19 Souls

by J. D. Allen

  He shook his head. She was pretty out there. “No, ma’am. Like green. Green bean, Jim Bean.”

  She didn’t crack the slightest hint of a smile. “Don’t know no Bean either.” That hope turned to a suspicious glare and a raised lip. “You’re not dressed like one of the morons who works here.” She was not holding back, more wary.

  “Nope. And I suggest you be a little nicer to the people who bring your food.” Jim smiled. He didn’t want to say the word investigator unless he had to. Might upset her. He wasn’t sure if Cynthia told her mother she’d hired a PI.

  “Ha. I can make my own way to the food lines, mister. Don’t you worry.”

  He scanned the articles on the wall. Lots and lots of them. Nothing seemed to connect at first glance. Entertainment, sports, political. More obituaries in one place then he’d ever seen. Few had pictures. Most were bold headlines and story copy. They gave him an idea. “I was wanting to do a story on the residents here. One of the morons said you were a firecracker. Told me you’d be a good interview.”

  “Me? In the paper?” She used the heels of her scuffed black shoes to scoot the chair a bit closer.

  He hated to lie to the old girl, but he didn’t want to upset her. Given most his life was lived in a lie these days, what the hell? Nothing like the fluidity of ethics. “Mind if I sit?”

  “Heck no.”

  She seemed bright and alert. Cynthia had given him the impression the old woman would be out of it. This exercise may garner him better intel than he’d hoped. He started with how long she’d lived in the facility.

  “I’ve been here almost seven years, best of my recollection. Since right after Kennedy died.”

  Jim nodded. “Kennedy, huh?” His hopes of accurate information faltered almost as fast as her smile.

  “Sad day.”

  “It was.” He’d best get to the point then. She wasn’t going to give him Danny’s last address. “Heard you have a son, Mrs. Hodge. Daniel?”

  “I do.” Her face was unreadable. No longer smiling, but not exactly unhappy. “He’s a cowboy.”

  “I heard that too.” Jim leaned in, glancing behind again. Never liked his back to the door. But in this case it was to make her feel like he was secretive, that she could trust him. “You know where he is?”

  “Out riding horses, last word I got.”

  “You’ve heard from him?”

  “Not directly. Not in a while. Cindy says he’s busy.” Her face fell. “But he’s promised me cake for my birthday next week. Tuesday. And a clown face. He always wore the best clown faces.” She scrunched up her face and rolled her chair to the wall on her right. She plucked down an article. “Five hundred and seventy-five words.” She handed it to Jim and grabbed another. “Fourteen hundred and seventy-five words.” She pushed herself out of the chair, teetering on the brink of disaster. Jim braced to catch her. She swerved and twisted, grabbing one of the highest and longest sheets taped up. “Three thousand six hundred and seventy-five.”

  He looked over the long wall coved with the newsprint. “They all end in seventy-five?”

  “That they do, mister. You’d be wise to remember that.” She tapped her temple and winked.

  He smiled down at her as she resettled in her rolling chair. “I’ll do that.” He sucked in a deep breath. “Anyone else come asking questions about Dan, Mrs. Hodge?”

  “My name’s Lynette. And only girls come round. But you know how handsome my boy is. Just like his father.” She worried at a loose thread from her sweater, inspected it, and then let it fall to the linoleum floor. He’d give her a moment. See where her thoughts went.

  She refocused on the paper in her hand. “My Andrew’s last article was two hundred and seventy-five.”

  Jim remembered the name listed on the database. Andrew Hodge. Daniel’s father.

  She closed her eyes. “Obits ought to be short.”

  6

  Jim parked the bland Japanese rental among jacked up pickups and horse trailers the next afternoon. He’d thought it was hot in Vegas, but the oppressive Texas heat and humidity had him sweating before he made it five feet from the car and its robust air conditioner.

  He’d parked behind the arena area on purpose, guessing that would be where the riders and pros hung out. And as he suspected, there were several guys working horses and moving livestock toward the action.

  He looked like a cop in this environment even with his jeans and hiking boots on. Three men stopped what they were doing to watch him approach.

  He pulled out his ID. “Name’s Bean. I’m looking for Hal Winters.”

  As expected. No answer. Three blank stares from three thin men in tight jeans and boots. They all had the same look. Pressed bright shirts with patches all over them, big buckles, and dusty well-worn boots. These guys were riders and had been around a while to pick up so much sponsorship.

  “I’m hoping he can help me find a missing guy. He’s not in any trouble.”

  The information brought little change of expression. Jim stood his ground and stared at them. The rather short one on the left finally looked down. He was the one who’d spill.

  Jim addressed him. “Really, man.” He tried to look like he was harmless. “I’m looking for Daniel Hodge. His sister hired me to find him. Their mother’s sick. Help a guy out, would ya?”

  Shorty nodded and tipped his hat back a bit. “I remember Dan. Haven’t seen him in a few years. But you’re on target with Hal. If anyone knows, he will.”

  “And he’s here?” Jim was hopeful. Long trip if he wasn’t. The circuit standings online had ended with last season. No way to know if Hal was riding the same one this year.

  One of the quiet men spit. It landed close to Jim’s feet but if it was directed at him, he’d have known. Jim ignored it.

  Shorty pointed to a building off to the left of the covered arena. “Having a Coke in the AC would be my guess. Broncs don’t go off till later.”

  “Thanks.” AC sounded good to Jim.

  Inside the cafe Jim didn’t garner as much attention. There were all kinds of people there to watch the rodeo with families, people working the snack bar, even a couple cops in the corner. The seating area sported three long rows of white plastic folding tables. It would maybe hold a hundred people. There were only about thirty scattered around now. No tablecloths. No pretense. The food smelled like a summer baseball park at dinnertime. A huge whiteboard displayed the handwritten menu. Empty bottles displayed the choice of beer.

  A couple dozen cowboy hats dotted the room. Jim scanned the faces of those turned in his direction. A cute blonde was smiling up at him as she spoke to her friends. Working. He moved on. A behemoth of a man in a pressed white shirt stood from the table closest to Jim and gathered a plate of fried chicken remains. He nodded. Jim took that as an invitation.

  “Hal?”

  The man hesitated.

  “He’s not in trouble. I owe him money.” There’s a lie that almost always works.

  After another once-over the guy evidently agreed that Jim wasn’t there for trouble. He pointed to the far corner of the room. No subtlety. Good thing Jim didn’t need to sneak up. “Black hat talking with that lady in the green shirt.”

  Not to mention the guy had a mustache the size of Dallas. “Thanks.”

  Jim walked straight toward Hal. No surprise to Hal since he’d seen the big fucker pointing his way. Jim still had his ID in his hand. He flipped it open to Hal. The blond girl looked a little frightened. “I’m a PI from Vegas. Cynthia Hodge asked me to help her find her brother, Dan Hodge.”

  Jim gave the guy a quick minute to think on that. Wanted him to relax. Understand Jim was not there to find him for any troublesome reason.

  After about four seconds he said, “I haven’t seen Dan in a few years.”

  “Last time he beat your ass in the regionals.” The blonde
laughed. Her face was over-tanned from the Texas sun and over-coated in Maybelline. Lips the color of a fire engine. Eyes painted up cornflower blue. A look Jim was used to on the showgirls. Intentionally overdone for the lights and the stage.

  Hal smiled. It made it to his eyes. Genuine. “It was.”

  “You two used to pass that title back and forth from what I could see online.” Jim slid into a folding chair uninvited. The blonde turned more his way.

  “He was a great rider,” Hal said.

  “Was?”

  “Up and disappeared one weekend.” Hal’s accent was thick and rolling. He used his index finger and thumb to smooth his handlebar mustache. “Last day of regionals, 2012. His entry fees were paid. He was sitting in first place after the first go round. Never missed a ride before that. Never seen him since.”

  “Unusual for a guy to disappear in the middle of a competition?”

  The blonde tapped an unlit cigarette on the table to pack the tobacco. “I’ve never heard of anyone else running out like that. I always thought he had to be dead to miss out on the buckle.” Jim let his eyebrows rise as she elaborated. “I mean, he was in the money all the time. Had a decent truck but kind of lived out of it. We’re on the road a lot, but most of us have a home base. Dan didn’t.”

  “You think he could have gotten mixed up in drugs?”

  “Oh. Hell no.” Hal straightened, offended by the idea. “This is a real sport, mister. You have to have a clear head to strap yourself to a twelve-hundred-pound animal and hold on. We all get behind it at the bar every now and then, but he took this shit serious. Was saving to move to Montana and buy his own land.”

  Interesting. Montana’s a big place to get lost in. “You guys know any other riders who did that? Move up to Montana?”

  They both shook their heads but Hal answered. “I don’t know anyone who could save his money like Dan.”

  If the man had some cash and no drug problem, there had to be a money trail. But why would his sister think he was a druggie? “Could he have started the drugs right before he disappeared?” Jim asked.

  Hal pressed that mustache down again, stretching his lips into a frown. “Don’t see Dan like that. He was smart. Hardworking. The guy you’d trust your sister with.”

  “Drugs change people.”

  Hal shrugged. “I think you’re throwing your rope in the wrong direction.”

  Jim stood and nodded. “I appreciate your time.” He said it to Hal but made eye contact with the blonde as well. “One more thing. Anybody else come looking for Dan after he went off?”

  “Not that I can think of,” Hal said as the woman shook her head.

  “Great.” Jim had a thought. “I need to get some cash out of the bank. Want to hit the bar myself tonight. What’s the biggest bank around here? Don’t want to pay too many fees.”

  “There’s a First Texas Fed on Highway 377. I use them. Got an All Points ATM. No fees no matter where I go.”

  Another leather-faced woman stepped up behind the cowboy. “You best get to the chutes, Hal.”

  “I’ll get out of your way. Have a good show … ride?”

  “Go.”

  “Go. Have a good go.” Jim headed back into the Texas heat.

  Follow the money.

  7

  Jim sat at the bar, his reflection directly below a buffalo butt the size of his first car. The rust-colored, stuffed rear-end was once part of a whole bison merrily roaming the range. Where the hell ever a range might still be these days. Now half a dead bison hung from a bar-back mirror in tribute to the house labeled beer, Buffalo Butt. Jim opted for scotch to accompany the rare piece of meat in front of him. No butt beer.

  He pressed his shoulders back and cranked his neck to the side for a crack and stretch before cutting into what might be the end of his almost-decent cholesterol score.

  Twelve ounces of marbled perfection. It sliced like butter. Tasted like heaven. The texture of the aged beef was flawless. The seasoning minimal. Perfect. Jim was dog-tired from the late flight last night. A beautiful meal and the scotch was exactly what he needed before an early night and a dawn flight tomorrow. It’d been a good trip. Fast and efficient. Just the way he liked it. One interview and he had a good lead.

  Jim stopped chewing when he caught a glimpse of himself in the mirror. His dark hair was too long, spilling over his ears, his gray eyes looked gaunt above dark circles. The haggard appearance in the reflection made him wonder what had made Dan go so far off course. The kid was in college, then quit and joined the rodeo, and then turned junkie.

  Jim’s own life had been buffalo kicked too. His derailment was caused by a co-ed and a false accusation of assault and rape. He’d lost his scholarship, his spot in the FBI training academy, and a good deal of his mother’s retirement to make bail. The following scrutiny and mistrust had sent him to Vegas. He’d changed his name and put out his plank declaring himself a PI. Started all over.

  In the beginning he’d drunk enough to kill that buffalo hanging above his reflection. He counted himself lucky no one had offered him heavy drugs. He closed his eyes to the darkness that lingered from the self-loathing and anger of his past. Yeah. He’d have been happy for that kind of chemical-induced escape from reality. Maybe Dan had come across a need to indulge, to bury pain, life.

  Someone maneuvered into the stool next to him even though there’d been plenty others open along the bar. Slowly he opened his eyes and looked down at the steak. He was in no mood to chat with a local.

  “Well, Mr. Bean.” His gaze snapped back to the mirror. The voice was smooth. The face familiar. “Did we find anything today?”

  He blinked a couple of times, letting the confusion of seeing someone completely out of context ease out of his brain. He slowly took another sip of scotch. Catching his tongue. He didn’t like being surprised … or followed. He needed to edit his thoughts before he vomited out words he’d wish not spoken to a client. He silently counted to ten to hold his tongue. So the court-mandated anger-

  management class had paid off. This time.

  “There was no need to come all the way to Texas, Ms. Hodge. That’s what you paid me for.”

  “Call me Cynthia.” She’d crossed her legs and angled herself to face him. Her elbow was casually draped over the dark-stained wood of the bar. She tilted her head and loose red locks tumbled over her shoulder. It was longer than he had imagined when he met her. That grin was mischievous at best. But damn, she was hot.

  “I told you I wanted to see him as soon as you found him. So I figured if you were coming to Forth Worth, why not?”

  “Shouldn’t have.” It came out more of a growl than he would have liked.

  Cynthia’s spine straightened, her face hardened, and she glanced around as if to make sure no one heard his harsh tone. “Please don’t think I’m questioning your prowess as a PI. I’m just anxious.”

  That didn’t help. “You wasted a trip.”

  Relaxing back onto the bar, her body language changed, softened. Jim got the feeling this woman rarely lost her poise for long. “He’s not here?” She eased over even closer. He could smell her perfume. Something exotic. Not fruity or sweet.

  “I really didn’t expect him to be. But I do have a lead.” He decided to hold off telling her his thoughts on Dan having cash at this point. He had no idea how long his techie guy would take to find the money trail. If there was one left to follow.

  “Oh?”

  “Old friend says he talked about Montana a lot.”

  “Montana. That sounds about right for Dan. Always loved the thought of the West. He thought Texas was too … not green.”

  “His rodeo buddies find it hard to believe Dan got into drugs.”

  She blinked hard. Swallowed. “So did we. It happened so fast. Seems like he was visiting one day and he was fine and then he missed his next planned visit. Afte
r that, he was always flighty and we got calls from a hospital once. He’d almost OD’d.”

  “I didn’t find any arrest records.”

  With that she sat up and recrossed her legs. Jim tried not to notice that they were long and lean. He took another sip.

  “I don’t find that surprising. I did a criminal background thing online as well.” She twisted and glanced around then nodded to the back of the restaurant. “I have the corner booth” She picked up his plate and handed it to him. “Join me. You can buy me dinner with my retainer money.” Before he could answer she grabbed his drink. “Sir.” The bartender looked up from his phone as Cynthia continued. “I’m moving Mr. Bean to my table. Is that okay?” She urged him out of the stool with a flick of her wrist.

  Dammit. He really wanted a quiet evening alone. Sinking into bed in a scotch haze. Like most of his evenings.

  He fell into the booth. She said something to the waitress before leaning back to the bartender. With her back turned and the angle she was leaning over the bar, he could see the shape of her ass in that tight denim skirt. He let his head fall back and hit the booth. It was not soft, as the upholstery made it appear. Dammit. A clock to the head would do him good right now.

  She turned back to him holding two glasses—his close to empty one and a full one. She showed a good bit of cleavage as she set them in front of his plate and eased into her place behind her plate, which looked remarkably like his. Rare beef and vegetables.

  With a wink she raised her wineglass and offered a toast. He groaned internally as he raised his glass. The evening reminded him of a very bad prom date. Wrong place. Wrong girl. Again.

  She chatted about Texas and accounting through the meal. She smiled a lot. Even touched his arm a couple of times.

  Cynthia was a knockout, but he would never get involved with an active client. She blasted him with that amazing smile again, this time with the head tilt thrown in for a murderous effect. The last gulp of the scotch did seem to help. He felt it. Woozy. Must be the traveling, because two drinks would never make him this relaxed. Damn shame too. Would have saved him a stack of cash during the years he was drowning the reality of his trashed life and bad choice in women.