Dinero Del Mar (The Drifter Detective Book 5)

by Garnett Elliott

  "I heard it, too. But I think it was a cat, looking for some companionship."

  "Huh." The wrinkled head tried to elevate itself. Jack caught the corner of a watery blue eye, but then the man seemed to give up. "Well, you could be right at that. Just remember, I'm runnin' a respectable business out front. So none of the funny stuff, or I'm doublin' your rent."

  "Got it, Mr. Humboldt."

  "Good night."

  Footsteps padded away. A door creaked and slammed shut. Jack stood on tip-toe to check the view just outside the trailer. The back alley of Mr. Humboldt's dry-cleaning establishment looked clear.

  Bea threw off the blanket. "What the hell did he mean, someone 'trying' to sing? How come you didn't correct him?"

  "Because then he'd know I really do have someone in here."

  "You didn't have to say I sounded like a cat. You don't really think that, do you?"

  "Of course not, honey."

  "You better not." She lit a fresh cigarette and puffed.

  Jack sat down next to her on the cot. After a minute or so her jaw unclenched, and her eyes lost their focus. Probably dreaming about some casting couch in Hollywood. Or her image, immortalized on strips of celluloid. All that poetry he'd been thinking before, about her being a saint; that was just the Early Times talking.

  She took his hand and laid it across her bare knee. "Jack, you're going to make the contest fair, aren't you? So I'll win?"

  "I'm sure going to try."

  "'Cause I just got to get out of Harlingen."

  She wrapped her arms around him and buried her face in his neck. Jack returned the embrace after a moment. He got a sick feeling inside his stomach, thinking about Bea, her brother, and how far desperate people would go in pursuit of their delusions. By taking Cole's money and Bea's body, he had joined himself to an enterprise he'd just as soon avoid. A successful private investigator could pick and choose among the cases he took, but a drifter …

  A drifter had to eat whatever was put in front of him.

  * * *

  The pageant was scheduled to begin in three days. Jack took the Comet with him to any rehearsals open to the public, and shadowed Homer Sayles until the grower spotted him a couple times. Tailing someone in a small town was much harder than in a big city. He witnessed plenty of glad-handing and back-slapping between the judges and growers, but nothing you could take to court. Like, say, a fat envelope being slipped under a table. Cole seemed disappointed by his lack of progress, and Bea didn't return for any more evening visits.

  His eardrums thanked him for that.

  Finally, on a bright Saturday afternoon, volunteers hitched a big Ford tractor to the grapefruit trailer, turning it into a float. The dozen or so would-be Miss Texas Pinks cruised the main streets of Harlingen. Their bathing suits probably helped with the turnout. Jack followed the parade in his DeSoto, behind the county sheriff and several pickups.

  The float swung into the parking lot of The Holy Gospel Church. There, beneath the shadow of an old steeple, the pageant commenced. A band of hayseeds plucked out "San Antonio Rose," minus the vocals, giving the gals something to strut around to. Vendors pushed Coca-Cola and tacos to the crowd. Jack watched from the fringes, noting how Bea moved with a confidence that did her credit. The contestants all had to make a short speech about how important citrus was to Harlingen, and the Great State of Texas itself. Bea improvised hers on the spot, with a lot of "uh's" and "ah's," but the crowd didn't seem to mind. There was a hushed intake of breath as her long, sun-freckled gams carried her off the stage.

  Just as she'd finished, Jack caught sight of Cole some twenty yards away. He was walking with a strange limp, his right leg stiff as if it had been splinted. Jack started to call out, but when Cole turned to him his face darkened. He limped away in a hurry, leaving Jack to wonder what had gotten him so riled.

  The ladies hustled into the nearby church for costume changes. They came out wearing evening gowns, and the MC announced the talent portion of the competition was ready to begin. Jack checked his printed flyer. Stella was slated as number three to perform, which meant he had to wait through two acts before he could hear that sweet fiddle again. Bea was number eight. He figured he'd walk out of earshot on that one.

  Contestant one tried to tap dance, and contestant two twirled a lariat with a fair amount of skill. But Stella didn't show when her name was called. After a moment's substitution, a henna redhead came sidling onto stage to play harmonica. Jack had a sudden, sick feeling. He rushed from the lot and through a side door opening onto the church. A series of changing screens had been set up in the back room, along with several cardboard wardrobes. The room looked empty, but when Jack called out a faint mewling answered him.

  The sound turned a key in his old memories. He'd heard wounded men make noises like that. Heart thudding against his ribs, he followed the cry to a darkened corner of the room.

  The first thing he saw was Stella's fiddle. It lay smashed, the neck broken and the strings in taut snarls. That gave him a brief moment of hope: maybe that was far as things had gone. Then he saw the length of pipe lying nearby. Fresh blood gleamed along its leaden surface.

  He kicked aside a wardrobe box. Stella Sayles had slumped into the corner. Her thin face was pinched with shock. She was looking at her outstretched shattered hands like a pair of bent-legged spiders attached to her wrists. Jack's stomach heaved. Seeing him seemed to wrench Stella from her daze, and she cut loose with a scream.

  "Stella!"

  Jack whirled. Homer Sayles had just come through the door, along with several worried-looking people. When the grower's eyes settled on Stella, he blanched.

  "What the hell did you do?" he said to Jack.

  "This wasn't me. We need to—"

  "You." Homer pointed, his finger shaking. "You're the one who's been following me. I heard tell you're working for Cole Eckert."

  Homer's face was turning from white to crimson. More people came spilling inside, though none had yet to approach. Horror over what happened to Stella held them back.

  "Everybody take a deep goddamn breath," Jack said. "First thing we got to do is get a doctor in here. Or a nurse. There's probably one in the crowd …"

  "You busted Stella's hands so Bea Eckert could win," Homer said, advancing. Rage had replaced concern for his daughter's injuries. Jack felt the weight of a dozen hot glares, eyeing him like a leper who'd just finished a dip in the local well. Now people were moving forward, but their focus was on him, not Stella.

  "—what kind of a son-of-a-bitch would—"

  "—shifty-looking type. You can tell he's guilty—"

  "—saw him with that Bea Eckert just the other night—"

  Jack knew the Miss Texas Pink contest would likely end with his own lynching if he didn't do something, fast. A thick hand reached out and tore loose the arrowhead he wore as a bolo tie. Someone else threw a bottle. It grazed his temple, knocking the Stetson off his head. Fists cocked back and hands snaked forward to grab, but not before Jack had drawn his grandfather's old Colt from its shoulder rig. He pointed the barrel at the ceiling. The crash of a .45 round was like thunder in a closet. People startled. Jumped back.

  "Next one of you lays a finger on me gets it in the face," Jack said, snarling through the cordite smoke.

  Silence folded over the room. Then, behind him, Stella spoke. "He didn't do it. It was a man wearing a mask."

  Jack pointed his Colt at the lead pipe. "Sheriff can take prints off of that," he said, "after we get a goddamn doctor in here. Now somebody find one, please."

  Just like that, the crowd changed from a mob back into a bunch of people. Some folks knelt beside Stella and did what they could. Others raced outside, calling for a doc. Homer forgot about Jack, his instincts switching from protection to compassion. He draped an arm over his daughter's thin shoulders and wept.

  Jack rubbed his eyes, wondering what the hell he should do next. It took great force of will to shove the Colt back into its holster. When his he
ad stopped swimming and some of his senses returned, he saw Bea Eckert standing in the doorway. Her gaze swept over Stella for only a moment before returning to Jack.

  "What's going on?" she asked him. "What about the talent competition?"

  "Bea, I think now would be a good time to make yourself scarce."

  "But why? What happened?"

  He pulled her close and whispered: "Your brother just broke both of Stella's hands, that's what happened."

  "Oh." Bea's eyelids lowered. "He, ah, found out about you and me, the other night. Made him a little crazy. He's kind of got this thing for me …"

  "Sweet Jesus."

  "But what about the contest? They're not going to postpone it now, are they?"

  Jack noticed several people were watching them, listening. "Bea, someone was just attacked. Brutally. The contest's the last—"

  "But what about my five hundred dollars? My crown? That money's my ticket out of here."

  "Keep your voice down."

  "I will not! Jack, you got to make them start the contest up again, so I can win."

  People were staring now. If Bea wasn't careful, she'd be the one swinging from a tree. "Just get out of here. Maybe when this blows over you can—"

  "Don't tell me to get out of here." She was all but spitting in his face. "You're just the hired man, and a spineless one at that. Cole had the guts to do what you wouldn't. He was here right now, he'd make these yokels get the contest going again, so I can win."

  Her hand shot up to slap him, but he caught her by the wrist. Turned her around. With his other hand firm against her bottom he propelled her out the door. "Now git!"

  She paused long enough to give him a hellcat's scathing glance, before disappearing into the crowd. Jack turned his attention back to Stella. Homer and several others were scurrying around, trying to find pieces of wood for finger splints. Stella herself held on to consciousness, her teeth grit against the pain. Tough girl.

  Jack couldn't meet anyone's gaze. His face burned like he'd been crying for hours. All this carnage was his fault, even if he hadn't swung the pipe. And for what? Ten bucks and a piece of tail. Cole was a dead man, if they ever crossed paths again.

  But they never did.

  * * *

  Cole Eckert, the sheriff told him later, had likely high-tailed it for Matamoros. Once across the Mexican border, local law enforcement couldn't do shit. That left Jack to absorb the fallout. The sheriff hauled him in on a charge of disturbing the peace, for putting a bullet in the church ceiling. Prints were dutifully lifted from the pipe, compares made, and statements taken. Bea was questioned thoroughly, then failed to show for a follow-up. The rumor was she'd skipped town with an encyclopedia salesman.

  Two days later, the sheriff unlocked Jack's cell. "You're a free man, but I'm fining you twenty bucks for repairs to The Holy Gospel."

  "I'll pay it."

  "Already deducted." He handed Jack his wallet. "You've got a permit for the gun, so I can't do anything about that. But I'll have you know I filed a formal complaint against your P.I.'s license."

  Jack groaned.

  When he got back to Humboldt's Dry Cleaning, he found his horse trailer gone and all four of the DeSoto's tires slashed. Humboldt himself claimed no knowledge how it had happened. Jack put on a bald spare and used the last of his money to buy three repaired whitewalls from the garage down the street. He had to roll each tire back to the car. After driving around for twenty minutes, he found the trailer in a ditch. Someone had worried the heavy padlock on the gate with a pry bar, but failed to get it open.

  The tires, thank God, were still intact.

  Jack reattached his traveling home and got the hell out of Harlingen.

  PART II

  Artists, Lawyers, and Psychics

  Jack woke out of a Lone Star haze to a tapping sound. The trailer's windows were dark. As he rubbed his eyes, the tapping increased in pace and authority. He knew the sound well, from previous experience; it was a lawman's billy tapping against the trailer gate.

  Sitting upright caused several cans of beer to slide off the cot and strike the floor. He didn't remember buying them. Worse, he knew he was broke, and that left the question of how he had bought them. His foot brushed something in the darkness that made a hollow clattering. Dead soldier. Couldn't have been anything but an empty bottle of the cheapest rotgut whiskey.

  "Open up in there," came a voice.

  He swayed one way. The trailer's interior spun another. For a second he did a crazy jig, just staying upright. "I'm a-comin'."

  He'd padlocked the gate on the inside, like he usually did when sleeping. The key still jutted from the lock. A twist, and there stood Johnny Law in a crisp tan uniform. The baby-faced officer couldn't have been much older than twenty. He averted his eyes with what struck Jack as unusual deference for a cop.

  "Do you know where you parked your trailer, sir?"

  "Ah … a couple miles out of Robstown?"

  "You're in the city limits. Corpus. I need to see some identification."

  "Just a sec." Jack tried to remember where he put his wallet. Ah. There. Atop what looked like a jumble of clothes. He plucked the wallet. Showed the cop his driver's license, also the photostat of his P.I. license. It had been suspended a week before, but the cop didn't need to know that.

  "We've got a vagrancy ordnance in these parts, Mr. Laramie."

  "I just showed you my license, didn't I? That should count for 'visible means of support.'"

  "How much money are you carrying, sir?"

  Jack felt panic bite through his alcohol daze. In the past, he'd always kept two sawbucks in his boot for just this situation. But he'd had to spend them when he replaced the DeSoto's tires. With trepidation, he reached inside his wallet.

  Out came a dollar bill pinned to a napkin. Someone had scrawled their phone number in lipstick across the napkin's surface. Seeing it brought back a memory, or at least a fragment of one; a woman in her late fifties, with over-painted features framed by a bright blonde wig. The top of her smile didn't quite line up with the bottom.

  He shuddered. What did I do?

  "You're going to have to come with me, sir." The baby-face cop had folded his arms, though he still wouldn't look directly at Jack.

  "Alright. But where I come from, when you haul a man in you've got the guts to look him in the eyes."

  "I'll do that, sir. After you put on some clothes."

  * * *

  They booked him into the drunk tank. As it was Friday night, and Corpus Christi a fair-sized city, the cell was packed. Jack stood shoulder to shoulder with his bleary-eyed fellow Texans, swaying in a circle that got tighter every time the door slid open to admit a new customer. The cloistered air smelled like vomit. Jack had a thing about confinement since his days as a POW. Beyond that, the memory of his cell in Harlingen was still fresh. He could feel his whiskey buzz evaporating fast, replaced by the tension of so many closely-spaced bodies.

  The door clanged open. Chuckling rippled through the crowd. From his vantage, Jack couldn't see who'd been shoved in, but the tall trucker-type leaning against the bars next to him sneered. "It's that Cisneros pansy. Must be all tight on dago red."

  Curious, Jack shuffled around until he got a look at the newcomer. Cisneros turned out to be a young, thin man in a beige suit. He had a Spaniard's aquiline nose offset by pale blue eyes, and he looked so out of place among the drunks, roughnecks, and day laborers Jack almost felt sorry for him.

  "They're letting anybody in here now," said a weasel-faced hobo.

  That got another round of laughter.

  Cisneros reddened. The hobo hauled a Kleenex out of his pocket, honked, and presented the globby mess. "Show that to your mother for me, will ya? I hear she likes 'modern' art."

  Guffaws.

  "You're an art expert, are you?" Cisneros slurred a little. Jack had half-expected him to speak with a Castilian lisp.

  "I sure am, you uppity mezkin. Now go on, take it to your ma. Maybe she
'll give me fifty bucks for it."

  He tried to shove the Kleenex in his face. Cisneros darted back and collided with a bald man behind him, who cursed and pinioned the dandy's arms. "Let him have it," the bald man said.

  Grinning, the hobo sidled forward.

  "Aw, goddammit," Jack said, surprised by how loud his voice rang, "bad enough I got to stand here all night, I got to watch you smear snot in some nancy-boy's face?"

  The hobo turned. "Stay out of this, cowboy."

  "The hell I will. Put that rag down and come try a real man."

  Quick as he had said it, the crowded cell parted before Jack like Moses at the Red Sea. The hobo's good eye took in his height, the breadth of his shoulders. He licked his lips. "Well now, maybe I was being a little rude with the boy."

  The bald man scowled. "Chicken shit." He let go of Cisneros and took a step toward Jack. Short, built like a fireplug, he had thick forearms covered with tattoos. Jack made him for a fisherman or a dock worker. No point in fighting fair, then. And the cell's crowded conditions wouldn't allow for much footwork, either.

  Jack wasted no time. He lunged and snapped a feinting jab. Up came Baldy's hands. Instead of following with a second punch, Jack kicked. The pointed toe of his boot connected with Baldy's shin. The man's mouth shaped an 'O,' but he bulled forward anyway, throwing an overhand right. Jack stepped into it, catching the blow on his shoulder instead of his jaw. He clenched his right fist and sunk it deep into Baldy's gut, all the way to the wrist. The man doubled, dropping to his knees, but not before he vomited a stream of what looked like chili. Jack leapt back to avoid the splash.

  "Cut that crap out!" A billy club raked against the cell bars. Men snapped to, but no one helped Baldy reclaim his feet. He remained kneeling in a puddle of his own sick, glaring evil up at Jack. Probably imagining him hanging from a yardarm, or mainsail, or something nautical like that.

  Cisneros made his way over. He was keeping his face taut, but Jack could smell fear beneath the man's linen suit. "I appreciated that."