by Jim Nesbitt
Jones punched up another line and put out the tag on Burch. Murder. Armed and dangerous. One of their own turned bad. Cortez floated in, slurping his coffee and waving a fax.
“Federales came through for once. Your Astrid was culo caliente for a dude named Teddy Roy Bonafacio. A bad boy, that one. Big timer round Matamoros -- smack, meth, blow, illegals, you name it. State boys had him for dead about six years back, killed in a whorehouse in Reynosa. But the feds say that was bullshit. They think he was behind those North Texas fireworks where that old Dallas patron got snuffed. Roth or Ross.”
“That Green Beret thing that’s got ATF all batshit?”
“You the man,” said Cortez, pointing at him with the forefinger and pinkie of his left hand, dipping the digits like a divining rod.
“No, you the man,” he said, flashing his hand the same way.
Old ritual. It meant something once. It was reflex now.
Cider Jones checked his notes as he sluiced some tobacco juice into the cup. There it was -- Bonafacio, the guy Burch was chasing when his partner got killed. But that was a long time ago -- twelve years. A long wait for revenge.
His intercom buzzed, the lieutenant on the line.
“You and Cortez need to vamanos to a little shindig they got off of Westheimer. Three bodies -- Anglo lawyer and two clients, a blood and an Anglo. Both dealers. Got stuff that ties into your shoot.”
“How’d it go down?”
“Lead. Heavy caliber.”
“How long?”
“Five, six hours -- tops. What’s come up on your San Felipe shoot?”
“Just put out something on a Dallas PI named Ed Earl Burch. Ex-cop. Murder want. Prints match. Victim was iced with a .45. Burch carries one.”
“You boys scoot on over to this other thing. I’ll holler up Dallas and get them to check on this ol’ boy.”
He hung up, fished the chaw out of his cheek, dumped it in the cup, took one last spit.
“C’mon, beaner, think we got us a vigilante out on a mercy shoot.”
In his office, the lieutenant placed a long-distance call. But not to Dallas. Mano answered on the third ring.
Chapter 15
She reached across the table and slid his coffee cup closer to the pot in her other hand, pouring fast, sliding the full cup back and plopping down two fresh containers of non-dairy creamer in a quick motion.
He didn’t notice. He was facing the front window of the Dixie House, his thick left arm draped along the back of the booth, the biceps dark and bulging through the short sleeve of a thin, white polyester dress shirt some years gone from the Men’s Store at Sears.
Folds of fat rolled from his neck, spilling over a frayed and open collar. His huge right hand balanced on the table’s edge, pinkie down, thumb up and rubbing the second knuckle of a bent forefinger, right where the flesh started to lighten from walnut to salmon.
A small, black plastic box that looked like a cassette player or radio sat inside the curve of this hand. A wire ran from the box to the plug in his right ear.
“Anythin’ else?”
He didn’t answer. His head didn’t move. His eyes stayed centered on the window. She leaned across the table.
“I said -- will there be anythin’ else? Pie, ice cream, cake? We got carrot cake today. And some peach cobbler that’s pretty good. Sound good to you?”
“No. Go `way.”
He turned his head and peeled off his mirrored shades. His eyes were black coals, burning slow, surrounded by jaundiced ivory shot with thin lines of red. His nose was humped and buckled like cheap asphalt, bottomed by a close-cropped Fu Manchu moustache that rode over and around pulpy, scarred lips.
His cheeks and jowls were rubbery and cratered -- hot wax dribbled across latex. The furrows of his forehead rolled up and under the line of the worst toupee she had ever seen. It looked like a black poodle with Astroturf® curls, crouching over his broad brow, skewed toward his left ear.
She couldn’t break her startled stare. His ugliness, his fierce eyes, held her there, frozen, with the coffee pot wavering in her hand.
“What’chu lookin’ at, lady?”
His voice was pinched and high-pitched, like a boy just before he hits puberty. She bit her lower lip, fighting back a nervous laugh.
“Maybe you don’t hear good. Hear ‘dis -- check and keep the coffee comin’. No pie. No cake. And no starin’. I ‘member people what stare.”
“Yessir.”
Something moved on his head. Her eyes shifted to his toupee. It was pitching down the slope of his forehead, sliding on a sheen of sweat like a hound hitting a slick kitchen floor.
“What’chu starin’ at?”
A laugh bubbled up and choked her. She walked away quickly, coughing and shaking her head. Willie ‘Badhair’ Stonecipher ripped the toupee from his head, staring at the liner, dragging a paper napkin over his sweaty dome.
“Damn glue.”
Badhair jammed the toupee on his bald dome, holding the shades in front of his face, staring at his tiny reflection, hoping to get the fit right. Now it looked like a poodle resting its haunches on the back of his head.
He slapped on the sunglasses, then resumed his watch. Across the street, cops were standing next to the roped-off entrance to a small office complex -- three stories of weathered brick veneer, golden-colored glass marred by huge strips of peeled tinting.
Before the waitress bothered him, Badhair had been watching two plainclothes drive up in an LTD with blackwall tires. A blocky dude, barely six foot, with reddish-brown skin, an unruly shock of coal-black hair and a slight limp was in the lead, pulling on a blue polyester blazer, smoothing it over a big revolver in a shoulder rig. He was followed by a plump, bald-headed Mex wearing Ray-Ban® aviator shades, sipping from a styrofoam cup and pulling at the tail of a khaki suitcoat that was too tight across his rump.
Badhair glanced at the small, black plastic box in his hand. He adjusted the squelch and volume, listening to transmissions from a bug slipped into the spine of one of the law volumes that lined one wall of the office where the two detectives were plying their trade.
“... kee-ryst, lookit this one’s hand ... snapped back out of the socket ...”
“... to talk with a gag in your mouth ...”
“... this one talked, most definitely ... through the fuckin’ gag. Didn’t help ...”
“... I make three entry wounds, big gun ...”
“... our boy, but a little bloody for his tastes ...”
“... cop gone crazy? Not bloody enough, maybe. But what’s this got to do with a dead partner?”
“... knows? But the fucker’s phone number is right in this shyster’s day book, bigger than your dick. Right there -- Ed Earl Burch ...”
“... bag of money, why’s it still here?”
“... revenge, not money ... if these slugs are .45, it’s Burch ...”
“... for ballistics ...”
“Fuck ballistics, man ... as shit to switch barrels on a Colt ... a cop, man ... just to fuck with us ...”
Badhair shook his head and laughed. Cops got this Burch pegged for this hit and Astrid, stupid fuckers. Well, he did use a .45 to nail these three, slipping right through the outer door of the lawyer’s office as Skinny and Ice Ray walked in. A slug to the back of each head. Sad to kill a brother, but the job’s the job.
A wall clock read 4:32 a.m. when Badhair pulled the trigger. He had been following the boys since spotting them in a bar near Pasadena around midnight. They were the fuckers who said they needed more product after icing some Jamaican competition. They were the reason Astrid came to Houston. They led him to the office of Henderson “Hank” Crutcher, West Texas State, UT Law School and white-powder lawyer.
Crutcher was about to shake hands with his clients when Badhair killed them. The lawyer ran into his office,
reached for a hammerless Colt .38 and screamed when a beefy paw slammed the drawer on his hand.
Mister lawyer-man was surely torn by his immediate fear of Badhair and his more distant fear of whoever was paying him. Wouldn’t say shit if he had a mouthful, at first. So gag him with a silk rag from his fancy blazer and start snappin’ back fingers.
Had him tryin’ to scream through the gag, crying and shaking like a wet dog in a cold rain. Still nothin’. Another finger. Lawyer-man passed out. Dash his face with water from a thermos. Lawyer-man gave him the name he already had -- Burch. Said Burch was the man who set it all up, had Skinny and Ice Ray make the meet, say to expect their man Ed Earl.
Bullshit. The gag and another finger. Lawyer-man passed out again. More water, slaps to the face. Badhair’s bad eyes and bad toupee up close in lawyer-man’s face. Who the man, motherfucker? Who the man send Burch? Who? Badhair gripping that last finger, the pinkie. Lawyer-man shakin’ that dog shake, his eyes rollin’ back.
Lawyer-man noddin’ his head now. Gag out. One name -- Neville Ross. Paid them each fifty thou to set it up for Burch. Rogue cop. Got it bad in for T-Roy. Never saw the man. Just the money and plane tickets to Belize for a long vacation. Please, please don’t kill me, say the lawyer-man.
Badhair laughed his high laugh, broke lawyer-man’s pinkie and cut off his scream with three rounds from the .45. Flying Ashtrays. ‘Cause they gouge up a man’s innards oh so sweet. And he did switch barrels on the Colt. That much those cops did get right.
Sipping coffee seven hours later, Badhair could still hear the scream. He played it in his mind a few times, savoring the tone and the way the roar of his pistol cut it off. He continued eavesdropping on the cops across the street.
Heard one cop tease the other about starin’ into eyes of dead people. Caused him to frown and shake his head -- hoodoo stuff. Heard Dallas cops came up empty at Burch’s apartment and office, but found stuff that showed the pee-eye was doing work for Crutcher and an attorney up there. Cops figured Burch whacked Astrid then tied up loose ends by nailing Crutcher and the two dealers. Stupid shits.
Badhair scribbled the Dallas attorney’s name, Doug Bartell. Meant nothing to him. Heard one other juicy bit of info -- feds thought Burch might have been at the Ross ranch during the raid. One of Ross’ muscle guys gave them a line on a guy answering his description and a woman leaving the scene in a vintage Cutlass, partial Texas plates. A snitch spotted a car like that in a body shop up Weatherford way, owned by Burch’s cousin, an ex-con.
He pushed the table back and waddled toward the rest rooms and the phone booths, hitching his blousy surplus fatigues with the six bulging side pockets and the personal black dye job. His running shoes squeaked on the waxed floor. It was a tight fit inside the booth. Caused him to sweat. Caused the toupee to slide.
Badhair gripped the handset, screwed off the mouthpiece and snapped two alligator clips on the small, metal contact tabs inside. Wires ran to a pocket scrambler/descrambler he fished from one of the bellowed side pockets. He called the number Mano gave him. T-Roy answered.
“Your ol’ fren set this up. Paid off Skinny, Ice and lawyer man. Sent Burch down here. Kill off your ol’ lady.”
“You sure ‘bout that, Bad? We know for sure it’s this Burch motherfucker?”
“Got it from lawyer-man his own self. He in no position to lie.”
“Don’t want to know.”
“It’s cool, T. Cops think Burch ice these fuckers to cover his tracks. Colt kill your ol’ lady. Colt kill these guys. Two plus two for them stupid fucks.”
“Cops know where Burch is at?”
“Got a line on him. Think he at the Ross place durin’ the raid. Left there with some bitch in a Cutlass. Think they ditch that car in Weatherford. Mean anythin’ to you?”
“Sure does, Bad. Sure does. Done good, my man. Done real fine. Stick with them cops for awhile. They got two good reasons to go after our Mr. Burch now. And Bad? I want you to fuck Burch up bad before you ice him -- cut his fuckin’ head off, bring it to me. And kill the bitch with him. You hear that? Kill the bitch. Ten grand more and all the pussy you can lick if you do. And if you don’t, don’t come back.”
“I heard that, T. Mr. Badhair will meet Mr. Burch. And Mr. Burch won’t live to tell nobody ‘bout it. That’s a promise from the Badhair to you, T. Keep that cash col’ an’ that pussy warm.”
Chapter 16
They crossed the Brazos in the dark and the Colorado just after dawn, leaving the Comanche Plateau and cutting down through the Hill Country, watching the ridgelines turn from black to slate gray to gray-green in the rising light.
It was a deceptive land -- scenic from afar, scrubby and scraggly up close, a green and rolling panorama built on dusty disappointment.
Burch remembered a map he saved from a tattered textbook because its title caught his fancy -- ‘Physiography’. In black and white, it showed the weathered face of Texas, craggy whorls and cuts he used to trace as a schoolboy -- the Caprock and the Llano Estacado of the Panhandle, the Lampasas Cut Plains west of Waco, the Edwards Plateau that stretched south and east of San Angelo, the Balcones Escarpment, the wall of limestone that divided the rich, black prairie of the east from the scrubby brush of the west, the rocky lower lip of the land they were now riding through.
Through the night, they stayed on back roads, sticking to the thin, farm-to-market strips of blacktop that arched and dipped across hogbacks and sharply cut ridges. They ghosted through deeply shadowed towns like Chalk Mountain, Priddy and Goldthwaite.
Burch fooled with the radio as he drove through the dark, tuning in an old Ray Price song, its back-slap, shuffle beat, fiddle and high harmony drifting up low from the speakers, keeping him company. Carla Sue curled up in back, snoring softly.
Why did you turn up again?
I was doin’ fine ...
I thought that I’d forgotten you,
But I know it isn’t true ...
Damn fine question and a damn fool thought. Care to comment T-Roy? What about it, Neville, old son? And while you’re down there, hopefully rotting in one of hell’s lower chambers, shoot a call up to Wynn Moore. Hell, call his ex-wives. Get them all in on this. Big conference hookup -- the dead, the divorced, the damned and the runnin’ scared.
When they left Hooter’s, she filled him in on the frame. Ol’ Neville was right -- boxed in tighter than a dead man’s lips. Double whammy -- cops pegging him for murder, T-Roy gunning for revenge. A choice that was no choice at all, just the only option open to him.
Nice touch with the juice glasses and the shot. He flashed on the shyster who asked him to do some legwork on those Houston druggies -- Bartell. Fat, fish-eyed bastard. Always bragging about his turbo-charged Mooney and his mile-high Don Juan act. Yessir, get them girlies to fly Air Bartell. Take her up to fifteen thou, set ol’ Iron George, the auto-pilot. Slip Mr. Fun into some gum-poppin’ honey. Nothin’ like it, son.
They met at Louie’s. He had his usual. They dickered through a couple of rounds, maybe three or four. Who keeps count? Then he went to take a piss. When he came back, fresh drinks were on the table. Dead soldiers swept into the briefcase. Who would notice?
Not him, sure as hell. Behind the whiskey curve and eyeing a big redhead in jeans and a tight top. Never know when you’ll meet a next ex-wife. Old joke from an ex-cop. Bartell drained his glass and laughed. Now Burch knew why.
He also knew Carla Sue meant to kill T-Roy. A grit girl’s blood grudge that wouldn’t be denied. If she didn’t get killed first. And if he didn’t beat her to the punch. Hell no, he didn’t want to cut and run. His blood was up, he wanted to hug the chaos and havoc, rub up hard against it and get him some.
And that surprised him, given his recent years of backpedaling, peeling his life down to the barest of essentials and avoiding the dictates of others. This sure wasn’t his call, but he was tired of backing up a
nd backing down just for the sake of being left alone. These shits weren’t going to leave him be. They’d want him dead and wouldn’t quit until he was.
So, why not dodge on down to Mexico and hook ‘em up with T-Roy? No choice but to, and that made him feel free and lively, off the hook and no longer looking for the back door.
He tapped the wheel with his high school ring, keeping time with the music. Buck Owens.
Lips, put a smile on my face,
Eyes, don’t let her see you shed a tear ...
Don’t let her know, don’t let her know, the way I feel ...
By all means, don’t ever let any woman who’s kicked you in the ribcage know a damn thing. Sing it, Okie. Damn, he felt good and loved listening to this music.
White lines whipped into the arc of his headlights. A mule deer scrambled from a brush-filled ditch and swerved toward the brightness. Burch saw wild, white-rimmed eyes in the glare. He cut the wheel hard to the left, heard the crunch of gravel as he skidded onto the shoulder, then the squeal of rubber as the tires again found their grip on the blacktop.
“You sure know how to give a girl a wake-up call. You fallin’ asleep over there?”
“Deer. Sumbitch tried to kiss headlights.”
“They do that. Buck or doe?”
“Buck. Big sumbitch. Eight points, at least.”
“Venison stew.”
His belly rumbled, sour from whiskey and coffee. They rolled into Llano and pulled into the first hash house they could find. His leg almost buckled as he got out of the car. It was stiff and sore.
She looked at him once, then walked toward the cafe door.
“Suck it up, Big `Un.”
“Thanks for the sympathy.”
“I’m too damn hungry to nursemaid an ol’ cripple who keeps tryin’ to run over deer.”
She turned on her heel, stopping him with a hand to the chest and a harsh whisper.
“We got to get some food. We also got to switch rides and ditch that Dodge. Cops’ll find your cousin, sure as shit.’’