Still River

by Harry Hunsicker

  “Yep. Really and truly.” She didn’t say anything for a minute, just took a couple of sips of her drink. I figured she was trying to decide if I was telling the truth, and if I was, how much effort should she expend on a private eye.

  She was about to say something when there was a commotion at the front door. An entourage had arrived. Four burly guys in bad suits surrounded two smaller ones with cell phones glued to their ears who flanked a man and a woman. The man appeared to be in his mid-forties, six feet tall and trim, slicked-back hair, three-button black suit over dark blue, spread collar shirt. No tie. He walked the walk of one who was Important with a capital I. His companion slinked beside him, moving with that particular stride of a professional runway model. She was maybe twenty-five, blond, and excruciatingly pretty in a black, clingy cocktail dress.

  Wait staff and manager types scurried around them like so many sucker fish swarming about a shark. Before you could say leveraged buyout, they’d cleared three tables in the center of the room and the group sat down, the man and woman inside a protective circle of yes men and hired muscle.

  There was something familiar about him that I couldn’t quite bring to mind. I turned back to Janice but she’d left already. I saw her against the far wall, talking to a knot of other young women, dressed the same way. They had their eyes glued on the man and the woman in the middle of the bar. I scanned the rest of the place but didn’t see anybody resembling Nolan O’Connor. It was still early, though, only seven forty-five.

  The waitress tapped me on the shoulder and handed me a folded cocktail napkin. I opened it and read the message. If you want to help and not just babysit, “accidentally” knock over your table when the man selling roses approaches the group in the middle. Nolan. P.S. I’m wearing a denim jacket and my hair is in a ponytail. The man in the dark suit is Lawrence Shagan.

  Real smooth, Mr. Private Eye. I mentally berated myself for not spotting her, even if she was trying not to be seen. I stuffed the note in my pocket but resisted the urge to scan the crowd again. Instead, I kept my eyes on the now familiar face of Lawrence Shagan, the CEO Business Week headlined the month before as the Man Who Made Us Forget Ken Lay and Enron. Indicted a half dozen times but never convicted, he was the subject of scores of lawsuits from disgruntled investors. Then there was the not-entirely-legal animal testing one of his pharmaceutical companies had engaged in, sending the PETA crowd into orbit. He spent most of his time offshore, cruising the Caribbean in his yacht, and dodging additional lawsuits. I recalled that his mother lived in Dallas. Somehow, Ernie’s niece must have gotten the word that he would be in town today, and end up here this evening. Evidently another group had filed another lawsuit, and she’d been hired to serve the papers.

  I took another sip of beer and looked around the room without moving my head. No denim jacket with a ponytail visible.

  A man with a thick mustache, wearing a red hat and matching windbreaker, walked in the front door. He was carrying a basket of roses. The manager stopped him. They talked for a few seconds, the manager shaking his head. A couple walked between the rose man and the manager at the same time as the phone rang at the front counter. The couple stopped to talk to the manager while he tried to answer the phone. They were angry about something. The man with the roses slipped through. He approached several people but was rebuffed. Lawrence Shagan and his entourage watched him come toward their tables. The bodyguard closest stood up as he approached and held his hand out, stopping the man. They exchanged a few words until the man with the roses shrugged his shoulders and appeared to turn away.

  A voice behind me said, “Do it now.”

  I kicked the table over, ashtray, beer bottle, and glass crashing to the floor. Everybody turned my way as the rose man shrieked, “Save the animals.” He slung the flower basket at Shagan and his companion, as roses and something liquid exploded everywhere. A shower of either blood or red food dye splattered over Shagan and his party as well as the surrounding tables.

  Shagan’s team jumped at the man.

  Unfortunately the couple who’d been talking to the manager when the rose man slipped in decided to head back to the bar and walked right between the man and the bodyguards.

  Extreme confusion ensued.

  The action was a thing of beauty to watch from my point of view, more of a ballet than a serving of papers, each move evidently choreographed and planned beforehand. The bodyguards got tangled up with the couple, who were tangled up with other groups of people sitting nearby. More glassware broke as more tables fell over. The rose man disappeared; one instant he was there, the next he was gone. From behind me I caught a flash of denim glide through the mess, up to Lawrence Shagan.

  My evening’s appointment, it had to be.

  She tapped Shagan on the back and said something. He turned and looked confused. She spoke again and he nodded. In a flash, she thrust a white envelope into his hand. She turned and ran to the back, toward the restrooms and the rear exit.

  People stood, craning to see what the fuss was about. I could hear Shagan’s girlfriend, swearing like a twenty-dollar hooker as she tried to mop up the blood off her dress. It was time to leave, so I headed to the rear.

  The back opened onto the restaurant’s parking lot. I eased out the door and stood against the wall. The lot was empty except for two people standing by the street, away from the lights on the building. In the dimness I recognized the denim jacket and ponytail. She saw me and waved. I walked up as she finished counting out a wad of cash.

  “One eighty, two hundred. And here’s a hundred each for Mary and Sid.” She handed the money to the man standing next to her. I realized he was the rose man, minus his mustache, red jacket, and cap. He must have slipped out of his disguise in the confusion. “Thanks, Benny. I appreciate your help, especially on short notice.”

  “Anything for you, Nolan.” He pocketed his money and looked at me. “Animals do have rights.” He turned and walked into the night.

  Across the street, someone started a car and turned on the headlights. The light shone on Nolan O’Connor. She was better-looking than anything related to Ernie Ruibal had a right to be. Early thirties, five eight and slim, she had high cheekbones and pale blue eyes set in an olive complexion. A hot wind blew across the parking lot, whipping a loose strand of hair across her face. The air smelled of the city: diesel exhaust and trash.

  “You done checking me out?” She took off the jacket and slung it over a shoulder. She wore a pair of navy slacks and a sleeveless silk blouse, the faint silhouette of a handgun barely visible against one hip, underneath her top.

  “Yeah, pretty much.”

  “Good. How about giving me a ride?”

  “Sure. My truck’s around the corner.” We left the parking lot as the first police car rolled up, lights flashing. The two uniformed officers that got out paid us no mind. We walked down the side street, toward my car.

  “So I bet you’re wondering how I figured out who you were,” she said.

  We reached my ride. I hit the remote and the locks popped open. “You’re the youngest child, probably the only girl.”

  She didn’t say anything, just hopped in the passenger’s seat.

  I continued. “You come from a close-knit family and know your mother pretty well. You knew she worried when you were with the San Antonio PD, knew she worried even more when you went freelance. You also had an uncle in the business, here in Dallas. You knew he was sick but had a partner. It’s not too much of a stretch to see you parking down the street, checking out our office. Which you did before I knew you existed.”

  She nodded her head slowly but didn’t say anything.

  I drove down the side streets, zigzagging away from McKinney. I had no particular destination in mind since she hadn’t told me where to take her. They called the area Uptown, denoting its location just north of downtown. High-rise apartments and exclusive shops dominated the narrow blocks. We passed several galleries, each with a series of abstract sculptures in th
e front, illuminated from the ground up by different-colored lights. They were across the street from a nightclub with the doors open to the warm evening air. The effect of the multihued lights combined with the music and noise from the club was surreal. I made another random turn and the noise faded.

  “What I don’t know is how your mother, and then Ernie, came to know about your little rendezvous with Lawrence Shagan.”

  Nolan tugged at a strand of loose hair and stared out the window at the tourists spilling out the front door of the Hard Rock Cafe. “I told my mother. I wanted to see what Uncle Ernie could come up with.” She looked at me. “That’s a polite way of saying I wanted to see how good you were.”

  “Well, as you saw, I can kick over a bar table with the best of them.”

  She laughed and started to say something when my cell phone rang. It was Delmar. “Get over here. ASAP.”

  “Good evening to you too.” We were on Turtle Creek Boulevard now, heading toward downtown. “What do you have for me?”

  “I did a little research on that thing we talked about this afternoon. We need to visit. Immediately.”

  “I’ve got company right now. Give me the highlights.”

  “Not on the phone. If you’re still with Ernie’s niece, bring her. You might need help on this one.”

  “I probably don’t want to know how you knew about her.”

  “Ernie called me this morning. I’m at the usual place. Get here. Now.” He hung up.

  I put the cell phone back in my jacket. “Have you ever been to the Purple Pagoda?”

  Nolan shook her head. “Nope.”

  I made a U-turn and headed north. “You’re in for a treat.”

  CHAPTER SIX

  The Purple Pagoda sat behind a Mexican restaurant on Oak Lawn Avenue, not really a building, more of a zoning anomaly. In a different era it had been a house, a stucco, prairie-style dwelling; home to some upper-middle-class family at the beginning of the last century. Sometime in the past, someone had glassed in the front porch, added a bar and small kitchen, and knocked out a few interior walls, turning it into a restaurant of sorts. Vegetation ran amuck on the lot; ivy covered the house and a stand of hackberry trees hid what the ivy didn’t. Purple neon that said “P.P.” served as the only signage. For whatever reason, the city inspectors allowed it to exist. I always suspected they were afraid to venture inside to see what was really there.

  At about nine o’clock I pulled off Oak Lawn, drove past the restaurant in front, and parked. It was a humid night with a threat of more thunderstorms in the air, and there weren’t many patrons at the Purple Pagoda. I saw Delmar’s Lexus, Olson’s Ram Charger, and a handful of other cars parked by the front door.

  “Tell me again who these guys are,” Nolan said. She was standing in front of my truck, looking at the stores on either side. The one on the left was called the Man from Nantucket, the one on the right, the Southern Cross. A Confederate flag covered the door of the Cross, and a dozen or so Harleys sat parked in front. Two figures stood by the front door of the Man from Nantucket, locked in an embrace.

  “We’re going to see Delmar and Olson.” I chirped the locks shut on the truck. “We use them occasionally when we need an extra hand. They’re good for information too.”

  “Is that a gay bar?” She pointed at two men with their mouths locked together, in front of the Man from Nantucket.

  I pushed open the entry without replying. Olson and I had served together in the Persian Gulf, a few years after he had been cut by the Cowboys for throwing a reporter through a plate glass window. He and Delmar were what modern society termed same-sex life partners. I called them friends, loyal to the last ounce of energy they possessed. They were lifetime members of the NRA, paid their taxes on time, voted a straight Republican ticket, and asked only to be left alone. Sometimes that was hard because of their chosen occupation, hence their desire to keep their sexual predilections under wraps. Which made it all the more confusing why they would hang out at a bar called the Purple Pagoda in the gay part of town.

  The smoky darkness washed over me as I squinted to see where they were. The Pagoda was one big room, bar to the left, fireplace on the right wall. No illumination except for the string of white Christmas lights running along the trim, and the candles on the tables scattered around the room. Light purple paint and posters from 1940s musicals covered the walls. Frank Sinatra sang on the jukebox about the summer he turned seventeen. The place smelled like whiskey, cigarettes, and some really nasty incense.

  A couple of people sat at the bar, nursing draft beers. Nolan was the only woman in the room. I spotted them in the back, sprawled at a table near a lacquer and marble grandfather clock. They both stood for Nolan when we approached, full of that old world charm. They made quite a sight. Olson was big, blond, and fair, with a long, thin face and blue eyes. He looked like a Norwegian professional wrestler instead of an all-pro linebacker who spent most of his career playing next to Ed “Too Tall” Jones. Delmar stood four inches shorter than Olson, about my height but stockier. He was swarthy, with a full face and bushy mustache. Olson wore his standard uniform: cowboy hat and boots, faded Wrangler jeans, a white pearl-button shirt, and a leather vest.

  And mascara.

  He swept his hat off and shook Nolan’s hand. “It certainly is a pleasure to meet you, ma’am. We’ve heard so much about you.” He ignored me.

  Delmar wore his cool-guy city clothes, an Armani suit and black T-shirt. He held a cigar the size of a loaf of French bread in one hand. No mascara. “Ernie’s a good friend of ours. Anything we can ever help you with, let us know.”

  I pulled out a chair and sat down. “Thanks, fellas. I’m doing just fine too.”

  Delmar frowned at me while Olson waved at the waiter. They signaled for another round. Bourbon and vodka respectively. Nolan got a beer. I ordered a single-malt scotch old enough to vote. The Purple Pagoda was their turf and they paid the bill. Those were the rules. We made small talk until the waiter brought the drinks and left.

  Delmar sparked up his cigar. “You ever hear of Coleman Dupree?”

  I took a taste of the water of life from the Scottish Highlands and shook my head.

  “The guy you ran into today, the black one. Name is Jack Washington. Jack the Crack, they call him, and it ain’t because he sells a lot of dope. It’s because he likes to crack bones. He’s Coleman Dupree’s number-one enforcer, his go-to man.”

  “And Coleman Dupree would be?” Nolan asked.

  “Dupree’s the man in charge of ninety percent of the drugs in South Dallas, which means ninety percent of the drugs in all of Dallas. Which means—”

  I finished the sentence for him. “Which means probably fifty percent of the drugs in North Texas. Which explains why he has an enforcer named Jack the Crack. How come I’ve never heard of this Dupree guy?”

  “He’s new in the last month or so.” Delmar paused and relit his cigar. “Just took over a couple of operations and consolidated. The details are a little hazy.”

  “Hazy?” Nolan said.

  “Uh-huh.” I took another taste of whiskey. “Most of the hard stuff around here is controlled by eight or ten people, sort of like distributors. They have a network of retailers they sell through. One guy taking over another’s operation is a big deal, it’s not like buying the corner grocery store. Usually involves dead bodies. We’d have heard about it. If not on the news then on the street.”

  “That’s right,” Delmar said. “And there hasn’t been a peep about any kind of takeover or war or anything. Except for one little thing.” He pointed to Olson, who continued the story.

  “About two weeks ago, a guy approached me. Wanted to buy some hardware. He was fourth-hand, friend of a friend. I said sure, but I need to know who I’m dealing with, you understand, I’m a reputable businessman and all. That’s when he gets all jiggy and weird. Says for me to fucking mind my own fucking business, do I want to deal with him or not because he’s got cash money and is ready to go.
”

  I bit the inside of my cheek to keep from laughing. Maybe the Jaycees would honor Olson with their Reputable Businessman of the Year Award. Olson: the honest, illegal gun dealer. “What kind of hardware did he want?”

  Olson drained his drink and scratched his chin. “Hmm, let’s see. He wanted some nine-millimeters. A lot of them. Think it was twenty-five. And twenty-five submachine guns. Mac-10’s, because I had them on hand.”

  “What? No bazookas?” I said. “What about land mines?”

  Nolan choked back a laugh, staring at the last half inch of her beer instead.

  Olson missed my humor. “No, just the nines and the subs. Well, come to think of it, he did inquire about some of those new shoulder-mounted antitank rockets, but I didn’t have any. A couple of guys from South Texas had been by the week before and cleaned me out on the big-ticket stuff.”

  I reiterated my New Year’s resolution for the umpteenth time: Do Not Ever Piss Off Delmar or Olson. “So how does this guy figure in with Coleman Dupree?”

  “Delmar says you said the other guy with Jack the Crack was a white dude, ex-military, maybe Special Forces. Early thirties with a gold filling in one of his front teeth. Right?”

  I nodded.

  “That’s what this guy looked like. The guy that wanted to buy all that hardware.” Olson ran an index finger along the tiny scar on the side of his neck, a subconscious gesture, the wound courtesy of an Iraqi soldier’s bayonet during a particularly nasty skirmish a couple of clicks on the wrong side of the Euphrates River. Fortunately I had been able to get my sidearm unholstered in time and all Olson had to show for the encounter was a scar.

  I debated the wisdom of having another cocktail while I tried to puzzle out the information. Delmar solved one part of the equation when he signaled the waiter and ordered another round for everybody. I rattled the ice in my glass, watching the dim light reflect off the cubes. “What do we know about Coleman Dupree?”

  “Born and raised in Dallas.” Delmar toyed with his mustache as he talked. “About thirty. Very intelligent, and very mean. Runs the operation like a business, with a corporate structure. He’s layered, never gets his hand dirty with the actual material. He’s got what he calls ‘vice presidents.’ They’re in charge of different divisions of the operation: marketing, sales, product development, you get the idea. Then they’ve got people below them who’ve got their own people, et cetera.”