by Jim Nesbitt
“Able to hear through solid glass — got yourself a good lawyer Mrs. Crowe. Talks kinda country though for his looks. Must be hangin’ around some of the Racehorse’s seedier clients.”
Phillips put the recorder on the table.
“I’m assuming Mr. Burch is also not being charged.”
“A premature assumption, counselor.”
“Oh? It’s a matter of self-defense — a private investigator coming to the rescue of a client under assault. A witness who will testify that the dead man fired the first shots. And a statement by Mrs. Crowe about the assault on her person.”
“Burch was carrying a concealed weapon.”
“Thin beer, detective. This is Texas and he’s got the proper permits. And we have a signed agreement between Mr. Burch and Mrs. Crowe that states he is an operative in her employ.”
“Not in yours?”
“No. A personal service contract between my client and Mr. Burch. She preferred it that way.”
“Papers I assume we can see. Along with copies of that proper weapons permit. You folks move fast. Didn’t think Burch was here much longer than a day.”
“Full service firm, detective.”
“Yeah. And I run a full interrogation shop, counselor. Hope you got a few of them microcassettes around. It’s gonna be awhile before Mrs. Crowe quits answerin’ my questions. And then we’ve got Mr. Burch.”
“We’re here to cooperate, detective. After all — she’s a victim in this.”
“It’s lieutenant, son. Get it right.”
TWELVE
Two men sat at a rear table in a small cantina in the rust-bucket heart of the Ship Channel barrio, smack on the raggedy border between the old Second Ward and Magnolia Park. It was a white-washed stucco building with loud letters in yellow, orange and black announcing La Gloria Josefina — Comida y Bebida, a brave declaration staking out a dilapidated corner of commerce in one of Houston’s carelessly scattered pockets of Latino poverty.
One of the men was an Anglo with gray hair in a brush cut. He wore a dark blue Gore-Tex rain jacket and tan slacks. The other was Mexican, short and heavyset. He wore jeans and a Roper shirt with broad gray and red stripes that cut diagonally across his thick chest and cannonball belly.
A crisp Resistol straw, crown side down to preserve the crease of the brim, sat in front of the Mexican. Next to the hat, a Motorola cellular phone, the old-style column of gray plastic with the thick rubbery antenna, as much a sign of modern macho as a knife or a pearl-handled pistol.
The Anglo had a pair of mismatched pickets standing a thin line of watch over his side of the table — a tall bottle of Tecate and a short shot of Dos Reales tequila.
The place was empty and closed. Lunch was long over. Dinner was two hours away. The phone chirped. The Mexican swept the column into one thick hand, holding the other palm up toward the Anglo.
“Momento, por favor.” Into the phone: “Háblame.”
Long seconds of listening. Single Spanish words of reply. Silence and tension. The Anglo, watchful behind a face glazed smooth of any tics or tells, took a sip of the aged tequila, blowing through his teeth before taking a cold swig of Tecate.
“Bien. Gracias, hombre.”
The Mexican rang off, centering the phone in front of him with a thunk. He smiled and allowed himself a small chuckle.
“My friend, it always amazes me the results you can get by putting a little money on the street.”
“Honey beats sulfur. And a kick in the balls. Particularly when it’s somebody else’s money.”
“Es verdad, hombre.”
The Mexican turned his head toward the kitchen door.
“Josefina! Dos tequilas, por favor! Añejo para mí y para el hombre. Y una Carta Blanca para mí.”
An old woman, brown, broad and leathery, banged through the swinging kitchen door and waddled toward the small bar tucked into the right rear corner of the room.
The two men sat quietly until she served them and padded back to the kitchen, each taking sips of tequila and cold beer.
“Well?”
“It’s as you thought. You remember Chuy Reynaldo? He put up some money on that powder deal that went sour when you left here. He wanted his money back. Or how do the Anglos say it — a pound of flesh? That’s it. A pound of flesh. He figured your wife could give him one or the other so he sent Delgado.”
“One of the many badgering poor Savannah since I’ve been gone.”
“Si. One of the many. But not one of the worst. You know of the Hoghead Yates?”
“Yes.”
“His tongue cut out, hanging from his ceiling like a slab of beef, burn marks all over his body — a thing you wouldn’t want to happen to an enemy, much less a friend.”
The Mexican gazed at the Anglo, looking for a reaction. The only thing he got was the surface glaze of those eyes made blue by tinted contact lenses. Color didn’t matter, it was like looking at a man wearing smoky-dark shades. No idea what was going on inside. If anything. Complete cover.
“It happens.”
“Not every day, hombre. Not even in our circles. This is something you read about in Columbia. Or Miami. Not here.”
“Try New Orleans. That’s who did our friend Mr. Yates. He was the only one from our little circle they ever met. Remember that.”
“What did he know — where you are at?”
“Nada. His usefulness came to an end some months ago. I paid him off. He was out of the loop.”
“New Orleans isn’t your only worry, hombre. You have other badasses after you. And they are all putting out some serious money and some serious players. If my bank account wasn’t enjoying such a nice injection of your money, I might join them myself.”
The Anglo grinned.
“I’d hate to have to kill you, my friend. It would end a profitable business association that is about to enter its most fruitful phase.”
“I’m not one of your rich clients, my friend, leaning over the plate, licking his chops because of the promise of future riches. Let us make one thing clear — your money buys my neutrality and certain of my services. That’s it. You pull through this thing and we can do business again, it will make me happy because I truly like you.”
“And I you, mi carnal.”
The Mexican chuckled.
“Remember, hombre — even Cain killed Abel.”
“I didn’t know you were religious. Thought your people were old-line Juaristas, priest killers and church burners.”
“I’m of a more cautious nature — I place bets on the red and the black.”
The Anglo chuckled.
“Bien, hombre. Now we know where we both stand with each other. Tell me what I need to know.”
“The Delgado thing was very unfortunate. Your wife had no idea who was looking for you and had no idea that people thought she was the key to finding their money and other valuables. She apparently thought those rich kids and some hard-ass businessmen were the biggest threats.”
“Nah. Savannah isn’t stupid. She knew she was at risk. And she liked it. It revs her up. She’s an action junkie. Hooked on danger worse that a crackhead.”
The Mexican shrugged.
“Tal vez, hombre. She is your wife. All I know is that she was staying at the home of a friend down by the Rice campus when Delgado found her. Hardly a hideout. Now she takes things much more seriously. She’s gone underground and hired some muscle. She also has the Racehorse Haynes as a lawyer.”
“Shit. Bitch always did have expensive tastes. Racehorse huh? Enjoying a big hunk of my money as a retainer.”
“Si.”
“Who’s the muscle?”
“Never heard of him before. He’s not a local. He’s not connected. Some Anglo from Dallas. Used to be a cop up there.”
“Got a name?”
“Si — Ed Earl Burch. A name only the mother of an Anglo could come up with.”
The Anglo shook his head and ran a hand across the thick gray brush of his hair.
“Ah, sweet Savannah. Buys her men with money and a whiff of that cunt of hers. Then cuts their balls off. And gets them to like it too.”
“You know this man?”
“Not really. I know of him. He used to be her boyfriend. Un amante. She must be paying him well. Or fucking him. Or both.”
The Mexican said nothing.
“What else do you have?”
“Odds and ends. The homicide shit who caught the Delgado shooting has a hard-on for your wife’s old boyfriend. Cider Jones — muy mal y loco, speaks to the dead, looks in their eyes for guidance. His grandmother was una bruja, a witch. Or his grandfather was a shaman. I forget which.”
“Interesting. Do you have an in with him?”
“No. Not really. Not unless you have something to trade with him, like dirt on this cowboy from Dallas.”
“Why’s he got the hard-on for Burch?”
“Something to do with the death of a partner. One of us — Perez.”
“What about Burch?”
“Nothing much. People I know in Dallas say he’s strictly a small-timer but I would guess you know this already. My cousin works in the bar where he hangs out. Burch is always in there, hanging out with los borrachos.”
“Anybody we know?”
“No. Nobody connected. Cops and lawyers and politicos wet their beaks in that place. Oh — I forgot. My cousin says Burch is close to this one guy. Dios mia — the name. Like son of bitch — Kru-ko-vitch! You say the wife knows nothing about the computer? Well this one does. He is a periodista — a writer — but my cousin says he is also a computer devil. What do they call them? Si, a hacker.”
“When did Savannah hire Burch?”
“Well — the hombre just blew into town two days ago but my cousin says one of the bartenders was bitching about Burch the other day. Stiffed him on a tip or something. The bartender said Burch was a stupid bastard, working for some cunt down in Houston. Said Burch and this Kru-ko-vitch were in there together, working on one of those small computers. My cousin said the bartender laughed about who Burch was working for. Said Burch was always a sucker for women and would be back to drown his sorrows — he’d pour him cheap liquor and charge him the price for good stuff.”
“The man has friends.”
“Si. Friends who think highly of him.”
“So Burch and his buddy were in this bar, working on a computer. Did your cousin say what they were working on?”
“Si. They were talking about you, my friend.”
“Your cousin is a goldmine. Make sure he is paid well for his information. Do we know where my lovely wife is hiding?”
“That is taking more time.”
The Mexican handed over a small scrap of paper with numbers scrawled in pencil.
“Call this in an hour. They will give you the place.”
“Who is they?”
“Someone with somebody inside the department.”
“Who?”
“Someone I do business with but not one of my people.”
“And they will give me an address?”
“Si.”
“Forgive me, my friend, but this smells like a set up.”
“Hombre — if I wanted to hand you over to somebody you’d already be bound and gagged.”
The Anglo smiled and gunned the last of his tequila.
“Es verdad. My thanks for your help. Now, the last of the matters between us. Is my little transaction still on?”
“For tomorrow night.”
“Who are the buyers?”
“Hombre — I can’t tell you that. Let us say that they appreciate quality merchandise at a bargain price and have no fear of prior claims on the goods they buy.”
“Good. I’m getting damn little for that product and that much high-quality carbon. But I’m in a hurry.”
“Traveling money?”
“Operating funds. The money doesn’t matter so much though. I just hate giving up anything I have my hands on because of some unexpected tactical difficulties.”
“That’s pride, my friend. It could cost you your life.”
“Maybe. I prefer to think of it as grace under pressure. I’m not going to cut and run. I’ll improvise and salvage what I can. I’ve had to rearrange many things since I became aware that my lovely wife has access to all of my financial matters.”
“This is a serious game, hombre.”
“I’m a serious player.”
The two men stared at each other. Seconds of silence broken by the sound of two stacks of $100 bills slapped on the table.
“A commission for that last nugget of information — about Burch’s friend. Make sure your cousin gets a cut.”
The Mexican reached for the stacks and riffled the bills with a thick thumb, eyes on the money.
“Bien, hombre. Good luck with your hunt. I look forward to doing business with you when you get to the other side of your journey.”
The Anglo nodded and headed toward the back door of the cantina. The Mexican watched him leave. As the door swung shut, he reached for the cellular phone, punching the ‘Talk’ button and the eleven digits of a long-distance number. He heard a click as the other party picked up the line.
“Talk to me . . .”
He never got the chance. A slug from a silenced Smith & Wesson 686 smashed into his right biceps, sending the phone flying across the cantina, spinning him out of his chair. The pain was white and hot, gluing his tongue to the roof of his mouth. No words. No screams. No curses. All he could do was hold out the hand of his undamaged arm in silent supplication.
No mercy. The second slug smashed into his forehead, giving him a Third Eye that would be as unblinking and lifeless as the other two. Brains and blood blew out the back of his skull, splattering across the oilcloth of the table behind him. His legs kicked out, knocking a chair across the floor. His body fell with a heavy thud.
Josefina banged through the door. The Anglo turned and pumped three slugs into her head and chest. Her body banged back through the way it came but didn’t clear the doorway.
The Anglo walked across the room and picked up the cellular phone.
“Wrong number.”
“What? Carlos?”
“Wrong number. The party you want no longer lives here.”
“What? Crowe, is that you?”
“I’m sorry, we have a bad connection.”
“You are a dead man, my friend.”
“Not right now.”
He clicked off the phone and wiped it clean with a bandana. He stepped to the table and wiped his shot glass and beer bottle. He pocketed the stacks of money and moved to the side of the Mexican.
A final round into the mouth. A message for the loose-of-tongue. Whispered words to a corpse: “A change of plans, hombre. New buyers for my wares. Your services are no longer needed.”
He walked to the body of the old woman, straddling her, reaching down to push two fingers into the side of her neck.
No pulse. No hurry to reload.
THIRTEEN
“He’s in Houston.”
“You got a place?”
“We know where he was. He’s starting to leave his own body count.”
“Interesting. Where was he?”
“Some shithole in the Ship Channel barrio.”
An address. Scrawled on a notepad.
“The wife?”
“A small hang-up there. Some cowboy went gunning for her. She’s taken a dive. Hired some muscle, too.”
“Who would that be?”
“Fella name of Burch. From Dallas. Ex-cop. A nobody.”
“A new player, guy. One you don’t know too much about.”
“One you don’t have to worry about.”
“Easy for you to say. One question. What brings Crowe to town?”
“The same thing that brings you there. His wife. Our merchandise.”
“I’ve got an extra item on my list.”
“Oh?”
“Him.”
> “Of course.”
“I’m worried, guy.”
“About what?”
“A pigeon that flushes too easy. I’m assuming he’s here to move his merchandise but why not do it from a distance? Why expose yourself? Why not do it by remote control? Push a button, guy. Get your money.”
“He must figure his support is blown. And after your little overture, that’s the right way to figure. You’ve flushed him, now take him out.”
“He’s the extra item on my list.”
“X him out. Get our goods.”
“It’s what you pay me for.”
The line clicked dead in his ear. Louis, lost in thought, stared at the phone and the pressboard night table with the teak veneer. Jack, bulky and stuffed into a padded armchair meant for Jazzercise addicts, shifted in his seat, re-crossed his thick legs and eyed his partner and boyhood friend.
Louis fingered the long gouge mark that ran from his sideburns to his jowls — a weeping groove left by the late Hoghead Yates. He flexed his back, feeling the tight knot where Hoghead had hip-checked him into the hallway wall.
A grimace. Sloppy work. Not in control. Too much muscle and not enough finesse. Too much work for too little information. A big bloody message, though. One anybody could read. But a broken silver bracelet in the bargain. One of Louis’ favorites. Cuban links. Broken and a hunk of it missing.
Bad news. Flesh samples and a piece of personal jewelry left on the scene. Bad business. Definitely minor league.
Yates knew damn little about Crowe. Didn’t know his movements or machinations. Bad intelligence from New Orleans said Yates was a still one of Crowe’s key players; dialing him up on the battery cables proved he had been cut loose and left out of the loop.
New Orleans also blew this latest set up. He and Jack sat in this hotel room, smoking too many cancer sticks, listening to the rattle and roar of the Gulf Freeway, waiting for a call and an address. They sat because it was easy — get a call, get Crowe, get to the goods. Take out the players who bought the goods.
A straight line. A play that wouldn’t alarm those Italianate fellows in New Orleans. Maintaining the pose as the loyal foot soldier. Until the right time for the right move.