“That’s a good way to get killed,” I said.
“Yeah, but she’s quit all that business. Me and her have come to an understanding.”
“Yes?” I asked.
DeMour laughed a tight little laugh. “Yeah. For some reason I can do things for her that nobody else can do. I think it’s because I know what makes her tick.”
Lavonne Avante’s house was constructed of dark brick and weathered wood much like the South Winds, with a front door of seasoned oak that looked like it belonged in a medieval castle. DeMour ignored the bell and pounded on the door. A few seconds later it opened to reveal a black maid in a black uniform and a white apron. She obviously recognized DeMour because she smiled and stepped back to admit us.
Inside, the place reeked of money—sophisticated, carefully spent money. The floors were mottled white marble in fifteen inch squares with simple Oriental rugs in greens and golds. The walls were a soothing dark green. A bit of carefully chosen modern art here, an exquisite Chinese vase on a Louis Quinze table there, evidence of good taste everywhere. It was hard to believe that the home was owned by a nouveau riche prostitute who laced herself up in a leather corset and whipped men for pay.
DeMour led us into a library whose walls held row after row of books. Much to my surprise, most of them showed signs of actually having been read. At the far side of the room a woman sat behind a French Empire desk, talking on the telephone. Off to her right, double doors of lightly tinted glass opened onto a landscaped garden.
The woman herself was small and petite, with short, dark hair, ivory skin, and dark eyes. She wore a white silk blouse and a pair of black lounging slacks. Her only jewelry was an antique garnet ring on the third finger of her left hand. When she put down the phone and turned to look at us, I saw a face that belonged on an eighteenth-century cameo. Her background might have been plebeian, but her appearance was pure aristocrat.
“Hello, Lavonne,” DeMour said.
“Hello, Fat Rolly,” she said. “So you’ve come to see me again.”
“Can’t stay away.”
“What’s the matter, Fat Rolly? You bored? And by the way, you’ve gone and dribbled spaghetti sauce on your shirt. Poor Rolly. He’s such a slob.”
He gave her a serene smile, his eyes sleepy, a calm, knowing smile on his face. “You know what happens when you talk to me that way, don’t you?”
“Is that what lights your fire, Fat Rolly?”
“It’s not a matter of what lights my fire, dearie. It’s your fire that we’re talking about.” He pointed at me. “This is Sheriff Handel from Texas. And this other gentleman is Agent Hotchkiss of the FBI. You’re going to tell them what they want to know or I’m going to drag you in that special room of yours and use some of your own toys on you. How would you like that, my little Bumblebee? So you better be a good girl and mind your manners.”
She motioned for us to sit. Hotchkiss and I took a pair of French Empire chairs that sat beside the desk while Roland DeMour perched on the corner of the desk itself.
“We need to know about Paul Arno,” I said.
“What about him?” she asked.
“When did you see him last?” I asked.
“I haven’t seen him in a couple of months, but I talked to him last week. He called me.”
“What was the nature of that call?” Hotchkiss asked.
Avante stared at the young agent for a moment, then mocked in a high falsetto, “ ‘What was the nature of that call?’ Damn, but you sound like that idiot who does the Crime Stoppers segment on TV. Is there some kind of special school where a guy like you can learn to talk like he’s got a broom handle up his ass?”
DeMour reached over and rapped his knuckles on the desk right in front of her. “I told my friends how sweet and cooperative you were going to be,” he said. “And here you go embarrassing me. You keep on, and it’s going to be a hot time on the old town tonight. And you know what I mean by that, don’t you, Bumblebee?”
“I think Fat Rolly’s getting all excited,” she said.
I didn’t. Roland DeMour was as calm as an icicle, but Lavonne Avante’s face had an expectant look like I used to see on the faces of country girls seeing the Texas State Fair midway for the first time.
“And I think you need to cut the crap and get with the program,” DeMour said.
“Why not?” she said with a dismissive shrug. “Arno’s nothing to me, anyhow. He told me that if anybody called or came by asking, I should say that I spent the night with him at the South Winds last Monday night.”
“But you didn’t, did you?” I asked.
“Hell no,” she snapped. “I’ve never slept with that bastard.”
“Then exactly what is the nature of your relationship with Arno, Miss Avante?” Hotchkiss asked.
She gaped at him once again, then asked, “Please tell me where you learned to talk that way.”
“Cut the wiseass and answer his question,” DeMour said
She laughed but her expression was eager. “My relationship with Arno is that he’s nuts about one of my girls. And that’s it. I’ve known him for years, but he hasn’t been a client until the last few months. Actually, he’s not really a client because he never pays. I don’t think he pays for anything.”
“So we’ve been told,” I said. “What’s this girl’s name?”
“Brandi Springer. She’s out of town right now visiting her family in Dallas.”
“Do you have their phone number, by any chance?” I asked.
“I run an escort service, not a welfare agency. I don’t keep dossiers on my people. Which means I have her number here in town, but not her parents’ number.”
“I wonder why he didn’t get this Brandi to alibi him out instead of you,” DeMour said.
Avante laughed. “Probably because she has the brain of a gnat, Rolly. Even a pinhead like Arno would have sense enough to know she couldn’t hold it together under questioning from a deputy constable, let alone somebody who knew what they were doing.”
“I don’t suppose he told you why he wanted you to do this,” I said.
“No, and I didn’t ask.”
“Did you agree to lie for him?”
“Of course I did. I don’t need any trouble with a guy like that. Now are you people through? I hope so because that’s all I know.”
DeMour looked across at me. I nodded, and Hotchkiss and I rose. Lavonne Avante got to her feet and walked with us to the hall door. “You’re not leaving too, are you, Roland?” she asked.
“What do you want me to do?”
“Roland, no…”
“Want a little session, do you?”
“Roland, please…”
“Spell it out for Rolly. Let our friends hear. You know you love that.”
“Roland, please don’t make me…” Then to my utter amazement, Lavonne Avante put her hands over her face and actually started crying.
He pulled a card from his pocket and handed it to me with a shrug. “Call me if I can help any more with this deal.”
“You’re staying here?” Hotchkiss asked.
“Yeah, she can take me back to get my car later. You two go on ahead.”
When we reached the front door the maid appeared out of nowhere. “Good afternoon to you gentlemen,” she said sweetly. “You all come back now, you hear?”
As we walked across the drive toward the Suburban, Hotchkiss asked, “Bo, what in hell was going on back there?”
“Hotch, most hookers are flakes in one way or another. Beyond that, that story is too rough for your young and tender ears.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
On the way back to Sequoya I called the office and put out a statewide hold and alert bulletin on Paul Arno. I also instructed them to call the Dallas PD and see if they had anything on Arno’s girlfriend. We pulled into Nacogdoches in time to eat a late supper at a barbecue joint on the north side of town. I got home a little after nine to find Carla stretched out on the sofa in the den wearing a
pair of loose white cotton shorts and a halter top, reading a book.
“I walked over,” she said. “I thought you might want me to fix you something to eat.”
I shook my head. “I done et, but I could use a drink. How about you?”
“Sure, and if you’re too tired from your trip, we can just snuggle. I like that too.”
“Let’s have that drink and see what happens, okay?”
“That’s fine.”
In the kitchen I poured us each a healthy dollop of V.O. over ice. Carla downed half of hers with one quick pull.
“Just snuggle, huh?” I asked, sipping at my glass.
“If that’s all you’re up for, Bo.”
“No unreasonable demands, you say?”
She shook her head and grinned. “Never.”
“I’m beginning to think you’re too perfect. I keep waiting for the other shoe to drop.”
“I’m not wearing shoes,” she said and drained her glass.
“You don’t appear to be wearing much else, either.”
Her laughter was like a tinkling silver bell as she set her glass down and drifted toward me, a knowing smile on her face, a smile that was as old as sin itself.
* * *
As always, Carla was gone when I woke up the next morning. She slept less than any woman I ever knew and seemed to have an alarm clock inside her head.
The first thing I did when I got to the office was look over the sheet from the night before. To my relief, it had been a quiet evening. No major eruptions at any of the clubs, and only one domestic dispute. But Arno hadn’t turned up. A quick check revealed that he was still registered at the Eight Ball Motel on the south side of town, but had not been in his room all night. I was deep into the usual paperwork when Maylene buzzed to tell me that a Sergeant Wolf of the Dallas Police Department Vice Division was on the phone for me.
I picked up the receiver. “Bo Handel here,” I said.
“Hello, Sheriff. When I got to work this morning, I found a note telling me to call you. I understand you’re inquiring about Brandi Springer.”
“Right. It’s a murder investigation or I wouldn’t have bothered you folks.”
“No problem. Just what do you need to know about her?”
“Give me all you got. The whole ball of wax.”
“That would take a week. This girl comes from a family of hoodlums. Her dad was an oldtime Dallas gambler named Claude Springer who owned a domino hall down on the east end of Elm Street and ran a sports book out of the back room. Her mother is a former call girl who pimped Brandi out to some rich perverts when she was about thirteen. Her brother is in federal prison for mail fraud. Her father’s brother was a hired goon for Cat Noble back when he was fighting Benny Binion for control of the Dallas gambling rackets. And it goes on and on.”
“What’s the girl like herself?” I asked.
“Twenty-five years old. Beautiful, sexy, and dumb as a bag of rocks. She just sits there filing her nails and waiting for something to happen. With a body like hers, something always does. I’ve handled her three times, twice for prostitution and once for misdemeanor larceny. How does she tie in with your murder?”
“The main suspect so far is a New Orleans hit man named Paul Arno. She’s supposed to be his girlfriend.”
“Never heard of him,” he said. “Is he Mafia?”
“Kinda-sorta. The Feds say he’s not actually a made guy, but he works for the New Orleans outfit from time to time. He freelances too, and he has his own rackets going. Anyhow, the girl is supposed to be in Dallas visiting her family right now.”
“Oh, she’s here all right. But she’s not visiting. She’s come home to stay.”
“How did you happen to know that?” I asked.
“Informants,” he said with a laugh. “How else do you find out anything in this business? She and her mother are setting up to run an outcall massage service out of the old man’s domino parlor. He got crosswise with another bookie a couple of years ago and wound up with a twenty-two hollow-point right in the center of the forehead, but the family still owns the building. They’ve signed on a few local girls, all hookers. I’ve been meaning to get by there and jerk their chains a little just to let the old lady know we haven’t forgotten about her. I’ll put that on the front burner this morning.”
“That’s an awful big favor on your part,” I said.
“No favor to it. It could be that Arno is financing the operation, and if a guy like him is moving into Dallas I need to know about it. Anything specific you want me to ask her?”
“Anything about Arno you can pry out of her. It’s been my experience that these old boys like to brag to their women. Pillow talk, whatever he’s been up to or what he’s planning. His hopes and dreams.”
“Oh, I can tell you all about his hopes and dreams, and I’ve never even met the man. Silk suits, flashy cars, and big-titted women. And that’s about as far as it goes. But I’ll do my best and get back to you.”
“Thanks a bunch, my friend. I do appreciate it. Let me give you my cell number too.”
* * *
I was about ten minutes back into my paperwork when I got a call from Billy Don Smith telling me that Arno was having lunch at the Caravan.
“Did he just get there?” I asked.
“No, I saw his car and checked the place out. He’s eating. Do you want me to arrest him now?”
“No, just keep an eye on him. I’m on my way.”
* * *
When I pulled up in front of the restaurant I saw Billy Don waiting outside. I stepped from my car and walked over to where he stood.
“He’s just now paying his check,” Billy Don said. “If we wait a couple of minutes we can take him out here and avoid disturbing folks inside.”
I nodded agreement. Soon Big Paul came through the door, bouncing along on the balls of his feet like a prizefighter. He was wearing a black nylon wind suit and a pair of designer running shoes that would have probably cost a mill foreman a week’s pay. He saw me and hesitated for half a step, then started to walk on past.
“Hold it,” I said.
“You talking to me?”
“You know I am,” I said. I was standing with my hand on my .45 and my body quartered away from his. “A bad attitude could get you killed this morning, Arno. We don’t fool around when we have reason to think a man is carrying a weapon, and that permit of yours makes me think you may be.”
“My piece is in the car,” he said.
“Good. Turn around, spread your legs, and put your hands on the wall.”
He complied, but he wasn’t happy about it. “This is embarrassing,” he said.
“Maybe so,” I said. “But it’s better than having an old man sitting in the middle of your back whipping on your head with a slapjack, now isn’t it?”
Billy Don searched him, and we cuffed him and loaded him in the back of my cruiser. Ten minutes later he was seated in front of my desk and I was taking my own good time about getting down to business. I signed a few letters Maylene had left on my desk while I was out, and then I made a couple of phone calls I didn’t really need to make and jotted down some notes about things I didn’t need to remember. Big Paul was getting impatient. “You know, I got things to do today,” he said.
“Well, you may not get them done, then,” I said without looking up. “It appears to me that your ass may be headed for jail.”
“Jail? What for?”
“Murder.”
“Who?” he asked.
“A woman named Amanda Twiller.”
“For the love o’ Mike. You can’t really think I had anything to do with that.”
“I’m a lot closer to thinking it since your alibi caved in. Willie Day gave you up.”
“Who?”
“Willie Day,” I said. “That young computer wizard at the South Winds Motor Hotel in Lake Charles. He’s in jail in Bermuda. Altering a motel or hotel record is a federal offense, you know. The cops down there put the screws
to him yesterday, and he cracked like an egg. They’ve got signed and notarized statements and everything.”
“That slimy little shit…”
“How much did you pay him?”
“Three bills. And he rolls over on me.”
“Three hundred?”
“Yeah, the twerp.”
I laughed out loud. “That kind of bonus money will sure buy him a lot of daiquiris lying around down there on the beach,” I said.
“Beach?” he asked stupidly. “I thought you said the cops had him.”
“I was lying.”
“Shit…”
“If you weren’t involved in the Twiller murder, why did you go to all the trouble to set up an alibi?”
“I’m not saying nothing more without a lawyer.”
“You know, I could go upstairs right now and get a warrant and charge you with this killing. This time you’d stay jugged because murder for hire is not a bondable offense. I think we have enough to get an indictment. I doubt that we could prove it in court, but we can cause you some very expensive trouble. But truth of the matter is that I really don’t think you did it. So if you could just give me something to hang my hat on…”
“Like I said, I’m not talking without a lawyer.”
“You should have dummied up and asked for an attorney when I first mentioned Willie Day. But like a fool, you showed your hand. Now when you could tell me something that would help you, you’ve got nothing to say.”
“So?”
“So I think you’re just about the stupidest son of a bitch I’ve met this whole year.”
He didn’t like hearing that. His eyes were full of fire, but he knew there was no percentage in getting tough. “I still got nothing to say,” he said sullenly.
“Are you planning on leaving town anytime soon?”
“I’ve got business here that will keep me around for a few days.”
Nights of the Red Moon Page 15