I thought I might as well go home and read a few chapters of Thomas Wolfe while I waited for the news from Johnny Bates.
Going home was a mistake.
Alex Minor found me there.
Twenty-Nine
I'd been reading and listening to some CDs. Not Elvis this time. Leon Redbone. I'm a sucker for Leon Redbone, and I'm ashamed to admit what happened next. I went to sleep.
I don't usually sleep in the afternoons, especially when I'm listening to Leon. I suppose it was because I'd had a hard week, not to mention a mild concussion and several other bumps and abrasions. And then there were the drugs they'd given me in the hospital. Maybe it was the drugs. Or maybe it was the chicken pot pie.
Whatever it was, I was drowsing in the recliner with the book open on my lap. Nameless was asleep too, but then Nameless is nearly always asleep. I've told him more than once that he's completely worthless as a watch cat, and he proved it again. He didn't even hear Minor enter the house.
Of course I couldn't really blame Nameless. I didn't hear anything either.
I'm not sure what woke me up.
Maybe it was Minor looming over me.
Maybe it was Leon Redbone singing "Roll Along Kentucky Moon," which happens to be one of my particular favorites on the "Sugar" CD.
One thing was for sure; it wasn't Nameless who sounded the alarm. He was still sleeping soundly on the bed, one paw draped over his eyes.
I tried to sit up in the chair, but Minor reached out a hand as wide as the hardback copy of Look Homeward, Angel that I was reading and just about as thick. He gave a little shove and pushed me back down.
He wasn't wearing his lawyer suit today. He was wearing jeans and a T-shirt that proved to me his muscles were just as big as I'd imagined they would be.
"I didn't hear the door," I said.
He smiled, which didn't improve his looks. "I didn't knock. You should try locking it."
Somehow I had a feeling that a lock wouldn't have stopped him.
"Nice music," he said. "Leon Redbone?"
"That's right. Are you a fan?"
"I have a couple of albums, but not that one."
"I could tape it for you." I thought about adding, "If you don't kill me," though I thought better of it.
"Never mind," he said. "I'll pick it up one of these days." He pointed to the copy of Look Homeward, Angel. "How's the book?"
"You tell me."
"Underrated," he said. "People don't read Wolfe much these days, and the professors don't like to teach him because he doesn't lend himself very well to the kind of highbrow analysis that Faulkner does, for example, but the son of a bitch could write."
Damn. I was sorry I'd said anything. He probably went to law school, too.
"I guess you didn't come here to discuss literature," I said.
"You guess right."
"So what did you come for?"
"I came because you don't strike me as the kind of man I can buy very easily."
I tried to sound greedy. "You never know until you try."
He didn't smile this time. "I know enough."
"Tell me something," I said. "Gerald Barnes didn't send you here the first time, did he?"
"Another good guess. This must be your lucky day."
Irony, yet. Minor had probably majored in literature. But I was sure that he had talents that he hadn't developed in his classes on literary devices.
"So it was Zintner," I said. "And good old Dale. Now there are a couple of guys you could buy."
He didn't bother to deny it. "They thought you might find Mercer before they could. Apparently they were wrong."
I didn't say anything. Maybe if he thought I'd found Harry, he'd go away.
He didn't go anywhere, however. He said, "I'm sorry about this, Smith. But it's business."
He reached behind his back for his pistol, and that's when I did what a judge should have done a long time ago.
I threw the book at him.
The corner hit him right above the left eye, opening a little cut and causing him to jerk his head to the right. I made and awkward jump out of the chair and tried to tackle him. It was like trying to tackle an oak tree. He hardly even moved.
I did, however, have his arms pinned to his sides, and he couldn't get to the pistol he'd been reaching for. He strained against me, and I knew I couldn't hold him like that for very long.
So I let him go.
He was so surprised that he almost fell. His arms flew out and up, and when they did I hit him in the gut with all I had. It was a little like hitting the sidewalk, but because he was already off balance, he stumbled backward.
I was sorry about what I did next, but I wasn't really thinking clearly at the time. I threw the CD player at him. The plug ripped out of the wall and the cord whipped along behind like a snaky black tail.
The player wasn't extremely heavy, p
robably not more than twenty-five pounds, but he wasn't able to get his arms up quickly enough, and it hit him pretty squarely in the middle of the forehead, opening up another cut and slamming his head back against the wall.
He hadn't been through as much as I had lately, so it didn't affect him as it would have me. If I'd been hit like that, I'd never have gotten up.
Minor did. Shaking his head and wiping his left hand across his face, he struggled to his feet, his right hand reaching for the pistol that I guessed was snugged in the small of his back.
While he was struggling, I was scrabbling on my closet shelf for the Mauser. It was still in the case, and I was glad that for once I'd broken a couple of my rules. I'd left the clip in the pistol.
I pulled the case off the shelf and got it unzipped just as a shot nearly deafened me and a slug tore off half the closet door frame.
Out of the corner of my eye I saw an orange blur as Nameless headed for more congenial surroundings. He was probably pissed that we'd waked him up. The fighting apparently hadn't bothered him, but the pistol shot was too much.
I grabbed the Mauser from the case, turned, dropped to one knee, and pulled the trigger. Minor was shooting too, and the room was filled with the crashing of gunfire.
Under those circumstances, training and ability don't make much difference. What matters is luck, and I was luckier than Minor.
Maybe he was right; maybe it was my lucky day.
He shot the hell out of my wall and closet, but he missed me completely.
I, on the other hand, hit him twice, once in the right shoulder and once in the biceps. Fortunately he was right-handed, and my shots caused him to drop his pistol, which pretty much put him out of commission, considering that I was still holding onto mine.
The room was full of the powder smoke, and the smell stung my nose. I walked over to Minor, who was leaning against the wall, and kicked his pistol under the bed. It was a nickel-plated Sig/Sauer .45.
"You owe me a CD player," I said. "And you probably made me ruin my Leon Redbone CD."
"Fuck that. Get me a doctor."
His shoulder was bleeding freely, though the arm didn't look so bad. Keeping the Mauser on him, I went to the closet and pulled out a towel. I threw it to him, and he caught it with his left hand.
"Hold that on it," I told him. "You'll be fine."
He pressed the towel to his shoulder. The blood started to soak it immediately.
"I need a doctor," he said. "This towel isn't worth a damn."
"It'll have to do until I'm through with you. As soon as we're through talking, I'll call 911."
"I don't have anything to say to you."
"Sure you do. For one thing, you can tell me who you're working for."
He considered it, but then he said, "I can't do that."
"You're going to jail for attempted murder if nothing else," I said. "And maybe the cops can even prove you killed Macklin and Ro-Jo. So you might as well talk."
"They can't prove what's not so," he said. "Call the number, dammit."
He could have been lying, but he was pretty convincing. "You didn't kill Macklin?"
"Hell no. Now get on that phone before I bleed to death."
I didn't think there was any danger of that. And besides, he was making me curious. So I didn't go for the phone.
"If you didn't kill Macklin, why were you looking for Harry?"
"Fuck you, Smith." He took a step forward. "If you don't make the call, I will."
"You take one more step, and I'll shoot your leg out from under you," I said.
I thought for a minute he was going to try it, but he thought better of it and leaned back against the wall. It was just as well. I don't know whether I could have shot him or not.
"Let's try it another way," I said. "I'll tell you something, and you tell me if I'm right."
He shrugged, which could have been either yes or no. He didn't look exactly eager to cooperate, however.
I gave it a try. "I think you're telling the truth about Macklin," I said. "You didn't kill him. Maybe you don't even know who did, and maybe you don't even care."
"You got that right," he said.
"You did kill Ro-Jo, though," I said. "I'm not sure the cops can prove it, but you did it."
He just looked at me, and I could see the answer in his eyes. He'd done it, all right. And after he still couldn't find Harry, he'd gone to Zintner and Becker and bought them off. Or threatened them off. Or maybe a little bit of both.
"I was wrong all along the line about you," I said. "Well, not exactly. I thought you might have killed Ro-Jo. I was right about that, but I was wrong about everything else."
"That's just too damn bad. Now are you going to call 911, or am I going to bleed all over your wall?"
"I'll call," I said. "I think I know all I need to know."
"You didn't get it from me," he said.
"No. You weren't any help at all. But that doesn't make much difference now. I've pretty much got things figured out."
"Maybe you're wrong again."
"Maybe," I said. But I didn't think so.
Thirty
Nameless didn't show up the whole time we were waiting for the ambulance. I suspected that he was behind the refrigerator, which was a place he'd hidden in the past, but I didn't have time to look for him. I had to keep an eye on Minor, who was feeling less and less perky thanks to his blood loss.
I figured that wherever Nameless was, he was fine. And he was probably asleep again. I didn't need to worry about him.
I did, however, have to worry about Gerald Barnes, which was my fault. I'd figured I might as well call him now and get it over with.
When he arrived, I admitted as little as possible. I told him that Minor had tried to kill me because I was looking for Harry Mercer, that I was sure Minor had killed Ro-Jo, and that Minor was probably involved in the murder of Macklin, though he might not have pulled the trigger.
"Can you prove any of this, Smith?" Barnes asked me.
I couldn't, of course. So I told Barnes that was his job. He didn't appreciate my attitude.
"I'd like to take you down to the jail and do some serious talking," he said, as if he missed the old days when he might have been able to use the rubber hose on me.
He had every right to feel that way, I suppose. He was the law, and I'd shot a man, after all. But this was Texas. I'd shot the man in my house, after all, where he'd come without invitation. There wasn't a Grand Jury anywhere in the state that would return an indictment against me.
The case would go to the Grand Jury, no doubt about that, but the D. A. would refer it without any charges; that was the way it usually went.
Barnes knew all that, but he didn't like it. He also didn't like the fact that because I had used my pistol on my own property, there was nothing he could do about it. I couldn't take the gun into town openly, but the law said I could use it in my own defense in my home.
So Barnes basically had to forget about me and be satisfied with Minor, who had already left the premises in the ambulance, under guard.
"You don't think he pulled the trigger on Macklin?" Barnes asked.
"You'll have to run a ballistics test to find that out," I said. "His gun's on the floor in my bedroom."
I really didn't have to tell him about the gun. He knew it already. He'd brought an investigative team with him, and they were going over the bedroom thoroughly while we talked.
"I'll be getting some other ballistics tests back pretty soon," Barnes said, referring to the one he'd be having run on the casings he'd found in the warehouse. "I'll probably be back to talk to you some more."
It was a pretty useless threat, I thought. He wasn't really going to be able to do much.
I said, "If you happen to find out that I fired my pistol in that warehouse, it really won't help you, will it? After all, Ro-Jo wasn't killed by a bullet. He was beaten to death. And Minor did it."
Knowing that I might be right didn't make Barnes any happier.
He still wanted to charge me with something. And he thought I was still holding out on him.
That didn't hurt my feelings, however, because he was right.
It was well after five-thirty when I finally got rid of Barnes and his investigators. Barnes kept after me for as long as he could, trying to get me to admit some complicity in something that he could charge me with, but I didn't give him any satisfaction. He left, but I knew he'd be back.
As soon as he'd driven away, I called Johnny Bates.
"Hey, Tru," he said. "I was beginning to think you'd forgotten about me."
"No, I just had a visitor that didn't know when it was time to leave. Did you get what I asked for?"
"Sure I got it. What did you expect? You want the long version or the short one?"
I told him that I was in a hurry and that the short version would be fine.
"OK. Here it is: I saw the records, and you were right."
That was good news, but even the bank records wouldn't actually prove anything.
"Did you get copies?" I asked.
"Hey." He sounded hurt. "This is Johnny you're talking to. Of course I got copies."
"Great. Give me some of the specifics."
"Don't you want to come over and look at what I have for you?"
"I'll do that tomorrow. I need to know right now."
"All right. Here's the way it went."
He went on to explain that after locating the banks where Macklin and Lytle had accounts, he'd checked the deposits and withdrawals for both Patrick Lytle and Braddy Macklin. Beginning about the time Lytle's wife disappeared and continuing for years afterward, there were regular large withdrawals from Lytle's account. Just as regularly there were large deposits into Macklin's account, almost always for exactly the same amounts that Lytle had withdrawn.
"Thanks, Johnny," I said, and meant it.
"It was easy," he said. "I just --"
"I'd love to hear all about it," I told him. "But let's make it tomorrow. I have something to do tonight, and it won't wait."
"All right, but when you come, bring Dino. I haven't seen him in just about forever."