by Jim Nesbitt
“I’ll be damned. And here I thought he was just some no-account shamus that needed his pistol yanked before he hurt somebody we give a shit about.”
Grunwald slid his chair back and gave Burch his best hard guy glare. Which made Burch almost spit a laugh into his coffee. Instead, Burch fought to maintain the half-lidded deadness in his eyes.
“What’s the deal?”
“Claims he’s got a client. Says his client was screaming when he drove up to the townhouse. Says he was tryin’ to get in the gate of the complex when the gunhand threw down on him with a 12-gauge pump. Mossberg. Extended magazine. Fucker blew the hell out a rich gal’s Saab tryin’ to blow up our Mr. Burch’s shit. Burch got lucky. Six shots from a Colt that oughta be used as a boat anchor. Two rang the Tejano’s bell.”
“Who’s the shooter?”
“Punk named Delgado. Street tough. Graduated to low-grade muscle stuff. Freelancer from what I could get from the Barrio Boys. Tejano, though. Definitely not a cholo. Cockroach killer boots with silver tips and chains, fancy and tight jeans. No chinos. No plaid shirt buttoned at the neck.”
Like spore or migrating cancer, gangbangers from El Lay were bringing their style east to Phoenix, Denver, Kansas City, Chicago, Houston, Atlanta or anyplace else that had a surplus of dead-ended project kids and a heavy population of blacks and Hispanics. Sometimes local toughs adopted the West Coast style; sometimes a crew moved in and converted an instant roster of local disciples.
Houston’s gang squad had two turfs to check — the black projects and the barrio — and sported two sticks of detectives with two nicknames, the Ghetto Boys, the Barrio Boys. Not very cute or clever — barely a pun. And the Barrio Boys had two styles to juggle — the cholos, with their plaid flannel shirts and bandanas, and Tejanos, countrified toughs in pointy-toed boots and crisp Resistol straws.
“Asshole here have his papers in order — carry permit, pee-eye ticket and all?”
“All in order.”
“More than we can say for his clothes. Who’s the client?”
“Oh, you’ll like this one — Savannah Crowe. She of the lately fried husband. She of the husband’s pissed off clientele looking to peel somebody’s hide because their money’s gone and so is hubby.”
“I’ll want to see paper on that.”
“Already on your desk.”
“Real fine. Where’s little missy now?”
“Door Number Four. Soon to be in the company of counsel.”
“And what type of slick suit will we be dealing with today?”
“Ah — definitely shittin’ in tall cotton there. One of Mr. Haynes’ associates.”
“The Racehorse sending in one of his colts? Hmmmmm. Upscale company. Were the DeGuerin boys busy?”
“Hey, you know what happens when Waco fever strikes. You get used to cults and Fibby infernos and incinerated true believers and their children, what’s the wife of an extra-crispy investment counselor to you?”
Cider was bored by the banter but kept at it because something was worming into his brain and a top cover of talk would keep it inching forward into his consciousness. Something about the body fried in the Beemer and ol’ Hoghead twisting from his bedroom ceiling. The style and the vibes — that’s what was causing Cider’s tuning fork to hum. He wasn’t quite dialed into its frequency so he let Grunwald’s chatter wash over him, hosing away the debris between understanding and the main truth that was beginning to emerge.
Grunwald was rolling, serving up quips in couplets and triplets. Chat, backtalk, banter — it was the balm of the bullpen. And Grunwald could really spread its healing grace. He was a lousy cop but a great saloon talker, at his best when it came to snappy exchanges, one liners and bon mots at the bar or coffee machine. Cider used to love mixing it up with him or Perez — the insults, the slams, the switchbacks and other rhetorical turns. But lots of things went stale when Perez got zapped.
“Any time you boys want to stop pretendin’ I ain’t here, lemme know. I’ll be in the crapper dumpin’ all this good coffee you keep in stock.”
Burch shifted in his chair, starting to rise, feeling the chips in his knees start to grind.
“Keep your butt seated, asshole. We’ll let you know when you can take a shit.”
Burch stood up. He’d heard the magic word. Asshole. He figured he couldn’t make anything worse by flipping his tie at the last Houston homicide detective he ever wanted to ever see.
Damn — thought this guy went out on a medical. Got the shit shot out of him outside of that cave. Burch shuddered as he turned, fighting off a glimpse of his ex-wife’s corpse, white-skinned and losing heat, lying in the rocks with the bodies of four sheriff deputies, this Houston guy and his dead partner, a bald-headed Mex with a pencil moustache.
He chased that vision with a standard benediction from Louie’s — it just doesn’t matter. Repeat as necessary. Repeat because it was a True Fact — one of the Racehorse’s colts would be along shortly to back everybody down. And he did feel a case of the drizzles coming on. Stress loosens the bowels. And his shit definitely felt weak and watery.
A face, red and distorted, rushed into his vision, blowing hot breath and causing him to blink in surprise.
“You will sit your ass down until I tell you to stand or I will sit it down for you. And that’d just be so fine by me. Are we communicating here, mister?”
Burch stopped blinking and met the stare of Cider Jones.
“I didn’t kill your partner, son. A shitheel black scumbag did. And he killed my ex-wife. Remember that? Remember, son?”
The two men stood inches apart, staring each other down. Burch could feel the other man begin to soften, his anger running out of him. He stepped around the detective and headed toward the can.
Behind Door Number Four, Savannah Crowe sat at the short end of a metal table, away from the door, smoking a Benson & Hedges Menthol and using the long pearl-coated nail of her left index finger to pick a line of duct tape adhesive from the corner of her mouth.
Her cheeks and lips were still tender from Burch ripping the tape from her face. She was still pissed. Waiting three hours and some long change in a police interrogation room didn’t improve her humor. She nursed her anger, keeping it over a low heat, saving it for whatever showdown would occur in this place.
She was a woman used to outflanking anybody with intelligence, cunning, a flash of raw sexuality and a hint of barely bridled anger. The last was a highly successful weapon in the society of the polite, the stupid and the spoiled she found herself in these last five years.
In that arena, most opponents recoiled at the threat of seeing the Celt and the Slav in her, served up hot and raw, spilling all over the nice table linen and tea service. It was something that went way beyond the pouting antics of a rich girl accustomed to abusing the help, proven when she backhanded a debutante twice in the middle of Cafe Annie one winter Wednesday night after a catty insult, then dumped a plate full of free range chicken tarragon and polenta over the woman’s raw silk suit and broke the china over her tight cap of black curls.
Screaming and crying. Stares from startled patrons. Waiters and artfully slinky hostesses, vested and clad in variations of black, scrambling to the rescue. Savannah pulled out a cigarette, jetted smoke through her nostrils and signaled the bar for the check.
She stood up, leaned close to the clear red glaze dripping off the woman’s ear and said: “Never mistake me for the hired help, sugar. And never mistake the power your husband has for your own. It’s my husband who works for your husband, making him more money for you to spend. I’m not part of the package.”
Jason loved her notoriety: “You’re my nuclear deterrent.” She added violent marquee value as the explosive wife of the financial genius who pumped out his own musk of sex-and-drugs-and-rock ’n roll, a combined cachet that helped lure more clients from the coke-and-daddy’s-oil-royalties set. The woman’s husband dropped Jason after the Cafe Annie dustup, pulling out of a limited partner
ship, losing principal and a hunk of a prospective tax write-off. But four other investors jumped onto the bandwagon, attracted by her violent buzz and the idea of having a financial advisor who could service their portfolios and their nostrils.
What worked while wading among the Houston hipsters might not play in front of a homicide cop and an ex-lover with an up-close memory of her moves. Eddie used to laugh at her flaring anger. Or get a hard-on and want to fuck. She’d spout off and maybe slap him; he’d grab her and want to take her immediately — in a restaurant, on the highway, on a conference table, in a doorway. When nothing else seemed to arouse him, her anger would, a tool she sometimes used to jumpstart a dull rack session or a boring dinner.
She doubted if a flash of anger would get Eddie addled and easily influenced today. She doubted if he was buying anything she had to sell. And the first detective she saw seemed too stupid to react to anything other than a sugar-dusted donut. Or a vacuum lip lock from a hooker. She heard another voice beyond the door, deep, loud and commanding. Not a tone one would associate with air kisses and the cocaine sniffles.
With this audience, anger would be a backbeat, an undertone. Let the attorney take the lead. If he got here anytime soon. Let him do the talking, springing her and Eddie and getting them back to the business of staying low.
New digs would be the first order; it was stupid to stay at a girlfriend’s. She knew that now — knew it before Delgado showed up. But she liked being right on the edge. Staying totally out of sight would have bored her silly and made her pace and growl like a caged leopard. Lying low, but still being exposed enough to grab kept her juices flowing, kept her connected to the action. She needed that — as much as sex or a cup of coffee in the morning. But she couldn’t let that impulse ruin her. Too much was at stake — about thirty million too much, if the file in Jason’s computer was accurate.
A safe house first. Keeping Big Boy in place and under control was the second priority. She couldn’t afford to have him play the loose cannon; she couldn’t afford to piss him off and have him walk away. And she didn’t think a seduction would make him a passive player. He had to feel like he was something other than a human shield for her; she had to sell him a story that put him in a starring role.
The door opened. Cider Jones stepped in, scowling at a file he was juggling back into his left hand, careful to keep the coffee mug in his right hand level.
“Miz’ Crowe.”
Savannah nodded, stubbing out her cigarette.
Cider sat down, still reading, sipping his coffee, grimacing at its heat or its taste. She couldn’t tell until he blew into the mug. He kept her waiting, taking another loud sip.
“Something I don’t get to see these days — a man slurping his morning coffee.”
“It’s almost six, ma’am.”
“Morning for you, isn’t it? You’re the late shift.”
Cider nodded, taking another sip, turning a page in the file.
“You know, here’s something interesting — says here when the blues showed up at your door with news your husband had been killed, you said `The bastard left me holding the bag.’ Or words to that effect.”
“I believe I used the word `cocksucker.’ “
“I’ll take your word, ma’am. Hardly the tears of a freshly made widow.”
“My husband and I took a pragmatic approach to marriage. We were partners — in business and bed. Very little room for sentiment in our relationship.”
“Strictly business?”
“To put it in different words.”
“What bag were you holding?”
“As I’ve explained before — I knew my husband was in trouble with his investments. I knew people were upset with him, upset about their losses, angry because they felt they had been misled. Some would find his death a questionable occurrence. Some would see it as a staged event. Others would take it at face value. Either way, they’d be coming after me for their money. And some wouldn’t be very nice about it.”
“Badasses among the young and the restless?”
“Not all of my husband’s clients were yupsters.”
“That so? What sort of nasties were on the client list?”
“My husband had other things on his plate that I had no part of.”
“Some friends down Cali way?”
“You’re not very imaginative.”
“I heard you liked that in a man.”
“My likes and dislikes aren’t on the table right now. To answer your question — my husband compartmentalized his business. There were the partnership deals on oil and gas that I was involved in, particularly in the recruiting of clients. Then there were other deals in which I played no part.”
“You had no clue what he was doing?”
“Clues and guesses are just that.”
“Care to elaborate?”
“No.”
“Guy by the name of Hoghead Yates mean anything to you?”
“Fat guy with lots of gold chains?”
“The same. So, you do know some of your husband’s seedier associates.”
“Knowing him doesn’t mean knowing what he was up to.”
“Pity. Sure enough is. Mr. Yates wound up twisting from the ceiling with his tongue cut out and some of the same burn marks we found on what was left of that crispy critter found in your husband’s car.”
Savannah grimaced.
“Thought he was fried.”
“Pretty much. But there was enough of him left so we could tell he’d been tortured before he was iced. Musta knew something someone else wanted to know. Burn marks from battery cables. Same as on Hoghead.”
“A stylistic connection.”
“Exactly.”
“Which doesn’t bring things any closer to me.”
“If you want to whistle through the graveyard that way, I’ll listen to the tune and tell you it’s pretty. But let me also tell you this lady — if they’re doin’ this to their friends, think what they may do to you. This cowboy Delgado wasn’t one of the nasty boys. He was low-rent talent who got lucky and found you before they did.”
Savannah said nothing. Her smoke filled the silence. Cider let it stretch for a few more seconds.
“So I take it you weren’t surprised when it turned out he wasn’t the guy who got fried in his car.”
“Only in a tactical sense. I didn’t think he had that sort of gruesome theatrics in him.”
“So you think he staged this by himself.”
“I don’t know.”
“What do you think?”
Savannah paused, then looked at Cider.
“No.”
“Think he’s got it in him to cut somebody’s tongue out?”
“Same answer.”
“I’m hearing that tune again, Mrs. Crowe. You whistle it pretty.”
“Look, bud — my husband played up pretend connections with wiseguys and Columbians to give himself this dangerous aura. It was mostly for show, something to sell the yuppie suckers. Like I said, he had some side deals with some unsavory types but I don’t think for a minute they ever saw him as a serious player.”
“You still believe that? After that scene out by the Intercontinental? After gettin’ trussed up by that Tejano gunhand?”
No answer. A knock on the door. It opened and a tall red-headed man with freckles, a tennis tan and a light gray suit strolled in. The colt of Racehorse Haynes. At hour four of the proceedings. With the look of Up East prep run through nothing but pure Ivy League and a round of GQ ads.
And an accent that was as West Texas as a Saturday night dance at The Post out in Marathon, an outdoor tradition since the Apache wars and the days when Black Jack Pershing chased Pancho Villa, an under-the-stars event where the sheriff still asked the men to take off their hats to twirl with the ladies.
“I’m afraid I’m gonna have to put this cozy little chat on a more formal basis, detective.”
“It’s lieutenant. And Mrs. Crowe doesn’t seem to mind answering a
few gentle questions about her missing husband, counselor.”
“I’m sure she doesn’t but I do when her counsel isn’t present.”
“Which would be the proper stance if Mrs. Crowe was being charged but she’s not, so what’s the point of having somebody hold her hand? Good Kee-rist Jesus counselor, I’m talking to her as victim of a crime, not a suspect.”
“You’re not the only lawman in town who has an interest in my client, detective. As you know from that file you’re reading, her husband is wanted for questioning in the death of that John Doe found burned to a crisp in Mr. Crowe’s car out by the Intercontinental and she’s being pressed by various other investigative agencies about her husband’s investment counseling affairs and his alleged associations with certain people you folks seem to regard in less than a favorable light.”
“So she’s a lady wading chest deep in shit and you figure I’m just another lawdog interested in pushing her head under.”
“Your words, not mine, detective. Let’s cut to it — we both know if you can rope her, you’ll ride her.”
The lawyer sat down, pulling a small tape recorder out of his jacket pocket, clicking the Record button.
“This is Barton Phillips, attorney for Mrs. Savannah Crowe, at a homicide interrogation at Third Precinct. Present in the room is Mrs. Crowe and Lieutenant . . .”
Phillips clicked the recorder off.
“Forgot my manners. Need to get your name, detective.”
Cider flipped his file onto the table in disgust, shooting his eyes toward the ceiling and crossing himself.
“Since we’re getting so formal, I might as well say grace first. God is Great, God is Good . . .”
“Glad you thought of lunch, detective.”
“It’s lieutenant, son. Get it right on that recorder of yours.”
“It’s why I carry the little sucker. Now how `bout the name that hangs behind the title.”
“Willis Quanah Jones.”
“As in Quanah Parker?”
“The same. A historian and a legal eagle. Real fine.”
A click of the recorder.
“. . . Lt. Willis Quanah Jones was asking Mrs. Crowe questions when I arrived about the circumstances of her husband’s disappearance . . .”