by Paul Moomaw
I was not sure, but I understood that it did not matter. The meaning that mattered was that I was to treat Torrino, and I assumed the other men in big cars and suits, with kid gloves.
After I had been at the club about three months a local detective named Beans started coming around. He seemed to make a point of showing up ten or fifteen minutes after Silvio had gone out somewhere, and kept his visits short. He chatted me up a few times, and then started dropping hints that he wanted something. After a while he got more pointed. He said Silvio was crooked, and tied to the Mob, and the Mob was trying to take over Galveston, and I could be a big help. He was an arrogant asshole, but I might still have been tempted until one day he made a mistake. Carmen was behind the bar with me washing glassware. Beans looked her over and then said, “Seems like all dago women have tits like cows, don’t it?” He said it loud enough for Carmen to hear, and her face turned a dark red under her olive skin.
I told Beans to leave, and to stay out, and that night I let Silvio know what had happened. He told me he appreciated the information, and said not to worry. “That Beans, he’s small beans,” he said, and laughed at his own wit. I told him Beans had said the Mob was trying to take over Galveston, and he laughed even louder. “The wise guys have been running this town since the end of World War Two,” he said. “Beans is just pissed off because nobody will cut him in.”
Silvio seemed to think it would end there, but it did not. A week later I was walking toward the two-room apartment I called home when a police cruiser pulled up beside me and two uniforms jumped out. They pulled guns, and I stopped walking and put my hands up. One of them got in my face and the other positioned himself behind me, and then the lights went out. When I came to Beans was there. He pulled me up by the shirt, tore the buttons open, and reached inside. When his hand came back out it held a plastic bag. I knew the bag had been in his hand already, but I was not about to say so. He opened the bag, stuck a finger in, and then licked his fingertip.
“Good stuff,” he said. “Say hello to prison, boy.” He waved the uniformed officers over. “Take him to the station,” he said. Then he turned back to me. “Unless you want to cooperate. You can be the key to the door I want to open, or you can go up to Huntsville for five or ten years.”
I asked him what he wanted me to do. He said he knew Silvio was dealing in drugs and prostitution, and he needed proof. He said the police chief and commissioner were on the take, and had blocked all his efforts to get anything to happen. He said he was sure Silvio kept good records because the Mob was a business after all and if I brought those to him he could take the evidence to the district attorney, who was still honest as far as he knew.
“Then who knows? Maybe I’ll be the next chief of police.”
I asked him what I would get out of it and he told me nothing, except that this night would never have happened.
I told him he had a deal. He said that was great, and that I knew what would happen if I crossed him.
I did, of course. I was frankly a lot more afraid of Carlo Torrino and his friends than I was of Beans. I told Silvio the next day, and the day after that the Greek came to see me. I never did learn his name, but that did not matter. He made it clear that I could solve a problem for all of us, and that he and his friends would see to it that I had no trouble after that. Nobody spelled out what he was talking about, and nobody had to. That evening Silvio came to the bar and said he might have to go out after a while. He said that when I closed up I should check the little safe in his office to make sure he had remembered to lock it up. “I forget sometimes when I’m in a hurry, and there’s a lot of cash in there,” he said.
He did leave after a couple of hours, and he did leave the safe unlocked. There was no cash, but there was a gun. It was a snub-nosed revolver. It looked old and worn, as if it had done its share of work already, and was prepared for more. I took the gun and carried it home. The next evening was a day off. I called Beans and told him I had something for him. I said I was afraid to be seen with him, and we agreed to meet that night under the pier. He came, but he was not as foolhardy as I hoped. He had a uniformed officer with him. I shot the patrolman first, because he had a gun. It turned out Beans had one, too. I should have expected that, but I was still naive in the ways of the world. He tried to pull it out, but I shot him in the chest and he fell down. I shot both of them once more, in the head, and then trotted down the beach and into the dark.
The next day the newspaper was full of the deaths. I went to work as usual, and Silvio was waiting for me. I held out the revolver and he took it without saying anything. At closing time he called me into his office.
“Our friends,” even then it struck me that his friends had become our friends, “think it would be a good idea for you to try a new town.” He pulled an envelope out of his safe and handed it to me. “There’s a bus ticket in here that will get you to Houston, and a plane ticket that will take you from there to Phoenix. When you get there, find a place called Cactus Flower Properties and talk to Guido Valenti. He’ll be glad to see you.” Then he got up, came over to me, and gave me a huge hug. He kissed me once on each cheek and said, “You’re a good kid, David. I wish you well.”
I walked out and headed for the Continental Trailways station. I forced myself to walk slowly, even though I was sure every step of the way that I was about to be caught. I never was. When I got to the station I went into the public bathroom, locked myself in a toilet stall, and opened the envelope. As Silvio had said, it contained a bus ticket and an airline ticket. It also held a thick stack of fifty dollar bills. When I counted, it came to ten thousand dollars. All I could do was shake my head. I separated the bills into three stacks, folded each one over as tightly as possible, and tucked them into three trouser pockets. That is where it all began.
Coming from San Antonio you enter through the armpit of Corpus Christi, along a divided highway surrounded by the refineries and chemical plants that line the ship channel, then past rows of seedy small businesses until you drop down Leopard Street to the bay. The downtown follows the arc of the shoreline. A t-shaped marina juts into the water across the road from the hotels and banks that form the skyline. To the north a big bridge spans the ship channel in a high and graceful arch. To the south is Ocean Drive, where the biggest houses lie. I am told the owners are unable to get storm insurance because they are too close to the city’s inadequate sea wall, but most of them have too much money to care. The address I have for Clifford Hurt is on Ocean Drive.
I pull into a Best Western on the south edge of downtown. I have not made a reservation but there is no trouble getting a room this time of year. I tell the desk clerk that I am not sure how many nights I will stay. He shrugs and asks me if I want to pay extra for a room with a view of the water. I say yes. He gives me a key. It is a real key, not one of the plastic cards most places have now, and that pleases me somehow. I am old-fashioned about a lot of things. The room is on the third floor. It is small and dominated by a bed and a television, but there is high speed internet access in case I need it.
I unpack, toss underwear and socks into a drawer and my shaving kit into the cramped bathroom, and go downstairs to my car. I drive south and am soon on the residential part of Ocean Drive. Most of the houses are huge, set back behind walls and iron fences. I find the number of Clifford Hurt’s house and slow down as I pass. It is a three story place of white stone with mullioned windows and a cobalt tile roof that had to cost more than many houses. There is a low stone wall across the front of the property and a black iron gate at the driveway. The gate is closed. I find a place to make a u-turn across the esplanade that divides Ocean Drive and then park across from the house. I get out of the house and dodge traffic to cross the street. The house has an empty look to it, and the gate is more than closed; it has a large padlock and chain on it. I check the number again. It is definitely the address I have for Hurt, but it seems clear that he no longer lives there.
I drive back to the motel, climb
the stairs to my room and go online to find the Caller-Times web page. They have an archive site, and I type in Hurt’s name to see what is there. I find two recent stories. One reports the death of Hurt’s brother, Matthew, who was robbed and murdered in Johannesburg, South Africa, where he made his home. The story says that the marauders who killed him broke into his home, which is referred to as palatial. They tied him up, put a car tire around his neck, and set him on fire. Then they torched the house for good measure. I have a recollection that Clifford Hurt had made it one of his goals to outlive his brother. I wonder if it makes him happy.
The second story involves Hurt himself. He has in fact moved out of his house on Ocean Drive and taken up quarters in the Trinity Towers, a high rise retirement home that combines fashionable apartments for those who can care for themselves with a nursing home facility for those who cannot. The story reports that the Ocean Drive house has been on the market for several months now, in spite of a booming real estate market, because some of the people who had the bad luck to buy into Hurt’s beach home development on Mustang Island have a lien on the place. The story includes a picture of Hurt in his new home. He looks old, and not very happy.
I get Hurt’s new telephone number from what is laughingly called directory assistance and call it. He answers it on the sixth or seventh ring. He sounds like he looks. His voice is querulous and tentative, and it is hard to match that with the image of a ruthless and persuasive con artist. I identify myself as Gregor Speer, which is a name I have occasionally used when I need to be an attorney. I have business cards to go with the name. They identify me as an associate of a fictional firm called Plimp, Loon and Bellows. I tell Hurt I represent the law firm that handled his late brother’s affairs. I begin to offer my condolences for the death, but Hurt cuts me off.
“Did he leave me anything?” he asks, and his voice suddenly sounds different.
“You are his only heir.”
“You a foreigner?” Hurt asks. “You don’t sound like a foreigner. You sound kind of like a yankee.”
“You’re very perceptive,” I say. “My firm is in Chicago. We’re the American representatives.”
“How much do I get? I expect you’ll manage to take a big bite.”
“We always try to keep it to a nibble. Anyway, I need to sit down with you and go over the will, establish your identity legally for the courts, all that kind of thing.”
“I don’t like visitors, and I don’t trust strangers,” Hurt says. “Why can’t you just deal with my lawyers?”
“I only need to meet with you once. The sooner I do, the sooner you get what’s coming to you.” That is true, at any rate.
“You by yourself?”
“Just me. And for the sake of privacy, I hope to see just you. No one else needs to know about your good fortune.”
“That’s true. Too damn many people after my money already. Can’t even sell my damn old house. When are you coming?”
“Today is Monday. I have some things to prepare for you. Let’s say Thursday.” That gives me time to look Trinity Towers over and plan my way in and out. Obviously I am not going to get him out of his place, so it will be another job in a crowd. I will need to make sure I have a good exit strategy. “What time of day?”
“Any time after my breakfast. I go downstairs to the dining room for breakfast. At least they know how to open a box of cereal. Never eat the shit they have at lunch or dinner, but I take a nap in the afternoon.”
“I’ll be there at eleven in the morning.”
“All right,” he says. “How long is it going to take?”
“We’ll be done in no time at all. What’s your apartment number?”
“Seven fourteen,” he says, and hangs up without saying good-bye. I look at the telephone for a moment, then put it back on its cradle. I go to the room’s one large window and look out at the view I have paid extra for. A couple of sailboats play in the water about a hundred yards from shore. There is not much else to see. The air is hazy, and although Corpus Christi bills itself as a Gulf Coast paradise with sparkling blue water, the bay is more a dirty gray brown, and I see at least one large pollution slick farther out that I assume comes from one of the many tankers that come to the port.
Chapter 40
The next day I go shopping for clothes. I begin my search at the South Texas Aquarium, where I find a promotional t-shirt with dolphins and various fishes swimming across its chest, and a straw boater of lime green with a small red feather stuck in the band. Next I locate a shopping mall with a Target store that offers pre-faded jeans, garish straw sandals dyed red and yellow, and a pair of giant sunglasses with mirror lenses of cobalt blue.
Finally I seek out a serious men’s shop, where I buy a decent suit, a good white button down shirt, and a fifty-dollar silk tie. It pains me a little, because I will wear these things only once; but I am sure that Clifford Hurt, crooked or not, has spent much of his time with successful men, and I need to dress the part. The men’s store also has a luggage section, and I find a briefcase there, not something cheap like the one I used in St. Louis, but an attache case of good leather that smells like money and has heavy brass latches.
I return to my motel room and open the briefcase. I have brought with me a kraft paper file folder filled with blank paper. That will be the last thing Hurt sees, and I wonder what will pass through his mind in those final seconds. Sometimes I wish I could place myself inside the heads of my subjects just as they realize they are going to die. Try as hard as I can, I cannot really imagine what it must be like.
I toss the briefcase onto the bed and put on the new jeans and t-shirt. I add the hat and sunglasses and examine myself in the mirror. Then I slip on the straw sandals. They are outlandish, which is exactly what I want. The best disguise is distraction. I am about to let someone give me a tour of Trinity Towers, as a way of checking the layout and any potential problems like security cameras. Afterwards, if my visit is remembered at all, it will be the sandals and the sunglasses that stay in the mind; and no one will connect me with the well-dressed gentleman who enters the building the following day.
I drive to Trinity Towers. There is one large parking lot on the south side of the building, and one section is marked for visitors. I park there and look the place over. It is one of the tallest buildings in the town, twelve stories high, with covered balconies jutting out from each of the apartments. I assume that Hurt’s place is on the seventh floor and I look up and imagine him sitting inside, waiting for me and what he thinks is more money for him. That will make everything easier. Greed kills. It weakens the self-protective instinct. Like they say about sex, when it comes in the door, the brains go out the window.
I know the building has vacancies. I checked it out on line. It has a web site, although not a very good one. It is difficult to navigate and generally unimaginative. The main ground floor entrance is a series of glass doors that open into a lobby. To the right are another pair of doors. I guess that they provide residents with a separate entrance to the apartments. There is a front desk, much like a hotel’s, and a hallway that leads off to the left. To the right a short passage leads to elevators that face the double doors I saw from outside. When I come to kill Hurt, I will not have to pass through the lobby.
I walk up to the front desk, where a woman in her sixties wearing a beige suit that looks as if she has had it since she was in her twenties is sitting and talking on the telephone. I stand at the counter and wait for her to finish her conversation, then tell her I am interested in finding out about the residences. She gives me the once over, taking in my straw hat and sunglasses, and gets a severe look on her face.
“My uncle . . .” I begin.
Those appear to be magic words. She smiles. “Is he from Corpus? So many of our senior citizens reach a point where they don’t want the burden of maintaining . . .”
“He’s in Denver,” I say. “He visits Padre Island every winter, and he loves it here. He finally decided to sell his house t
here, but you’re right, he doesn’t want to have to deal with lawns and things.”
The woman’s smile brightens. “How old is your uncle?”
“He’s eighty-three, and even though he’s in pretty good health right now, I think he likes the idea of having your kind of resources if that time comes. Anyway, I thought if I could take a look at things.”
The woman stands up and comes around to my side of the counter. “Come right along with me,” she says. She walks toward the hallway on the left. “Down here is our long-term care facility. I want to show you that first. You’ll understand why afterwards.” I follow her down the hall. At the very end I see what clearly is a nurses station. Other hallways radiate out from there, lined with doors. The woman marches past the nurses station and down one of the hallways. She opens a door to reveal a patient room, with a hospital bed, television, night stand, and not much else. She goes to a second door and opens it to reveal a similar room. Then she leads me back toward the main lobby.
“Notice anything missing?” she asks.
I shake my head. “I don’t know much about these places.”
“Smell anything?”
“Was I supposed to?”
“That’s the point.” She leans close to me and speaks in a conspiratorial voice. “Frankly, some of the competition, the smell would make you want to puke. Our management decided a long time ago that there was no need for a long-term care facility to smell like, like a nursing home, if you know what I mean.”
I am not sure I do, but I nod enthusiastically. “Are the apartments pretty nice?” I say. “My uncle is used to the best.”
The woman beams and motions me to follow her. We walk across the lobby to the other, shorter hallway with the elevators.
“We happen to have a very nice unit up on ten. It’s a corner apartment, so it has views to the north and the east. It’s more expensive, of course.”