Texas Tango (A Flint Rock Novel)

by Glenn Smith

  TEXAS TANGO

  A Flint Rock Novel

  by

  Glenn Smith

  Copyright © 2011 by

  Glenn Smith

  All Rights Reserved

  Published through

  Kindle, Inc.

  Foreword

  This is a work of fiction. The plot and characters are my inventions. Any resemblance between characters in the story and real people, alive or dead, is not intended. Most places mentioned are real.

  Chapter 1

  Flint Rock’s smart phone sounded. It was Laura Syms, a woman whom he had recently met in Austin. She proposed they have a drink. “I’ll see you at 4:00 P.M. at the Menger Hotel bar in San Antonio,” she said.

  “Today?” Flint clarified. It was Friday, December 31, already after 2:00 in the afternoon.

  “Yes, today. Unless you are too tied up.”

  Flint, in his early fifties, recently retired as a senior captain with American Airlines, thought for a few seconds. Laura was sexy, physically attractive, smart, energetic, and . . . not much past twenty-five years old. He was divorced, unsure of whether he wanted the challenge of a close friendship with her. He thought of Waylon Jennings singing I've Got Heartaches Older than You.

  “I need to be in Austin by 7:00,” he told her. San Antonio to Austin is only an hour and twenty minutes except in rush hour. If he left the Menger at half past five, he could keep his meeting commitment.

  “Oh," Laura replied. "Well . . . I suppose I can let you loose whenever you need to go. I was thinking that, well . . . that the Menger is a nice hotel. Sort of a shame to waste it, don’t you think?”

  “Yes, the Menger is a nice spot,” he said. He didn’t bother to tell her that he had spent a honeymoon there in the distant past. “But that will have to wait till another day. Would you rather have a drink some other time?” Flint asked.

  “No, today is good. But don’t be surprised if I try to change your mind about a room at the Menger.”

  Flint smiled to himself, let her invitation pass. “I’ll meet you at 4:00.”

  They hung up. Flint was in his house in San Marcos fifty-six miles north of the Menger. It was New Year’s eve. Low clouds suggested rain. It was 68° and humid. A cold front was due any moment, so Flint slipped on a goatskin A2 flight jacket, headed the British racing green Mazda MX5 toward Interstate 35 An hour later he entered a high rise parking lot between the San Antonio River and the Menger. His small car fit into a compact spot on the fourth floor. He made his way to the elevator, walked two blocks and stood in front of the Alamo.

  The Menger Hotel and the Alamo sit next to each other, separated by Bonham Street, facing a small plaza. Flint strolled down to the thick glass doors that define the hotel's front wall. He pulled the smooth brass handle, walked into the lobby. It hadn't changed much since it was new in the 1880s. He admired the plant filled atrium cascading light over a Baldwin player piano. He took a comfortable chair halfway between the front desk and the entrance doors.

  While he waited Flint thought about Laura. There are two kinds of Texas women. Those who belong to the Daughters of the Republic of Texas—that is, had a family member in Texas before statehood in 1846— and those who came later. Laura’s mother was a DRT member. Therefore so was Laura. Flint’s mother, now deceased, was a first generation Texan. Her parents were from Tennessee and North Carolina; however, she couldn’t imagine anyone wanting to live anywhere but Texas. Both mothers used the phrase “our Texas heritage.” It meant something patriotically special that could not be defined and didn't need to be.

  Laura rarely spoke of her own family background. Or of her having been a cheerleader at Southern Methodist University, the most expensive college in the state. She had a cum laude B.A. in journalism from there as well as a J.D. in law. The license plate on her two seat, yellow Honda S 2000 convertible said “Native Texan.” The phrase was printed on the metal plate itself—a special plate that could only be acquired from the DRT.

  Flint’s reverie shifted at the sight of a strikingly beautiful woman who was looking straight at him from where she stood inside of the Menger’s double entry doors. Wind had started kicking up and seemed to have whisked her inside. She smoothed her hair as her eyes and Flint’s met directly. She started in his direction, changed her mind, turned right till she walked behind a pillar in the lobby

  Flint wondered who she was. He noticed that her impeccable, dark blue wool skirt matched her jacket. The Versace silk scarf filling the open neck of her blouse was an abstract original. Her dark hair would have looked great no matter how she wore it. Smooth white tights matched her blouse. No undergarment lines showed anywhere. The shoes—expensive, understated low spike heel pumps by Yves Saint Laurent—were harmonious with her medium sized shoulder bag. One pearl on each ear lobe was the only jewelry. She moved like she had a graduate degree in quiet assurance.

  Flint realized that he was in some other place when he caught himself looking where she had disappeared. He turned his head through a 140° sweep from left to right and saw Laura talking to a person at the front desk. She walked toward him, no slouch in the looks department herself. Flint stood to greet her as she gave him an obligatory peck on the face and a much stronger one on the other cheek. She smelled good, glowed with a confident smile.

  They walked side by side down the hall toward a placard on the wall. It read “Menger Bar.” Just past the sign, Flint pulled open French doors on their left, followed Laura into a richly dark space. The bar had been only eleven years in existence when Teddy Roosevelt used it in 1898 as his headquarters while recruiting Rough Riders to follow him up San Juan Hill in Cuba. Three dozen framed black and white photos of Roosevelt and his men occupied the available wall space. The bar’s interior deliberately replicated a pub near the House of Lords in London. Both bars’ interiors include cherry wood and polished brass throughout, as well as French mirrors and English fixtures.

  At 3:55 P.M., Laura and Flint were the only patrons. Laura ordered a frozen margarita in a glass rimmed with lime and salt. Flint took unsweetened tea. Throughout the South, including Texas, one must specify “unsweet” iced tea or it comes supersaturated with sugar. The outside of the tall glass was already wet from condensing humidity.

  Laura raised her drink. Flint touched his big tea tumbler to the salt on the edge of her glass. As Laura drank, a rivulet of condensation on the crystal bowl of her stemware dripped into her cleavage, causing her to gasp. A tiny shaft of sunlight glinted through her blond hair as she shook her head laughing. Laura asked Flint why he had decided to make a living as a pilot.

  "It was more appealing than running the family ranch," he responded. He started to amplify when the door through which they had entered opened. The stunning woman from earlier at the lobby entryway walked in. She moved straight toward Flint, laid a business looking card on the table in front of him near his drink. She smiled, turned and walked smoothly back through the heavy French doors. The card had written on it: “I have heard how good you are. I want to meet you.” On the other side, in an elegant type face, was a web URL.

  “Ummm!” Laura said. “I have heard how good you are too. I have first dibs.” Flint slipped the card in his shirt pocket. “Any idea who she is?” Laura asked.

  “No clue.”

  “Well, then, let me get you up to speed. Her name is Ava Milan. Doctor Ava Milan, that is. M.D. from the University of Texas Health Science Center in San Antonio and a Ph.D. in psychoanalytic theory from Rice University in Houston. She is in private practice in Austin.” Laura paused then added, “I am one of her clients.”

  “Do you know anything about the card?” Flint wondered as he extracted it from his pocket and handed
it to Laura.

  “It looks like it is a dating service. There is one in New York called Cheekd.com, originated by a woman named Lori Cheek, and another called FlipMedating.com—as in ‘flip the card and see how to meet me.’ Both services use cards with something outrageous on them as well as a web site where one can go online to get in touch if interested. This is the first I have seen in Texas. You have to admit, it’s an easy ice breaker.”

  “I suppose,” Flint replied. “But she doesn’t look like the kind of person who needs help breaking ice. Why doesn’t she simply get you to introduce her?”

  “Not sure. I have only been seeing her for a short time. I don’t believe that I’ve mentioned knowing you. When she handed you the card, she didn’t look at my face. It is rather dark in here. So she may not know that I know you.”

  For the next hour Flint and Laura chatted. A few minutes after 5:00, Flint paid, said he needed to retrieve his car and head north to Austin. Laura pretended to pout, reminded him that she had checked and she could get them a room. He smiled, said he’d take a rain check, left her ordering another margarita.

  Light mist started as Flint walked briskly. He zipped his jacket. The temperature had dropped ten degrees and was still headed down. As he swung open the driver's side door, a woman stepped from the nearby elevator. He recognized her as his and Laura's server at the Menger bar.

  "Sir, Miss Laura said you might need this." She spoke with a coquettish tone. Her extended hand held Ava Milan's ice breaker card.

  "You came all this way in the wet weather!" Flint exclaimed reaching toward her to take the card. "Thank you."

  "Miss Laura already tipped me nicely." As she spoke she seemed to lose her balance. Just before Flint's fingers touched the card, he ended up catching her as she fell into him. The card floated erratically into the space behind the driver's seat. "Oh dear," she gasped as she thanked Flint for steadying her. "Let me get it." She bent, brought the card off of the car's dark carpet and released it into Flint's hand.

  "Let me drop you back at the Menger,” he offered. “No need to walk both ways in drizzle."

  "Thank you. This short skirt is a little chilly." The little sports car was so close to the ground that she wasn’t sure how to manage her long legs as she lowered herself into the right hand seat. Flint noticed without trying that the color of her blouse was an exact match for that of her panties. The drive to Crocket Street took less than three minutes—just long enough for the waitress to reveal that Miss Laura was a repeat customer at the bar. Getting out of the Miata was as awkward for her as getting in. Flint had no choice but to confirm his earlier impression of her preference for color coordination.

  Friday traffic was stop and go till Flint reached Loop 410, then it moved faster. An hour later he was driving 50 mph as traffic got thick approaching Austin. He was approaching Exit 223 when a yellow dump truck on his tail swerved to the next lane catching the left side of the Mazda’s rear bumper. The car spun 360° before rolling.

  Flint hung upside down in the seat belt while his favorite Austin radio station played Ed Bruce singing a song about his first taste of Texas having blue eyes and golden hair.

  Flint struggled unsuccessfully to unlatch his seat belt. It was no use. He relaxed. The Tennessee singer crooned that his first taste of Texas lingered in his heart and on his tongue. EMTs still had not arrived. The DJ's voice announced, “you're listening to KVET, 98.1—the voice of central Texas where we like to color outside of the lines."

  Flint had been upside down quite a few times during his early years as a pilot, but this was his first time inverted in a car. He stayed relaxed by focusing on the radio. “Waylon Jennings was born in Littlefield, Texas,” the DJ said. “In the suburbs of a dry-land cotton patch, in the middle of a West Texas rain.” Flint listened to Waylon say, “and for all you folks out there in radio land who don’t know what a West Texas rain is—well that’s what is commonly known as a sand storm.” Flint remembered a sand storm he had been in near Mason, Texas many years before. He was alone at night, not able to see the flashlight he held a few inches in front of his face. That made his current predicament seem like nothing.

  Medical techs cut the seat belt as Flint heard Waylon say life’s like an old country song: “Times was hard but livin was easy. We always found a way to survive.”

  EMTs rolled Flint toward an ambulance parked in the wide, grassy median between north and south bound lanes of Interstate 35. At a nearby emergency room Flint gave a Department of Public Safety officer a description of the truck, declined hospital admission.

  Flint's insurance company delivered a rental car to him at the ER. He arrived late to Armadillo Sounds, a new recording studio on Congress Avenue. The grand opening party was in full swing. An hour later, Flint wished the owners of the new establishment well and drove back to San Marcos, laid Dr. Eva Milan’s rain spattered "I want to meet you" card on the night table. Dropping off to sleep, he pictured her penetrating eyes.

  Chapter 2

  Sorrento, Italy is seven hours later than Austin, Texas. Bill Murphy was an early riser. He liked to get a run in on the beach where Naples stops and Sorrento begins before all the local fishermen got underway. Saturday morning, New Year's day, was no exception. He'd done the run, soaked in the shower, dressed casually, and strolled up hill to eat breakfast.

  From the Bristol Hotel on a cliff overlooking the Bay of Naples, the Mediterranean appears deep blue, inviting mesmerized stares. From the Bristol’s rooftop restaurant, Murphy gazed absently across the bay. It was half past eight. The waiter placed scones and a pot of coffee on his table as he finished a tall glass of orange juice, freshly squeezed. He had already spent an hour online with a top security clearance code reading files through a server in the CIA building in McLean, Virginia.

  Murphy dialed a number left in a voicemail from Harry Johnson. They had known each other for thirty years, since they served in the same Marine Corps counter intelligence unit. Harry became a Texas Ranger when he left the service. Bill joined the CIA.

  "Texas Rangers. Harry Johnson here."

  "Hello Harry."

  "Hey Murph. Thanks for returning my call so quickly. I am investigating an apparent attempt on the life of Dr. Ava Milan, an Italian born shrink who practices in Austin."

  "So your voice mail said. I understand that you are looking for a motive. I have searched our records, and I've spoken to a reliable asset who is extensively connected here. Twenty years ago, when she was seventeen, Ava Milan associated with a Mafioso boss. She was one of several call girls who occupied his play time. She left Naples as the wife of a U. S. Navy physician just before she turned eighteen. She has maintained telephone contact with a couple of mob people. And she spent some time in India a few years ago. There is a note in the file that she may have known a terrorist there—a fellow named Mohammed Abida Bahaar."

  "Any other names in your records that might help me?"

  “Yes, two. Our government's current interest in terrorism led to a recent Agency reexamination. Ava Milan's activities in India turned up the name of Abdu Koriem. He is an Indian guru to whom she wired a thousand dollars two years ago. No correspondence. There is speculation that Koriem wanted money to adopt two children. Not clear how Milan met him. She seems to have studied hypnosis with him."

  "How about the mob?"

  "The file has transcriptions of six phone conversations between Dr. Milan and a woman in Naples named Gina Francesca Lezioni, the surviving mother of a dead Mafia boss. The transcripts are in Italian. I scanned them quickly. They seem to be laments about the death of Lezioni's son. Signora Lezioni repeatedly curses the bastards who killed him, but she claims not to know who they were. Dr. Milan expresses sympathy for the mother's loss. He was killed in New Jersey, but Dr. Milan told the mother that she had not seen him since she left Italy."

  "Anything else?"

  "Not on quick reading."

  "Thanks for your help, Murph. Stay safe."

  They hung up. Bill Mu
rphy lingered over an English breakfast at the Bristol, paid and walked down the steep, curved road into Sorrento. He could have called a taxi but the rain hadn't decided whether to fall, so he took the eighteen minute downhill stroll to the center of Sorrento.

  As Murphy walked, the temperature dropped rapidly from 54° to 46° Fahrenheit and a light mist began. He pulled his hat down, tilted his head forward to keep the wetness off his glasses, and failed to see the car that skidded until it hit him.

  As the ambulance loaded Bill Murphy, eleven kilometers away near downtown Naples a man died of a stab wound. Medics rolled Murphy into the emergency reception area as he watched another set of attendants park a gurney next to him. From the conversation he overheard, he realized the dead person was the asset he had mentioned to Harry Johnson an hour earlier.

  Murphy guessed from the location where the stabbing happened that it was connected to questions the asset had been asking about Ava's long ago mafia chief. He activated his phone, called Harry Johnson again, warned him that someone was taking an active and negative interest in the Ava Milan investigation. Then he passed out from the pain killer injected by his physician.