by Tom Hoke
He guessed she had been reading too many spy thrillers, or she thought Jim would sell out to her husband. She was on the plane behind him as he bore down on Room 118. He hardly got a look at the guy when he opened the door, but he felt sorry for him immediately because apparently the only thing the wife wanted Jim to do was run cover for her. From what he could see as she burst into the room was three naked guys wearing bunny ears sprawled in various indiscreet but compromising poses.
With his detective work finished, Jim had an open return ticket to Chicago and a pocket full of money, so he decided to stay a day or so and look around San Antonio. He had never seen this part of Texas before, and now was as good a time as any. He wandered through The Alamo, ate some enchiladas in the shade of a large tree along the Riverwalk, and then, as the Texas sun rose higher, he spent several hours in a large mall along the river. Apparently he was easy to spot as a tourist, and a passerby suggested he tour the zoo in Breckenridge Park. He came away from the zoo liking the lady hyena far better than his recent employer.
Jim always thought San Antonio would be unique, and it certainly was an odd mixture of two civilizations. Row upon row of smooth manicured yards with houses to match, and yet, the Spanish flavor constantly added touches of bright colors and a sense of excitement to everything. In the evening, as he wandered in the downtown area, the shadows grew longer and he found himself still trying to escape the memory of the unpleasant female with her good solid Chicago name.
According to the movies, he should have been out looking for a fight. He didn't look for it, but he found it. In a questionable part of downtown, he turned a corner into a cul-de-sac. The dim light showed from the doorway to his left. A tall man stood against a two story whitewashed wall. His hands were outstretched in a protective stance, and his head was back. His attitude showed amazement rather than surprise. Three unsavory characters were advancing on him, and the leader of the trio had a wicked looking knife.
The scene was so obviously one-sided it got Jims back up. He liked a good fight, but this one was going to be over shortly unless he got into the act. They didn't know Jim was behind them as they approached their intended victim.
Jim put his lips together and gave them a very loud: " Psssst!" All three turned as one in his direction. The 38 special in his right hand convinced them tonight was not their night.
They took off past him in a dead heat with a single carajo vibrating in the damp night air.
This left Jim with Beau Mitchell. That's what his card later indicated his name was. Maybe Jim should have walked out on this particular episode and let the muggers have him, but that's hindsight.
The guy had on a drab shirt and sweaty, rumpled pants. The stubble of beard didn't make him more attractive. He stood there for half a minute, shrugged, pulled out dilapidated pack of cigarettes and offered Jim one with a nod. Then he lit them both with amazingly steady fingers.
"I don't like double-crossers," he said slowly.
Jim was sure he meant it from the steel in his voice. But he wasn't talking to Jim. He was talking to himself. He sucked in his breath and blew out smoke. "You're handy, friend," he drawled, "Let's get out of here before we have more visitors."
Jim followed the man around the corner and into a dark cafe. He sat down at a table in the corner and hunched in his chair looking at nothing. "Beer…that's all they've got," he advised. The waiter slouched over to them.
"Dos cervezas." Jim told the waiter, using up most of his Spanish vocabulary. The waiter brought the beers, and Jim drained his in a hurry. His companion drank slowly, his thoughts on another planet.
Jim had done his good deed for the day. He didn't want to take on this brilliant conversationalist to raise. Besides appearing intellectually bankrupt, the man was a sorry sight and his choice of cafes stunk. Jim paid for the beers, ordered the man another one and got to his feet. He tipped his hat to the back of his head. "See you later, chum," Jim told him.
The man’s eyes focused on Jim. He reached into a shirt pocket and brought out a card.
"Thanks for the beers and the rest of it," he admitted grudgingly. "If you're ever in Fort Worth, stop in." Then he went back to his brooding. Jim got the hell out of there and started breathing fresh air like it was going out of style.
Afterwards all he could remember about the man was a straight length of black brows, and a shock of black hair which came within an inch of meeting the brows. He forgot all about the guy for the next two days as he continued his tour of San Antonio and the surrounding area. He had looked at the card: Beau Mitchell, Enterprises. Jim almost threw it away. If he had, he wouldn't have wound up in the Grand Manor Hotel with a houseful of semi-nuts.
His return flight to Chicago was canceled at DFW airport between Dallas and Fort Worth, something about a mechanical problem. He could have gone to Dallas. But he didn't. He had been in Dallas before. It looked like any other big city he had ever seen, and the only thing interesting was Old Town, downtown. So it wasn't any coincidence he chose Fort Worth: Where the West Begins. Compared to Dallas, Fort Worth was a country town. A few so-called skyscrapers and a sprawling downtown community with a rococo courthouse at head of Main Street were about it. He checked in at the first hotel where the limousine stopped. It was hotter than hell outside. One thing was sure: if Texans died and went to hell they wouldn't know the difference.
From what he had heard, summer in Texas was always like this. He called the bellboy and started emptying the pockets in his extra suit.
He might as well have it cleaned. The bellboy was efficient. Out of his breast pocket, he pulled a card Jim had forgotten was there. It said: Beau Mitchell, Enterprises. He knew one person who lived in Fort Worth. Three cheers for his side. But he would never have looked Beau Mitchell up if he hadn't had an interest in western art.
The room clerk gave him directions, and he went out in the broiling sun, turned right on Seventh Street and then headed west. He walked until the street was two-way and picked up a taxi. The driver was a friendly guy who might as well have been hired by the Fort Worth Chamber of Commerce. Between the Seventh Street bridge and The Museum of Western Art, a distance of probably three miles, Jim got a lecture on the Fat Stock Show and Rodeo, The Forest Park Zoo, how great the Texas Christian University football team was, and the exact population of Cowtown. He let Jim out at the museum, and Jim told him to come back in an hour.
He walked up the steps and through the glass doors into a large, cool room. To his right was a sign indicating the Russell Exhibit had been loaned to the San Antonio Museum! How ironic. The Russells were all he wanted to see in Fort Worth, which was why he had decided to stay an extra day in the first place, other than the simple fact he never got back on an airplane which may or may not be fixed.
Underneath this sign was a notice for the next ten days the museum was honored to have a collection of local paintings. Maybe they were honored, but Jim wasn't. They weren't much, and he quickly viewed each one.
Before his taxi returned, he approached the guard at the entrance. "Look," he said. "I'm from Chicago, and I came to see the Russells.
There must be some private collections in Fort Worth. Could you tell me if you know of any?"
The guard nodded understandingly. "Yep, A.
R. Arondale's got seven on his ranch, but he's in Europe." Then he totally surprised Jim,
"Beau Mitchell's got four Russells, two of them in his office downtown…best of the lot. He would be glad to show them to you. He also has some Remington's. He's in the directory."
Jim took a look at the card the man in San Antonio had given him. "Seventeenth floor of the Barton Building?" he asked the guard. Guard nodded in amazement. Jim still wasn't sure it was the Mitchell he had run into in San Antonio. But he was going to find out. He thanked the guard and took two steps at a time down to the waiting taxi.
When Jim saw the office building, he knew the guy he met in San Antonio was putting him on. He took a silent elevator to the seventeenth floor. Th
e door whispered open, and he approached a fancy entryway which announced simply: Mitchell Enterprises in understated elegance. The Russells and curiosity led him to the entrance. A fine looking receptionist raised her pretty blue eyes from her computer and asked politely, "May I help you, Sir?"
Jim opened his mouth to speak, but a man stepped out of the inner office. It was the character with the brows, smoking a cigarette and watching him. The man had on a designer suit which must have run into four figures.
The growth of beard was gone. So was most of his civility, if he ever had any.
"So, you did come to see me?" He stared at Jim for another moment and then added, "Come on in. I'll buy you a drink today." Without looking at the girl, he said curtly, "Get me some soda, Mimi. I'm out." Jim followed him into the office.
An oriental rug, which should have been on a wall in a museum, covered the floor almost from wall to wall. Two of the Russells he had come to see were on the wall. The whole room smacked of moolah. Jim kept his eyes on the paintings and sank into a chair across from Mitchell's executive desk, wondering what the hell went on with him.
The man pulled out a portable bar and came up with a bottle of twenty year old scotch and a couple of heavy crystal glasses. He poured quickly without benefit of jigger, then added ice. His thin sneer straightened Jims spine.
"I suppose you want a job?" His eyes were chipped ice.
The phone rang. He reached for it and swiveled around so his back was to Jim before he could think up an answer. The man’s voice changed abruptly. "I was trying to reach you.
I've been waiting for you to call all week." His tone got as close to syrup as it could. "No. I didn't make the last deal. Somebody must have got there first. Who cares? There's always another one." He pulled at his ear while Jim stared at the back of his head. "Sure, come on in. You can paint the town. Good!"
The man hung up and swung around. "Well?" he asked. The syrup was gone from his voice.
Jim reached over and took one of the glasses and turned it up. Then he deposited the glass on the fancy desk and got to his feet. "So, who the hell are you anyway? I came to see your Russells and I've seen them. You can be the King of Sweden as far as I'm concerned. I don't need a job. Thanks a lot for the drink, Buster!"
Jim started making tracks.
About this time the door opened and Mimi and Jim juggled a tray of bottles trying to keep the rug from being splashed. The guy in back of him drawled: "Come on back. I'll put soda in the next one." He looked at Jim thoughtfully.
"I guess I got it wrong." He waved the girl away after she set the tray down by the bar on his desk.
The man pulled out a cigarette, but Jim response was quick: "No, thanks, Junior, we are even. I'm heading north. I'm not just nuts about the climate here."
The syrup came back into the man’s voice like you'd turn a faucet. "What's your name?" he asked, and then, "What do you do?"
Jim lit his own cigarette. "If it's any of your business, and I'm not sure it is, my name is Jim Smith, and I just returned from trying to send a most undeserving man back to his most undeserving wife. I didn't like it, but I like my job, and maybe the next guy will be really away on business." Jim gave him a mock salute, and added: "So long!"
The man rose, filled the two glasses again with good scotch, added soda, and placed his hands flat on the desk. "No hard feelings, Smith. You may not need me, but I need you. I'll give you two thousand bucks plus expenses for two weeks of your time."
Jim folded his arms and eyed the man warily.
"What's the catch?"
"There isn't any, really. Are you interested?"
Jim sat down in the chair he had left and picked up his glass. "What do I do for two weeks to earn two grand and expenses?" Jim asked, watching the man closely.
Mitchell swung around in his chair and looked at the ceiling. It struck Jim he wasn't meeting his eyes. "I'm leaving town. It's unavoidable.
There's a man showing up here tomorrow night. His name is Jerry Duprey," he announced. "I owe him something." His tone raised Jim’s eyebrows. The man flipped ashes into a fifty buck outsized brass ashtray beside the desk. "This guy gets the full treatment, the wining, the dining, and the nightclubs…whatever he wants. All I'm asking you to do is to see he's entertained. Let's say he can get obnoxious on occasions, but you won't have any real trouble. You simply have to stay with him."
"Is that all", Jim asked, "for two thousand bucks?"
The man shook his head. "No, but it's almost all. I simply want him here when I return!"
His mouth slit in what Jim supposed was a smile.
"It's easy if you can stand the late hours. The guy likes it here, but he likes his liquor and needs to be entertained. You and Jerry can have my guest house. Is it a deal?"
So this is the way they make a deal in Texas.
Jim wondered if Mitchell thought he was stupid. He took out his identification and laid it on the desk facing him. Then he leaned back in his chair and shook his head.
"Sorry, I'm not starving. Why you want this character pinned down here is your business, if you want it that way. But I smell rats. If it is a deal, you'll have to arrange it my way. How do I know I'm not playing games with a homicidal maniac?"
Jim could see the wheels spinning. The man reached into his pocket and came out with a letter. He flapped it against the desk, took it out of the envelope, and pitched it across to Jim.
"This is a letter to Jerry Duprey," he announced.
Jim placed reading other people's mail in the same category as writing names on the walls of a public restroom. He gave Mitchell a disgusted look and started to get to his feet.
Brother Mitchell rapped on the desk.
"Wait a minute, Smith. This was opened by mistake by that near sighted genius at the computer outside. It was slit open and laid on the desk with a dozen other letters. I read it, just as you would have under the circumstances."
In an almost illegible scrawl, the letter said:
"Jerry, your aunt needs help…I found the markets." It was signed: "Edith".
Jim lit another cigarette and stared at Beau Mitchell who stared right back. Then Jim asked, "Where does Duprey live? And why don't you show him the letter if you're such buddy buddies? Why do you want me in the act?"
The man gave Jim a cynical smile. "Buddy buddies we are not. To answer your first question, Mr. Duprey lives in Odessa, Texas.
He is a superstitious guy who helped me some years ago. I consider we are even, except at the moment he owes me ten thousand bucks and is chiseling on the side. He poor mouthed it around here enough to make you cry in your beer." Mitchell pointed to the letter. "I had no idea he had a living relative, especially an aunt with money. You heard me say once before I hate double-crossers. I want to get one jump ahead of Duprey. That's why I want him here.
Does that explain everything, Smith?"
Jim couldn’t say it explained anything, but he hardly expected it would. He asked, "I assume Jerry Duprey works for you. What's the pitch?"
Mitchell was trying to be agreeable. "I have enterprises in three states, Smith, bowling alleys, restaurants, strip centers, that sort of thing. Jerry works for me. It's simple." He shrugged. Then he asked again: "Is it a deal?"
Jim looked around the plush office and back at Mitchell across the desk. "Yeah, deal." He answered shortly.
The man pulled out a block of checks. "Half now, and half when I return," he said.
"What if I take off with the thousand?"
Beau Mitchell didn't look up. "You won't," he said evenly. "You won't."
Jim gave the Russell’s another glance, turned on his heel and went down the green marble corridor to the elevator. Once outside he braced against the wind for a moment, then made it post haste to the bank. The teller scarcely looked at him as he counted out the thousand. So far so good, he thought.
When he returned to the hotel to pick up his bag and check out, if he had not had the money in his pocket, he might have gone north.
But, he crawled into another taxi, this time with an unsociable driver, and went for a thirty minute ride. Fort Worth had more hills than he had supposed. South of town on a barren hill sat Beau Mitchell's house. It was a big, ranch style single story home sprawled across a lot of ground. A large swimming pool baked in the sun between it and the guest house some two hundred yards away. The driver let Jim out, eying him somewhat curiously.
Beau Mitchell's guest house had two bedrooms, two bathroom, two telephones, a well stocked kitchen including an ample liquor supply, and a large living room. It had been cleaned immaculately. There was not a speck of dust inside though there was more than enough outside. The key was in the door as Mitchell had indicated. Jim pitched it onto a glass table top, put his stuff away, and built a drink loaded with ice cubes.
The guest house was done up in a masculine ranch oak. Even the wastebaskets and facilities in the bathroom were enclosed in ranch oak and trimmed with brown towels and a brown bath mat adorned with enormous gold letter Ms. It looked like some eager beaver in a very expensive western store had been given the green light on the decor.
As he stretched out on the couch, a telephone on the table beside him rang. He let it ring a couple of times, and then picked it up. He assumed it was tied into the main line at the big house because he heard a voice say
"Hahlo", and he could hardly mistake Mitchell's voice when he started telling
"Hahlo" what to do. It was commanding, and Jim hoped he wasn't going this route with him.
He disliked commands, particularly in this tone. Mitchell directed a blue Cadillac be brought to the guest house, dinner at seven, and a ride to the airport at eight-thirty that night. "Hahlo" said "Yes", and Jim hung up.
After all, the call wasn't for him.
"Hahlo" dropped off the blue Cadillac a few minutes later and announced Mitchell expected him for dinner at six-thirty, indicating Hahlo" did not know he had heard the previous conversation. The man was sullen and fierce all at the same time, and Jim couldn't guess his nationality. Southern European he supposed. He looked him over carefully because their eyes never seemed to meet. Jim decided he was about as harmless as a king cobra.