The Right Wrong Number: An Ed Earl Burch Novel

by Jim Nesbitt

  They were sitting at the amen corner of Louie’s bar, at the short end by the cigarette machine, a step or so from the men’s room. The holiest of holy for the hardest regulars, down where the boss hung out.

  Burch was facing the long straight line of the bar’s run toward the front door. Kruk was in the first seat of that line, canted toward him, the padded shoulders of his jacket cutting a diagonal that connected the liquor bottles on the bar’s back wall with the smoky noise coming from the tables in the main room.

  “Is there any woman you haven’t called Slick?”

  “No. I call them all that. Saves me remembering their names.”

  “I have this image of a trial. You’re charged with a long list of the normal male cruelties toward women — churlish indifference, random betrayal, non-stop roguery. You’re in the dock, seated on top of a Harley. And one by one, all the women who you’ve called Slick are marched in by the prosecutor. And one by one, they rise up in the witness stand, point at you and say, ‘There he is! That’s him! The man who called me Slick. That’s the brute right there. He took something from me and never came back for seconds! He never even called.’”

  He smiled through the cigarette smoke and took another gulp of bourbon. Krukovitch sat in front of him, saying Slick over and over again, like a dust-covered needle skipping across a vinyl record, the word clicking out of his mouth like a cricket’s chirp. There was a startled look on Krukovitch’s face; he was suddenly aware of the fact that he couldn’t stop saying Slick. He froze. The startled look turned into fear and wide-eyed panic, like a man realizing a piece of meat was wedged in his throat.

  Burch kept smiling through the smoke, sipping bourbon. Krukovitch’s hands flew to his throat. His face turned purple. His eyes bulged behind his Trotsky-style glasses. “Slick” croaked from his lips.

  Burch thought of the sound of a crow or raven and kept smiling. His glass was empty. Krukovitch uttered his nickname for Everywoman then pitched backward on his barstool, tipping over, crashing to the floor. No motion. No sound.

  Burch smiled and rattled the cubes in his empty glass. Sean stepped over and poured him another. Smoke from Krukovitch’s Carlton rose from his stilled right hand.

  “He didn’t leave a tip.”

  “Don’t worry, you’re covered.”

  “There’s a woman down there says she knows you.”

  Burch peered down the length of the bar and saw the long black curls of his third ex-wife, the dead one, the one killed outside the world’s sixth largest bat cave by a psycho shitheel with a bad toupee.

  “Yeah. I know her. Name’s Slick. Buy her a drink. On me.”

  “She says she doesn’t have time and neither do you. She says its time for you to go. With her. To her place.”

  Sean leered: “Lucky dog. She’s choice.”

  Burch reared back in horror.

  “Not me, pal. Not now. Life is good. Buy her a drink. I’ll slip out the back door.”

  Burch tried to slide out of his barstool but couldn’t. He tried again but was frozen in place. He felt a cold clamp on his knee. Krukovitch. Rising up from the floor. Still croaking out a single word.

  “Slick.”

  A jolting thump and the feeling of a pounding heart trying to wedge its way up and out of his throat snapped Burch into the dark consciousness of a lumpy king-sized bed and a room that wasn’t his own. He had no idea where he was but knew it was better than where he’d just been.

  He felt frightened and unmoored. His head throbbed to the familiar beat of too much whiskey taken too fast or for too long. Pain also pulsed from his ribcage and his bandaged shoulder. He felt the gauze and his mind flashed up an image of the Astrodome and the thick orange-brown dirt and clay of the rodeo ring.

  He groped for his glasses and waited for his heart to wind down and settle back into its customary lodgings. His handicapped eyes started finding their way through the dark, picking out the slight differences in coal and onyx that told his brain where a chair or dresser might be, maybe a standup lamp, its shade looking like a black pyramid floating in a field of lighter gray.

  His pulse slowed. His fear didn’t. He sensed something his eyes couldn’t see, a dark form in the far corner of the room. He listened hard, heard nothing but felt a presence. He moved his hand back to the small table where he found his glasses, moving his fingers slowly across the surface, bumping a cold glass and the base of a lamp, searching for the cool checkered comfort of his Colt.

  He eased the pistol out of its leather holster and thumbed off the safety. The sound rang out like a carpenter striking a nail. It made the room very quiet.

  A whisper from the corner.

  “Whatever you do, don’t start blastin’. I’m a friend here.”

  “Stay real still, Slick. I have no idea who the fuck you are or where the fuck I am.”

  “Stayin’ still, big man. Like a corpse.”

  Burch kept the pistol centered on the dark form and reached for the table lamp. Its light made him wince. Blinking in the corner with a dirty beige blanket drawn up around his neck was a thin, pallid man with thick greasy hair and gray wolfish eyes. Burch drew a blank, then a sudden memory — the Astrodome, the backup Jennings sent.

  “Mr. Slick. Sorry to disturb your slumber.”

  “‘Bout time your memory came around. You been wallowin’ around in a whiskey and Percodan fog for about two days now.”

  “It happens when you live the night life.”

  “It happens when you get the shit kicked out of you and are too sorry to take care of yourself.”

  “You my nurse?”

  “I’ve been your life line for about six days now, son. You remember that big sumbitch that was fixin’ to take you out at the Astrodome?”

  A quick image flashed — a hulking man in burgundy with a chrome-plated revolver pointed his way.

  Linebacker. Third baseman. I’m dead.

  Chest blooms and the big man fell down.

  The image died.

  “You look like a man what’s remembered where he left his car keys. Guess them hospital opiates haven’t totally fried your mind.”

  “So, you covered me. That was your job.”

  “Yep.”

  Burch eased down the hammer and put the Colt back in its holster. The phone rang, startling both men.

  “Who the hell is this?”

  “Good mornin’ to you too, Sunshine. This is Ed Earl Burch’s room, right?”

  “Right.”

  “And I am speakin’ to Ed Earl Burch his ownsef, right?”

  “As rain. Who the fuck are you?”

  “Just who in the fuck do you think would be callin’ you from Alpine, Tex-ass, at four in the ay-yem?”

  “Some shitass guitar maker who thinks he’s a cowboy, most likely.”

  Laughter on the other end of the line. Rich and raspy. From the throat of Wesley “Spider” Throckmorton, god of the hand-crafted electric guitar, axe-maker and customizer for everybody from Eric Clapton to Junior Brown, the Texas retro honky-tonker who paid homage to Ernest Tubb with a wickedly hybrid instrument that was half Stratocaster and half Hawaiian lap steel.

  When Throckmorton wasn’t making semi-hollow-bodied guitars known for their mellow sound and lightning action, he was riding with the top hands of ranches like the O2, the o6, the Paisano and the Gage Holland, whoever needed an extra and more-than-passable cowhand. And when he wasn’t doing that he was dodging the odd natural occurrence, like the earthquake that struck two days before, while Burch and Mr. Slick were wheeling in from the Houston.

  “Have to tell you this one — Junior was in here when we had our little shake n’ bake, pickin’ up his new guit-steel. We were headin’ out to this little bar where he was goin’ to sit in with some boys I pick with. I was changin’ my shirt and the thing hit. Well, I thought a truck had hit the front of the shop or a train had derailed. I come back out and there’s Junior, splayed out like a cat cornered by a dog, protectin’ that new guit-steel, yelli
n’, ‘Earthquake! Earthquake!’ I damn near laughed my ass off.”

  “I hate to cut in on a good story but what the hell you callin’ back so early for?”

  “It’s late for me, son. I’m gettin’ set to ride out with some of the boys from the O2. Chasin’ strays down along the river. Be gone most of the day so it’s catch you now or catch you never.”

  “Need to see you, son. And not be seen doin’ it. Catch my drift?”

  “Sure do. Shady shamus stuff, huh?”

  “Shady enough. Don’t want anything nasty to get splashed up on you but I could use a hand.”

  “You remember how to get out to the place?”

  “Sure do.”

  “Be there after sundown. Should be back by then. I’ll tell Rhonda to expect you.”

  “They’s two of us.”

  “Always is with you. Still like ’em dark and difficult?”

  “Not a muchacha this time. An hombre. Backup.”

  “Hmmm. Sounds serious.”

  “It is. I wouldn’t mention me to anyone.”

  “Not even Nita?”

  Burch winced. Nita Rodriguez Wyatt was Rhonda Throckmorton’s best friend, the ex-wife of one of Sid Richardson’s heirs, spending his money and living in his house in Alpine, riding high among the artists, cowboys, river rats and hard-eyed merchants who did whatever they had to do to keep living in a land that either made a body break and run or stay until death came knocking.

  A handsome woman, taller and heavier than most of the Tejanas who struck sparks with him. She liked aged tequila straight from the bottle and favored heavy coin-grade silver with a patina that gave off a subtle glow against her brown throat, cascading black curls and the waist of her flared, calf-length skirts.

  She liked silver almost as much as she enjoyed giving long, bawdy replays of her sexual exploits. Usually at a crowded bar, her eyes roving for the next conquest as she bragged about the last. Sometimes with the partner present in a roomful of people. Like she did about three years back after they had spent three days of serious rack time together and stepped out for a small dinner at the Rancho Throckmorton, home of a converted chicken shack known as the Coop de Ville.

  If asked about her, Burch would have to say, “We’ve met.” And hope he could leave it at that. Knowing no one would. Particularly Nita.

  “Whatever you do, Slick, don’t breathe a word of me to Nita. Might as well send up a flare to the bad boys.”

  “A cryin’ shame. She’d be mighty glad to see you.”

  “That’s what I’m afraid of. Glad is one of the things she has plenty to spare. A loud mouth is the other.”

  “There is that. Care to clue me in on how I can help?”

  “Gettin’ me on the other side of the river. Through backcountry. Need to get down around La Linda.”

  “I believe we can help you there.”

  “Knew you could. See ya for supper, Slick.”

  “You bet.”

  Burch reached across his body to hang up the phone, wincing with pain.

  “What’s the plan?”

  “Sleep. And more sleep. We’re four hours out and don’t have to be there ’til sundown.”

  “Who was that on the other end?”

  “A man I have to see about a horse.”

  Mr. Slick nodded, settled back then rose up again, his eyes open wide.

  “A horse? Is that how we’re getting across?”

  “You bet.”

  “The hell it is — I don’t ride.”

  “Then you don’t go.”

  “The hell I don’t. You won’t make it five feet without me holdin’ your hand, dolin’ out them little painkillers you need to get you on down the line. Besides, I’m the man what’s watchin’ your back.”

  “My back ain’t what’s on your mind.”

  “A man can juggle two thoughts at once, can’t he?”

  TWENTY-SIX

  He wasn’t that hard to seduce. He was easy, she thought. And not all that bad in the rack for a guy with a belly and soft rounded shoulders. His prick never went down and his tongue traveled back and forth across her body, driving her up and down the orgasm roller coaster as much as she drove him.

  And his hands and arms, roped with muscle, kept pulling her to him, turning her back and forth, spreading her open for another thrust. Or another bite from his hungry mouth.

  No seashells and balloons. Nothing tender. Just firecrackers, loud grunts and cries, lots of muscle and slapping flesh. And the musky scent of wet slick sex.

  It was hot and she needed it. But it was too easy and she knew it bought her nothing from this man. Not even a chance to escape while he slept. She took the dive into pleasure-induced exhaustion, not him. As she rose back into consciousness, blinking back the blur of sleep, he was wide-eyed and in her face, his cock hard and insistent, pushing her open and into a punishing rhythm that caused the bed’s rickety box frame to squeal like the hinges of a screen door caught in a wind storm.

  She watched him take a sponge bath at the sink, his eyes on her image in the mirror, the matte-chrome Taurus within easy reach on top of the toilet tank near his right hip. He shaved then brushed his teeth, never moving his eyes. She stared back, trying to take his measure, trying to find a chink, a hint of weakness, stupidity or overconfidence, a sign of the strutting rooster most men become after a bout of carnal sport.

  Nothing.

  He stepped into his outfit for the day. Black pleated trousers, grey shirt and the Taurus tucked into a slim inside-the-belt holster centered at the small of the back. Silver watchband snapped shut. Silver ring twisted onto the finger.

  “A little overdressed for cattle country, aren’tcha, mister man?”

  “Why is it every time a woman fucks a man she wants to redo his wardrobe?”

  “Sorry to be such a cliché.”

  “You could care less. So could I.”

  He filled a plastic cup with water then popped the safety cap on a drugstore bottle, shaking free two black capsules. Downed with a gulp, a smack of the lips.

  “Got a heavy pedal foot on those pills, don’cha?”

  The tight smile. Lips pulled back across clenched teeth, cheeks moving upward. But no mirth showing in the eyes. Nothing there. Just the stare of an animal. With chemically widened pupils.

  “Showtime pretty soon, sugar. You know it. I know it. Mother’s little helpers keep me up and alert. Helps me keep one step ahead of you.”

  “I’m not the one you need to have a step on.”

  “A man in my position needs to keep a step ahead of everybody. Those he can see. Those he can’t. And people that aren’t even up on the radar screen yet. Up and alert is the only way to be.”

  “Didn’t need anything to keep that cock of yours up and alert.”

  Another tight smile.

  “It helps when you have some inspiration.”

  “I didn’t think you noticed.”

  “I did. But you’re wastin’ the sweet talk, missy. Take your shower and let’s get gone.”

  She stepped into the bathroom, checking for windows that weren’t there. Just tile, a stall and a toilet. No tub. No escape. She let the hot water jet across her body, scrubbing hard as she thought. The sting of the spray made her relax, letting the thoughts flow out, leaving her mind blank.

  Jeans, scuffed Justins and the black buckaroo shirt, the armpits sweetened with a spray of Opium. A glance at him, fiddling with a high-dollar fountain pen marled with a whorled pattern of gray and black. Waterman or Mont Blanc. Maybe a Parker. A touch of prep school that didn’t fit his y’at accent.

  “Very nice. A little out of place — for you and this neck of the woods. But very nice.”

  The tight smile. Amusement lighting up the half-closed eyes.

  “You like this little item, missy?”

  “On an accountant. Or a banker. Maybe a lawyer. But not you.”

  “It’s a tool of my trade.”

  “You draw up insurance policies on the side?”


  The smile and a laugh, dry and serious. Dead eyes. Quick movement behind her and to the right, his left hip bending her back, his left arm muscling across her shoulder and throat, his left hand clutching her chin, forcing her head to arc up toward the ceiling. A sharp cold point pushing into the right side of her neck.

  “You’re late on your premium, sugar.”

  He kicked out her legs and spun her to the floor. The impact jarred her vision. When it cleared, she saw him standing above her with a smirk on his face. In one hand was the body of the pen. In the other was the top, a top with an ugly gray spike of steel extending from it.

  “Not just an accessory. A tool of my trade. Understand?”

  “More than I need to.”

  “Good. Let’s go get a bite to eat, huh, sugar?”

  She nodded and picked herself up, a thought crossing her mind. She watched him reach into his jacket and park the decorated spike in an inside pocket.

  His cock started to spurt, filling her mouth. His left hand slipped from her curls, his right hand still kneaded breasts hanging through an open shirt. His head was back, eyes locked on the frayed fabric just inches from his hair, his mouth open and echoing a loud groaning blasphemy.

  “Jee-zus Chriiiist . . .”

  It was the last thing he ever saw or said. She rose from his lap, her left hand lancing toward the side of his neck. His groan turned into a scream then a sucking noise. His right arm crushed her to his chest, his hand searching for her neck.

  He collapsed, his weight driving her back toward his open fly. A jet of blood coated her hair, her face, her neck. She pushed herself free, her hand snaking up to the thick coat of wetness. She looked at the pen top sticking from his neck, its fancy design covered.

  He never felt that casual bump at the cafe. He never felt her hand inside his jacket pocket. He never saw her palm the pen top as she took his cock into her mouth.

  “Check out the tools of my trade, asshole.”

  TWENTY-SEVEN

  The rump of the horse in front of his was flecked with sweat, its muscular movement giving him the focus for a long stretch of self-hypnosis. He needed it to keep himself riding upright on the bright rim of pain this jaunt through rough border country was shooting through his battered shoulder and taped and tender ribcage.