by Jim Nesbitt
Or a wolf.
Beta division. Definitely not Alpha. A shifty follower. One that had to be watched. Not the type of guy a friend would send to watch another friend’s back. Unless there was nobody else to send. Jennings was only a part-time player these days — maybe he had a limited roster of true badasses he could tap. The two guys guarding Savannah — Carl and Benito — were A-Listers. No doubt.
“So you’ve talked to Jim Jennings. Caught him at the clubhouse at St. Andrews, right?”
“Other way around.”
“You were at St. Andrew’s?”
“Don’t be a horse’s ass. He reached out and touched me.”
“Jennings must be slipping. Time was he wouldn’t say a word to a guy like you let alone put you to work. Man needs a good personnel manager.”
“And you need somebody to watch your back. You’re stretched thin here messin’ with some serious folks. I’m here to help but I’m gettin’ strong-armed by the guy I’m s’posed to help. I’m gonna give you two choices — we quit this bullshit, work together and catch this fuck Crowe or we create a scene that blows the deal all together.”
“Out of the goodness of your heart, right?”
“Out of the green of a retainer fee and a cut of the spoils. Word is Crowe wants to move horse, flake and some hard glitter.”
“Word is that’s New Orleans product, greaseball property.”
“This is Houston. And the zips don’t give a fuck about no Eye-tal-yans in the Big Easy.”
Burch relaxed his grip and eased the pistol away from the man’s ribcage. Using the man’s body for cover, he thumbed on the safety and holstered the Colt. The wolf smiled.
“We got a deal?”
“We got a stalemate. I don’t know you, I don’t trust you and if you turn the wrong way I’ll waste you.”
“Jennings said you were a hardass.”
“True enough. What’s your name?”
“You can call me Joe.”
“How `bout I call you Mr. Slick.”
“Fine by me.”
“Okay, Mr. Slick, I’m gonna put you to work. Move on down the hall there and buy a soda and something to eat. Post up on the far side of that stand like you’re havin’ a snack and watchin’ the world go by. Look at your watch a lot. Like you’re waitin’ on someone. I’m gonna cross over and watch you. If our friend makes a move, bend over like you dropped something on your shoe. I’ll move up.”
“Done.”
“First, I’m gonna check our backtrail. You’ll be able to see me post up when I get back.”
Burch didn’t like this new development. But on a tactical level it solved the problem of doing a one-man stakeout. Working with another player — partner didn’t apply — lowered the odds of exposure. It also allowed him the necessary luxury of checking his own back — a gamble, considering he didn’t trust Mr. Slick and didn’t know if or when Crowe would try to connect with Thanh.
He spun on his underslung cowboy heels and walked away from Mr. Slick and Thanh’s concession stand, scanning the concourse crowd as he plowed into its sluggish current. If he was quick and lucky — and someone was careless — he might catch an averted eye, a missed step, a dodgy move. Or something instinctively familiar. A large man in a burgundy windbreaker caught his eye. Big but sure-footed. Like a cat. Or a linebacker. Or a third baseman. Like someone he had seen before. Just a few minutes earlier. The man was ducking into the men’s room.
Burch didn’t follow. He scanned ahead. Sometimes you caught someone looking at nothing, blank eyes and a blank face hoping his eyes would pass on by.
There. On the wall to his left. Leaning in the opening of a short semi-dark hallway at the top of steps that led to a janitor’s closet. A man in a tan safari jacket, with thinning salt-and-pepper hair and a thick chin that jutted from his jaw like the heavy prow of an icebreaker. A man trying real hard not to look his way after spending the past ten or twenty minutes doing that very thing.
Burch didn’t waste a step. He muscled his bulk through the crowd and walked straight into the man’s face. Until he was a foot away, the man kept looking into the blank nowhere, refusing to train his eyes on Burch. And that was fine by Burch. He slammed a shoulder into the man’s chest and a knee into his groin. The man doubled over with a loud grunt and Burch threw a leathery forearm into his face.
Momentum carried them deep into the darker section of hallway. Burch spun the man around and slapped his face into the wall, grabbing the man’s right arm and pinning the wrist up between the shoulder blades, drawing a sharp yelp of pain. He parked a fist in the man’s kidneys. Twice. That seemed to shut down all resistance.
With his right leg and boot, he spread the other man’s legs and kicked his feet back so he was forced to lean into the wall. With his free hand, he patted the man down, drawing a Ruger 9 mm in matte chrome from a Galco slide holster and a pair of handcuffs. He pocketed the pistol and opened the cuffs, ratcheting them tight to the right wrist and then the left.
“You makin’ a big fuckin’ mistake, asshole.”
“Hmm — talks like a cop. Let’s see if you are one.”
Burch reached inside the man’s jacket. Nothing. He tapped around the front of his tooled leather belt, feeling for the badge some of Texas’ cowboy lawmen liked to sport next to their handcuff holders or spare magazines. Nothing.
A wallet wedged into the back pocket of tight jeans. A license, credit cards, some cash, some business cards, a carry permit and an ID. Buchalter, Gerald Dwayne, DOB 10/17/51, Houston address. The ID was from the Harris County Sheriff’s Department. A reserve deputy. Which meant this guy could be anything from a rent-a-cop, badge groupie or high school chum of the sheriff to a rung well up the ladder past private investigator, up there to the spot reserved for the serious muscle of a city’s major players, maybe one of the sheriff’s heavier patrons or campaign contributors or maybe just somebody rich enough to buy some official sanction for their goons.
Gerry D. didn’t have the smell of particularly heavy talent. But you never knew. Burch thumbed a business card into view — white with two lines of black Helvetica type. Buchalter’s name and three-word kicker: Antiques And Collectibles. Nice touch.
“Gettin’ to be a rough business, your trade. Didn’t know you needed a piece and some cuffs to go to an auction. Tell me somethin’ Gerry — got somethin’ in a nice faux Louis XIV?”
“Funny man. You’re about to find out how funny life can get.”
“Not from you, fuckhead.”
He muscled Buchalter down the stairs. He pinned Buchalter against a metal door with black stenciled letters: Janitor. It was locked.
“What the fuck is this?”
“Talk time.”
“Ain’t talkin’ to you.”
“The hell you ain’t. Lemme tell you somethin’, son. I think you’re lightweight talent nobody gives a damn about. I think you’re just cannon fodder, a free agent hired by guys who don’t care how many players they lose as long as they got their bases covered. Am I gettin’ warm?”
“Fuck off.”
Another fist to the kidneys.
“I don’t have time for this. Who you workin’ for — wiseguys or some rich fuck Crowe ripped off?”
Through clenched teeth Buchalter spat: “Chingada su madre, cabron.”
“My, my — the man speaks a little Tex-Mex.”
Burch clucked his tongue, kicked the man’s feet out from under him and slammed his face to the floor. He leaned over to whisper in Gerald Dwayne Buchalter’s ear.
“My mother’s dead, needledick, so I’m particularly sensitive to folks makin’ crude remarks about her. One more time — who’s paying your fare?”
“Nobody you’d know. Just one of the little folks Crowe ripped off.”
“Bullshit. Little folks don’t hire muscle or pee-eyes or whatever the fuck you want to call yourself. Little folks don’t stumble on a trail this warm unless they’re lucky.”
“Always been that. Until
now.”
“Your luck’s still holdin’. You ran into me instead of a badass who would’ve killed you on the spot.”
Buchalter, face still kissing the floor, snorted a laugh laced with pain.
“Funny thing about little folks — they can get you just as dead as your regular badass. And seems like everybody wants a piece of this Crowe fella — little folks, badasses, wiseguys. Regular feeding frenzy you got yourself into. You picked me off but there’s a dozen other guys playin’ the same game. Could be here tonight.”
A thought flashed through Burch’s mind. He was watching me, tailing me, not Thanh. He’s been on my trail, not Crowe’s.
Burch ran through the places he had been since leaving Jennings’ condo that morning — a gun shop on Bissonnet to buy fresh rounds for the Colt; the Racehorse’s office to chat up Barton Phillips, the youngster handling Savannah’s case; lunch at a Vietnamese joint south of downtown to talk with one of Jennings’ contacts about Brother Thanh; a bank for some cash.
Who put this guy on my tail — the colt shyster, Jennings’ Oriental buddy or somebody else, one of those little people he’s blathering about?
Burch took a shot.
“You tell Barton Phillips I don’t need no babysitter — got one already.”
Buchalter laughed.
“Right thought, wrong party, handsome. Some folks do want to keep you healthy until they can get Crowe dead though. After that, I wouldn’t give you long odds.”
Didn’t answer my question, asshole. Did tell me you only had eyes for me. And we’ll just keep those eyes down here, thank you very much.
Burch unbuckled Buchalter’s belt, ran it through his arms and the pipe of a handrail then buckled it snug. He pulled out his bandana and stuffed it in Buchalter’s mouth. Then he clubbed him across the back of his skull with his own pistol. Buchalter sagged toward the floor, held by his belt and the guardrail. Burch didn’t like his look and wet two fingers, holding them under Buchalter’s nostrils. Breath.
“Sorry `bout that.”
Burch waved the man a salute and started up the stairway.
Time, son. Time and other players. A linebacker. A third baseman. In burgundy. Could be, son. Could be. Saw him twice. Be nice to brace him once. No time, son. No time.
He knew it would take him ten minutes to take a full turn around the concourse. He knew it was ten minutes he didn’t have. He had already wasted five minutes taking care of this problem. He couldn’t afford to press his bet. He headed back toward Mr. Slick and Mr. Vu Nguyen Thanh.
He walked straight to a spot where Mr. Slick could see him while staying out of sight of the concession stand. Mr. Slick moved toward him, growing very theatrical, pointing to his watch then spreading his arms in mock aggravation.
“Where the fuck have you been, Charley? You’re late and the show’s done started.”
“Charley?”
“Nice touch, right?”
Mr. Slick was right about the show. Burch could hear the rodeo announcer crank his way through the Grand Entry buildup — the Tradition, the Cowboy Way, the Excitement, the Wild West, the By-God Americanness of This Time-Honored Spectacle, Buffalo Bill Cody and the Line That Goes Through These Cowboys and Cowgirls Who Are About To Put It All On The Line For You! And now, ladies and gentlemen, will you please stand up for our National Anthem.
No mention of Manifest Destiny or Wounded Knee. Nothing about the shyster promoters who regularly ripped off the cowboys during rodeo’s infancy, back at the turn of the century when rodeo was more of a Wild West circus than a sporting event. Nothing about a hard ride for a short dollar. Even today, in the time of popular madness about all things Country & Western and weekly exposure on ESPN and other cable outlets, the average utility infielder made three times as much money as this year’s All-Around Cowboy champ.
“Bout time you got back. Where you been?”
“Checkin’ our backs.”
“Must’ve been something out there. You been gone a while.”
“One player. Bound, gagged and dreaming.”
“Damaged goods?”
“Slightly.”
“Anybody else back there?”
“Maybe so. Big guy. Burgundy jacket. Moves like a cat. Didn’t have time to check.”
“If big man is a player, your move on the other guy was a calling card.”
“No shit. But this game’s getting too crowded. Thought I’d thin the herd a little.”
Mr. Slick nodded.
“What’s been happening here?”
“You’re about to find out.”
Burch turned his head slightly, just enough to put Thanh and the concession stand in the correcting curve of his glasses. A young Vietnamese man, in his twenties with spiky hair, a green Baylor sweatshirt, ripped and faded Levis and black Justins with silver toe caps and ankle chains, walked up to his elder and whispered in his ear.
“That’s twice that boy’s been here. He ain’t workin’ behind the counter and he ain’t bringin’ in stock.”
“Setting the table for the meet.”
“Be my guess.”
Burch’s estimation of Mr. Slick went up a notch. The man stayed put and saw things straight. He knew the moves. This didn’t make him trustworthy but it did make him a tactical pleasure to work with. It reminded Burch of his days as a Dallas cop, working with guys he didn’t particularly like. Two pros could find common ground in the street smarts of the beat cop and share the satisfaction of working well in harness, even if one chewed tobacco and drank bourbon and the other hated the Cowboys and did crochet in his off hours.
One difference between those days and today — Burch was walking on the same dark side of the law as his quarry, looking to take down a man to take his money. He could tell himself he was protecting his client. He could kid himself with the scent of the quarry and its familiar vibes from the days when he wore a badge. But that didn’t alter the path he was walking and its intended destination — Crowe and his purse.
Thanh stood up and gave a command to the younger Vietnamese. The younger man nodded his head and turned to leave. Crowd noise rose to a roar, the announcer’s voice booming over its peak. People in the hallway stopped in mid-stride, glancing toward the portals and the arena beyond.
“Take the youngster. See where he goes. I’ll stick with the bossman.”
“You got it.”
Burch watched Mr. Slick move into the thin hallway traffic. He was quick — by Burch’s side one second, in the middle of the concourse the next. He walked straight past Thanh’s stand. He didn’t hesitate. He didn’t try to put bodies between himself and the subject. With posture and gait, he sold himself as Joe Citizen, just another rodeo fan looking for his section in the stands. Or the men’s room.
Another roar. Barebacks or saddle broncs. Rough and crowd-pleasing. But not the roughest. That would be bullriding. And bulls were last. That’s when the place would really rock.
Thanh was reaching under the table, his eyes on his business, when Mr. Slick passed. He pulled out a battered gray Samsonite briefcase, plopped it on the table, popped the latches and pulled out a business envelope made of heavy paper the color of bright burley tobacco. Too thin for lots of cash. Thick enough for a downpayment — a bona fide.
The main money would be someplace else. So would the product. An educated guess. The best Burch could do on the fly.
The envelope told Burch one thing — Mr. Vu Nguyen Thanh wasn’t going to do this deal by remote control. He was going to do it up close and personal. And that meant Burch hadn’t fucked up by siccing Mr. Slick on the youngster. Burch was rolling sixes and sevens, his street instincts carrying him along with ease and rhythm.
Thanh eased behind the women working the stand and slipped from behind the table. Burch let him look around. The man headed in the opposite direction from the youngster, walking toward Burch.
Burch stayed put, gambling Thanh was doing the same thing he had done. Checking his back. Watching for watchers. He pu
lled out a pack of Luckies and fired one with the Zippo, giving him a reason for standing there, hoping no one called him for smoking in a public place where it was forbidden by the tyranny of health Nazis. He waited for Thanh to double back, riding that groove of certainty that comes when the street moves run full tide, overriding the conscious mind.
Rising noise that plummeted suddenly, bottoming with a collective note of concern. A cowboy slammed into the dirt just a few seconds into the ride was Burch’s guess.
Thanh was out of sight. The Lucky burned his throat and burned toward his knuckles. Doubt started to eat at his certainty.
Easy, hoss. Stay in the groove. Stay put.
Burch looked at the smoke from the Lucky, watching it stream toward the ceiling. It was the perfect pose, a reflex. When he brought his eyes back to the center of the hallway, there was Thanh, moving briskly, with confidence, with business on his mind.
From the curtains behind Thanh’s stand stepped a second young Vietnamese man, stocky and sporting black jeans and a black sports coat with thickly padded shoulders and a loose-enough drape to cover the hardware Burch assumed was riding near an armpit.
Jesus. Never saw that fucker. We’re blown.
The second youngster joined Thanh in the hallway, smiled, shook his head and gave him a gliding, palms-down gesture straight out of a ZZ Top video.
Thank you, Jesus. You’re in the chute now, son. Ride it out.
Burch blew out a smoke-laced breath, dropped the Lucky and ground it out with a twist of his boot. He let the two Asians move toward the first bend in the hallway. He stepped into the flow and trailed along.
He could see them ahead, one eye on them, one eye on making his way past the people in the hall. The Ruger he took from Buchalter, still in his jacket pocket, thumped against his hip as he walked. The arena crowd buzzed — a low thrum that marked the time between rides. The announcer started a bit with a rodeo clown, playing straight man to the clown’s obvious punch lines. The sound hit Burch full, then faint, depending on whether he was passing a portal or walking along a solid bulkhead.