Copyright © 2014 by BEAT to a PULP
All Rights Reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any means without the prior written consent of the publisher, except where permitted by law.
The story herein is a work of fiction. All of the characters, places, and events portrayed in this book are either products of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously.
Based on characters created by David Cranmer.
Cover images from Dreamstime. Title page image from Shutterstock. Cover design by dMix.
PO Box 173
Freeville, New York 13068
USA
Praise for "The Drifter Detective" series ...
It's a great set-up for a hardboiled private eye series, and Elliott provides the twisty plot ... the beautiful babes, and the gritty action that the genre demands.
—James Reasoner
Spur Award nominee and author of Texas Wind
*
"The Drifter Detective" is a wonderfully evocative piece of hard-boiled pulp.
—Andrew Nette
Author of Ghost Money
*
Southern noir done proper.
—Alec Cizak
Editor and publisher of Pulp Modern
*
CONTENTS
PART I: The Miss Texas Pink Debacle
PART II: Artists, Lawyers, and Psychics
PART III: Visions in the Water
EPILOGUE
About the Author
More from the series
Also by Garnett Elliott
Other titles from BTAP
Connect with BEAT to a PULP
PART I
The Miss Texas Pink Debacle
Jack thought later he could trace the whole mess back to that next-to-last shot of Early Times, downed from a smudged glass as the sun poked a finger through the window of the Blue Barn dancehall in Harlingen, Texas. The beam struck the green and amber bottles behind the bar, made them glow like Christmas tree ornaments, and for a moment Jack's brain, already addled by a half-dozen cans of Lone Star, concluded he'd found a magic place. Sure, the hall seemed rustic enough, with its packed-dirt floor and old bear traps hanging from the rafters, the flyspecked tablecloths and the signs marked "Pointers" and "Setters" above the adjoining bathrooms. But in the sun's mystic gleam he caught the notion that all his wanderings had led him to this single moment in time, this place atop a rickety barstool. Revelation was imminent.
And it was. Bea Eckert appeared in an apron, at the far end of the hall.
Had Jack any religion left in him, he might have hit his knees then and there. The same sunbeam caught Bea's figure and limned her with a fever-haze. Light shone from freckled skin, while her black hair drank in every mote. Watching that hair ripple over her shoulders, Jack remembered the Sabine River flowing on a moonless night.
And what did this woman do, this saint who belonged on panes of stained glass? She picked up an ancient broom and swept dust from the floor.
"Knock-out, ain't she?" said a voice on Jack's left.
His jaw snapped back shut. He turned, anticipating an angry husband, boyfriend, would-be boyfriend, or just some hick local hoping to skin his knuckles. What he saw instead was a lined and friendly face, beneath a sheaf of dark hair. The man reached over and took his hand. Pumped it.
"My name's Cole. You must be Jack Laramie."
"I'm a little lit, friend, but not so lit I wouldn't recognize someone I've seen before. And I've never seen you before."
Cole waved to the old man tending bar. "Pour my buddy here another. And for God's sake, get him a clean glass." To Jack he said: "You did some work a week ago for Chet McPherson. He told me about you, how you tracked some former hands turned rustlers."
"I guess I owe Chet a drink then."
"He said you were a dependable man."
A fresh glass slid in front of Jack. He downed it without comment, thinking he'd better quit before the room got too wobbly.
"I've a proposition for you," Cole said. "It involves that raven-haired lovely sweeping over yonder."
"What's she to you?"
Cole swallowed a shot of his own. "My sister."
Which was how Jack learned Bea Eckert's name.
* * *
A polka band started tuning up, and that, plus an influx of late-afternoon arrivals, prompted Jack to order a cup of chicory coffee and follow his new patron outside. A sea of gravel and pickup trucks surrounded the barn. Cole led him over to a pale blue '53 Ford, thick with rust spots. He eased the tailgate down so they both could sit.
Cole made some preliminary small talk about the weather and Jack nodded along, waiting for the caffeine to kick in. Alcohol made him agreeable, and you didn't want to be too damn agreeable discussing a case. The client always had an angle. Jack sipped his bitter brew, watched the sun dip lower in endless South Texas sky, and by degrees, forced himself to shrewdness.
"What kills me," Cole was saying, "is seeing Bea wasting her potential in a shit-can establishment like the Blue Barn. With her looks, the way she can sing, she belongs in either motion pictures or the music industry. Or both. Hell, there are people who do both, aren't there?"
Jack pulled a Lucky from behind his ear and fired a match. "You want one?"
"Uh-uh. They got doctors now saying it causes cancer."
"Cancer? Smoking's good for you. Calms the nerves." He sucked in an unfiltered lungful. "So, if Bea hits the big time, you'd be her agent, right?"
"Naturally. I could look out for her, protect her interests."
"Naturally."
"The problem is breaking in. These days, you've got to have some kind of pedigree before you go knocking on doors. And there just happens to be a big opportunity coming up." He paused a moment, as if he thought Jack knew what that big opportunity was.
"You've got me, brother."
"The Miss Texas Pink Beauty Contest."
"The what?"
"You know … all the grapefruit growers around here, they sponsor this big pageant. Strictly local girls. The winner gets five hundred bucks prize money and they plaster her face on every grapefruit crate from here to the Pan Handle."
Jack whistled. "Five hundred bucks. That's good money."
"It'd buy an agent. Even better, it's something to brag about to all the movie and record people."
"Hate to break this to you, but there aren't any 'movie or record people' in Harlingen."
"Not here," Cole said, a little irritated. "Out in California. Or Nashville. So what do you think?"
"I think it's a real gem of a plan. But where do I fit in?"
"Well, I don't want to sound cynical, but the past couple contests have been fixed. The wealthier growers pay off the judges, and get their daughters declared the winner. Pretty as Bea is—and she's the prettiest thing for ten counties—she doesn't stand a chance of taking first place."
"Alright. I suppose most beauty contests are rigged that way. Damned if I know what I could do about it, though."
Cole's grinning face dipped forward, becoming shadowed. "McPherson said you're good with your fists."
"Whoa, there. I don't strong-arm folks."
"But the rustlers …"
"McPherson paid me to track them. That's the 'detecting' part, see? I'd planned on contacting the sheriff, once I'd found their camp." That'd been his plan, anyways. "Only the rustlers didn't want to be found, so I had to, ah, take matters into my own hands."
"Or fists."
"The point is, I don't set out planning for violence. Makes it hard to hold on to a license."
Cole's mouth curled in disappointment. But only for
a moment. "How about this? I hire you to investigate the growers. I know who the problem's going to be—Homer Sayles, and his daughter, Stella. She's plain as the day is long, but Homer's pockets are deep enough to keep all the judges in cigars and whiskey. You could hang around, maybe snap some pictures of money changing hands. We'd take the story to the Harlingen Morning Star and demand a fair contest, with new judges."
Jack made a show of considering his offer. "A local paper's likely to be involved in any rigging going on. They wouldn't run the story, even if I found evidence."
"We could go to a bigger paper."
"I doubt if there'd be much interest in a crooked grapefruit pageant. No offense, but that's pretty small-town."
"Maybe just having you snoop around would be enough to keep people honest."
"I doubt it." Jack tapped off ash against the tailgate. "How much are we talking, here?"
"Well, I was thinking …"
"Don't start in with you'll pay me if you get the prize money. That's not how the detective business works."
"Alright." Cole thrust both hands into the pockets of his jeans. He came up with a ratty ten-spot and eighty cents change. "I can write you an IOU for the rest."
Jack set down his cup, preparing to cut this whole thing off before it got any more ridiculous. But the scrape of approaching feet made him stop. Bea Eckert came sidling across the gravel, and damn if she didn't look even better in full sunlight. She wore a cheap floral-print dress, one side drooping low to expose a freckled shoulder.
"I want you to meet someone, Bea," Cole said. "This here's Jack Laramie, the detective I was telling you about."
Bea smiled. Cole draped an arm over her bare shoulder as she drew alongside. Something about the gesture struck Jack as less than wholesome.
"Mr. Laramie just agreed to take our case," Cole said.
"Is that true, Mr. Laramie?" Bea said. "Are you going to help us?"
Her voice dripped with the local accent, a combination of Southern Belle and Anglicized Spanish. It made Jack's palms sweat. But it didn't sound like a voice made for vocal harmonies.
Ah well, maybe the movies, then.
"Honey," he said truthfully, "if you asked me to swim the Rio Grande against a posse of water moccasins, I couldn't tell you no."
* * *
The next day, all ten dollars and eighty cents richer, Jack drove his old DeSoto down to the intersection of Tyler and Commerce streets. Someone had parked a thirty-foot flatbed trailer in the middle of a vacant lot. About a dozen leggy women were practicing on the impromptu stage, mincing up and down before a painted backdrop of grapefruit trees. Jack couldn't spot Bea among them.
He parked and worked his way through a knot of gawkers; mostly men, their eyes bulging under the brims of straw hats.
A trestle table had been set up close to the flatbed. Two men and one woman, all plump, sat on folding chairs behind the table. Jack figured they were judges by the ribbons pinned to their clothes.
As he drew closer, he noticed an elderly Hispanic man addressing the trio, waving his hands and speaking in a loud voice. A gorgeous young Latina stood beside him. She wore a modestly-cut bathing suit and looked sorry for being there.
One of the judges cleared his throat. "Jorge, we get the general drift. Times are changing, but that doesn't mean your daughter here can compete."
"And why not?" said the man. "She was born in Harlingen. She's certainly beautiful. And she's been working in my groves since the age of seven—"
"Why can't she enter a Mexican pageant?" This from the plump woman.
"Because she was born here. In Texas."
"Born and baptized, you mean," said a judge wearing an itchy-looking tweed vest. "This contest's not open to Catholics. Says so in the rules."
Jorge folded his arms. "I'd like to see that rule."
"Hasn't been typed up yet. But we'll get to it, I promise." Nods, all around the table. Tweed dismissed Jorge by glancing past him at the crowd. "Next."
Jack approached. A tall man in overalls pushed him aside with a muttered "Sorry." He had a bandana tied around his neck, another one trailing from his back pocket, and a third in his hand. He mopped at his face as he nodded to the judges.
"Homer," said Tweed Vest. "Good to see you. We'll be practicing the talent portion of the contest next."
"In regards to that, I'd like to make a request of y'all."
"Fire away."
Jack leaned forward, ears sharp. He hadn't been here two minutes, and already Homer Sayles—if this was the same Homer—was throwing his weight around with the officials. In Jack's pocket rested a small Comet camera ready to shoot. If any money flashed, he'd draw it faster than his grandfather's Colt and get the transaction on film.
But Homer of the tres bandanas didn't reach for his wallet. "I'm worried Stella's fiddle will get dry in this heat. If it isn't too much to ask, could you move her up on the roster? She goes first, I can get the fiddle someplace cool as soon as she's done."
"Well, that certainly sounds reasonable." Tweed Vest called over an imposing woman with a clipboard. A few hushed words, a nod, and he turned back to Homer. "Stella's up first. We've been looking forward to hearing her all morning."
Homer beamed. "I thank y'all, kindly."
"Next," called Tweed.
Jack took a step and hesitated. He'd been planning to spout some bullshit story about being a contest regulator down from the capitol, here to investigate allegations of bribery. He'd even brought along his old Writ of Authority, from when he'd done some court work in Austin. The idea had been to put the fear of God into the judges. But they seemed like no-nonsense types, puffed up with their own importance, and he doubted his ruse would go far. Better to wait. He stepped back into the crowd.
Jorge fumed for a couple minutes, before finally taking his daughter by the hand and leading her away. She cast a backward glance at the float, her dark eyes impassive. If anyone seemed to have a legitimate case against favoritism, it was her. But Jack knew there was no percentage in taking up that fight.
"Talent practice," called the clipboard woman. Contestants filed off stage and huddled around her. If Stella's advancement on the roster caused any ill will, it wasn't apparent. A mousy brunette broke from the group and retrieved a violin case leaning against a palm tree. Tall like her father, with gangly limbs, she didn't have much to fill her swimsuit. Cole might've been generous when he'd described her as "plain."
Several people in the crowd smiled, though, as she mounted the stage and took out her fiddle. The polished wood gleamed in the sunlight. A hush fell and she rosined her bow with a few practiced strokes, before tucking the instrument beneath her chin. Her eyes brightened at the contact. Confidence? Arrogance? A slender hand lofted the bow, brought it down against the strings.
And for the second time in as many days, Jack felt himself transported.
* * *
Later that night Bea Eckert kicked off the sweaty blanket that covered them. They both lay atop a narrow cot, Bea, by necessity, curled in a pale crescent alongside Jack. The night had been muggy to start with, and now a warm breeze blew in through the narrow windows at the back of the horse trailer.
"You got a smoke?" Bea said.
"Hold on." Jack reached under the cot, extracted a fresh pack of Luckies, and fired the ends of two cigarettes with his Zippo. "Don't tell your brother I got you started on these. He thinks smoking is bad for you."
"There's a whole lot of things I won't be telling my brother." She patted Jack's hairy chest.
"How'd you get away from him? He watches you with an eagle eye."
"He was drinking. He does that a lot."
"Ah."
She kissed his chin. "What're you thinking about?"
He was thinking what his mother had told him, that having a thing was not so fine as wanting. He felt a little like a boy who'd snuck an early peek into his Christmas stocking, and now the anticipation was gone. Normally, getting a woman to come back to his trailer would b
e a difficult prospect. Bea had practically insisted on it. He had a suspicion how she planned to get ahead in show business.
"Just mulling things," he said finally. "How come you weren't at practice today?"
"Ah, they were just doing the talent stuff, mostly."
"Isn't that important?"
She looked at him sidelong. "It's a beauty contest. Not a talent show."
"Still, you're supposed to do something."
"I guess I'll sing. 'Red River Valley.' Or something patriotic, like 'Yellow Rose of Texas.'"
He nodded. "Yellow Rose" never failed to make a crowd weepy. "I heard Stella play her fiddle today."
"Oh, did you now? And what did you think?"
"She's pretty good."
"You think so, huh?"
"I've got to call it like I see it."
"You think she plays better'n I sing?"
"I've never heard you sing."
"Well, let me remedy that."
She sat up straight on the edge of the cot and started in with "Yellow Rose." Jack kept a straight face. It took some doing.
"What do you think now?" she said, after she'd finished.
"You left out the chorus."
"I'm supposed to remember the whole goddamn song?" She punched his shoulder, playful. "That was just a sample, so you could hear how I harmonize."
"Oh."
Another punch. "So what do you think?"
"It was fantastic."
"Damn straight it's fantastic. Better'n Stella Sayles's fiddling, and I don't have to waste all that time practicing."
A door creaked open somewhere, not far off. Footsteps approached the trailer. Jack made a 'ssshhh' motion and wrapped Bea back up in the blanket.
"You got a woman in there, Laramie?" called an old man's voice. The top of a wrinkled head appeared at the window, but it wasn't quite tall enough to peer inside.
"No sir," Jack said.
"Tomcattin' wasn't part of our rental agreement. And just now, I heard a whole lot of yowlin'. Like someone trying to sing."
Dinero Del Mar (The Drifter Detective Book 5) Page 1