Dinero Del Mar (The Drifter Detective Book 5)

by Garnett Elliott

  Jack had parked the DeSoto alongside the garage, sans trailer. Lucas made a show of inspecting the car's rusted frame. He whistled and shook his head. "Goddamn! I didn't know there were any of these left on the road."

  "She gets the job done."

  "Yeah? Well, I'm not fixing to get out and push. Think she'll make it to the end of the road and back?"

  Jack nodded, pretending to look hurt. In truth, he viewed the DeSoto as a necessary evil, a none-too-dependable means of ferrying himself from case to case. He'd sunk enough money into the car over the years to buy a fleet of Thunderbirds. But if Lucas thought he was digging at his pride, he could just go on thinking that.

  They piled in. The DeSoto's engine turned over on only the second try, like it had something to prove.

  "Take a right at the driveway," Lucas said. "You go left, and we'd end up in South Padre. If this little honey didn't break down first, that is."

  Jack turned right. Sand laced across the road in white capillaries, churning to dust when the DeSoto passed over. Lucas put his feet up on the dash. He grinned and cut loose with explosive wind. Jack rolled his window down.

  "Where's this place you were talking about?" he said.

  "Just up the road a spell. You can't miss it."

  Minutes later, Jack caught sight of the bar he'd seen with Phil on his first trip in. Just a tumbledown old building, maybe a converted boathouse. The windows were still boarded up from the last hurricane. A hand-painted sign read 'The Rusty Nail,' which Jack put right up there with such originals as 'The Dew Drop Inn' and 'The Hitching Post.' He pulled in next to a jeep painted the same primer gray as the DeSoto.

  Lucas put his feet back down on the floorboard and made ready to climb out, but stopped. He was looking at the magnetic chessboard Jack kept jammed between the seat cushions. Something glimmered in his eyes.

  "You play?" he said.

  "When I can. You?"

  "A game or two. You might say I have a knack for chessboard patterns, from years of looking at tiles."

  They went inside. The Rusty Nail was shabby but clean, one part nautical decorations, with hanging nets and old buoys, and one part Polynesian, in a style that had been all the rage ten years before. Woven mats, now faded, shared space with tiki torches and leering masks. A single customer slumped at the enameled bamboo bar, an empty Pilsner glass in front of him.

  The proprietor came shuffling out. His wrinkled tan made him look like an old Creole. He had a dirty rag draped over one shoulder, and he frowned when he recognized Lucas.

  "No trouble now," he said, by way of greeting.

  "Oh, there won't be." Lucas slapped Jack on the bicep. "Just two buddies, sharing a Sunday drink."

  "Keep it that way. And keep that knife in your belt. You cut someone in here again, I swear you'll be the one cleaning up the blood …"

  "What a kidder." Lucas's smile showed white teeth against his black beard. He pulled out a stool in front of Jack and made elaborate motions for him to sit.

  "Thanks." Jack spread some bills on the bar. "Two beers to start."

  The proprietor hustled off. "Beer," Lucas said, still grinning. "That's cute."

  "You said something before about 'rules.'"

  "We'll get to that, Jack." Lucas eased his weight onto a stool. He did it with a certain animal grace, as if the bar was his natural habitat.

  "Smoke?" Jack offered.

  "Filthy habit."

  "I've been hearing that a lot, lately." Jack fired up a Lucky, anyway.

  The beers came. Jack sipped; Lucas gulped. He drained half his pilsner in a go, then set the glass down with a smack. That got him a black look from the proprietor, but Lucas let it pass.

  "A tradesman's life is a hard one, Jack. I'd liken it to prizefighting. You work long hours during your prime, for little pay, and what folding money you get always seems to run away after some whore. Which makes for a good time, I suppose. When you're young."

  He downed the rest of his beer. "But when you're old, your joints get to hurting, your eyes go all blurry; hell, even your peter wants to point south, most of the time. The day will come when you can't lift a hammer no more, or set a brick straight. Then what happens?"

  Jack tapped ash into a large conch, set out for just that purpose. "Pension?"

  "Pensions are for cops and railroad workers."

  "I don't see what you're getting at, here."

  "Just this: I'm old. Forty-five years on this bitter little Earth. Ma Cisneros is my retirement plan. I've managed to get it up for her a couple times—don't ask me how. In return for my services, and perhaps to spite those lazy-ass offspring of hers, she's writing me into her will."

  "Well, congratulations," Jack said, signaling for another beer. "Sounds like you got old age licked."

  "I'd be inclined to agree. But then you show up. Now granted, you're ugly, and your pecker's probably half the size of mine on a cold day. But Ma likes new things, and you're fresh out of the wrapping paper. Savvy?"

  The beer came, and Jack slid it over. "You don't have to worry about me, Mr. Lucas. I'm not what you'd call the ambitious type."

  "Ah, Jack. If only I could believe that." Lucas gave his head a ponderous shake. He hefted the beer and did the disappearing act with its contents again. The whole glass, this time. "But I'm a cynical man. Much too cynical. Normally, what I'd do is tell you to git, and when you didn't git, I'd take this knife here and open you up from crotch to gullet."

  Jack kept his voice steady. "Normally, you say."

  "That's right. But as you're polite, and old age has made me charitable, what I aim to do is propose a wager. If I win, you'll quit your job and never lay eyes on the Cisneros estate again."

  "And if I win?"

  "Then you can pretend to lay tiles. And I won't open you from crotch to gullet with this here knife."

  "That sounds like a deal." Jack offered his hand. He knew full well this black-bearded son-of-a-bitch would never honor his word, and probably never had.

  They shook.

  "I've got an idea how we'll settle that wager," Lucas said, sliding off his stool. "You wait right here."

  "Want another beer?"

  "Plenty of time for drinking." The big man's whiskers couldn't hide his smirk.

  Jack watched him leave the bar by the front door. He already had a pretty good idea what Lucas's wager would involve.

  "You should get yourself gone, mister," said the barkeep, "while you still got the chance. That's a bad man you picked to drink with."

  "Don't I know it. You want to make some fast money?"

  "How?"

  Jack leaned close and whispered. The bartender shook his head at first, but came around when Jack pressed a couple twenties in his hand. The front door banged open and Lucas stalked back inside, Jack's chessboard tucked under one arm.

  "You ever hear of a game called 'Drunken Chess'?"

  "I sure haven't," Jack said, straight-facing as best he could.

  "Rules are simple. You pick your poison. Every time you lose a piece you got to drink. Triples on a checkmate. Best two games out of three wins the wager."

  "I don't know if that's so fair. A full-time drinker like you must have a hell of a tolerance."

  Lucas laid the board down on the bar. "And for all I know, you're the next Paul Morphy."

  "It's better than you and me skinning our knuckles, I suppose. I'll take gin."

  "Whiskey." Lucas turned to the barkeep. "Start setting 'em up."

  The old proprietor reached down and produced two bottles. He started pouring shots while Lucas laid out the chessmen. "I'm white and I start first, on account of me being older."

  "Fine," Jack said. "You want to put a time limit on the moves?"

  "Five minutes tops. I don't plan to be here all day."

  Jack took off his watch and laid it next to the board.

  Lucas cracked his knuckles, and after a moment's deliberation slid a pawn out two spaces. Jack countered with the Sicilian Defense. Normally, he
made liberal use of sacrifice to develop an attack, but in this game playing for pieces could have its merits.

  Two moves later, he lost a pawn.

  "Drink," Lucas said.

  Jack reached for a shot glass, but Lucas snatched it away. "Wait a second." He took a miniscule sip. "Goddamn juniper berries. Alright, go ahead."

  Jack swallowed the gin. Three moves later Lucas took his knight with a bishop, and he was obliged to drink again.

  "You're not trying to hustle me are you?" Lucas said, his eyes narrowing. "I thought you said you played this game before."

  "Just warming up."

  Jack brought his queen out. While arranging an elaborate defense, Lucas lost three pawns in as many moves. He downed the whiskey without taking his eyes off the board. Jack lost another knight, drank, and slid a pawn forward to seal his control of the center squares.

  "Well played," Lucas said. "Well played."

  He took longer than five minutes making his next move. Jack pretended not to notice. He gave up a rook in order to put Lucas in check, then used the opportunity to whittle away his pieces. By the time Jack's queen moved into checkmate, the big man had already downed ten shots. He did another three for losing.

  "You alright to go on?" Jack said, putting mock concern into his voice.

  "Don't you worry about me, none." Lucas held up his calloused hands. Steady as granite.

  Though his nerves didn't betray him, his mind was beginning to slip. Jack tried a variation on the Colorado Gambit and Lucas fell for it. He downed whiskey as fast as the barkeep could pour. Jack continued his strategy of drawing out the win, taking a loss now and then to make it look good. Lucas was slurring his words by the time Jack cornered him.

  "That's two games," Jack said. "Guess I get to lay tile, after all."

  Lucas put his hand on the hilt of his knife. "It's goddamn luck, and you know it. Best three out of five."

  "Five? I don't think my liver—"

  "Another game, you chicken shit. Say 'no' and I'll cut you right off that stool."

  "If you say so."

  Angry and drunk, Lucas played worse than before. Jack had to remind him how to castle. He picked off white pieces one by one. Lucas roared defiance every time he had to drink, but his pride, and Jack's exaggerated sympathy, forced him on. After losing his queen to a pawn, Lucas stood up and swept the board off the bar with a violent swing. Jack thrust a boot between his opponent's feet, tripping him. Down went Lucas. His chin clipped the worn concrete floor.

  "Ouch," the barkeep said.

  Lucas didn't move. Jack knelt down and felt for the big man's pulse. An acrid-smelling stain blossomed out from the front of his jeans.

  "He's pissing himself on my floor," the bartender said.

  "I'll take care of him." Jack stood. "How'd you manage the switch? I didn't even notice myself."

  "I've been palming drinks since before you were born."

  Only the first three shots Jack had taken were actual gin. After that, he had been gulping water poured from under the bar.

  "Give me another bottle of whiskey," he said. "And help me get King Size here into my car."

  Together, they wrestled the sodden Lucas outside and into the DeSoto. Jack considered tossing the man's knife as far as he could, but slid it down inside his own boot, instead.

  "What're you going to do with him?" the barkeep asked.

  "My friend's feeling the call of the open road. Thanks for your help."

  Jack drove across the causeway and onto the mainland. The cab started smelling like Bourbon Street on a Friday night, so he leaned over and rolled down the passenger window. Lucas stirred, muttering something incoherent. Jack handed him the fresh bottle of whiskey. Lucas sucked it down like a baby at the tit. A peaceful look settled across his face.

  Jack drove for another thirty minutes, ever-conscious of his companion's state. He took a bridge arching over an inlet, where freighters steamed below. At the other side, railroad tracks ran along the narrow bay, and he followed them to a busy depot. After prowling around a couple buildings, avoiding any yard bosses or cops, he pulled next to a line of boxcars and got out. The loading doors all stood open. He inspected one, found it full of dusty-smelling cotton bales, and managed, with much cursing and straining of muscle, to half-drag, half-shoulder Lucas inside. The man still had a serene look on his face when he propped him into a corner.

  "I'll trade you," Jack whispered. He tucked the whiskey bottle under Lucas's arm, then reached behind and took all the money of out his wallet. Only fifteen bucks, but it would leave him strapped when he reached the end of the line.

  Jack rolled the loading door shut and locked it.

  Minutes later, a black freight handler came along, closing each boxcar door in turn. He puzzled for a moment to find one already shut, shrugged, and continued on. Jack ambled over and handed him a lit cigarette.

  "Obliged," the man said, taking a pull.

  "You mind telling me what line this is?"

  "No, sir. This is the 'Appalachian Spirit,' bound for Kentucky. Drops off cotton and picks up coal, then heads on to points east."

  "Perfect," Jack said.

  He lingered until the boxcars started moving, tipped his hat in a silent 'Adios,' and drove back to the Cisneros estate.

  * * *

  "You got rid of Lucas? Already?"

  Despite it being early afternoon, Phil still wore the same robe from breakfast. Jack had tracked him down to his room on the third floor with a servant's help. Sheets of paper covered his desk and bed, and bookcases hemmed the walls on all sides.

  "He's gone for now," Jack said. "But to make it permanent, we'll have to find something on him. You got a key to his room?"

  "They're all skeletons …" Phil rummaged in his desk until he found an antique-looking specimen.

  "Good. Come with me."

  The door next to Phil's was open. Jack glanced inside as they hurried past. Neat as a barracks, with tennis trophies cluttering the dresser and Texas college pennons on the walls. Marta's room, given the size. Strange, how she and her brother still lived in their childhood home, right next to each other. Unable to escape the pull of family money.

  They went down to the second floor. Lucas had left his footlocker open, but Jack ignored it and went straight to the section of wall where he'd seen the plaster dust. "You told me before you thought he was stealing from your mother."

  "A couple items went missing. Small, but valuable."

  "Probably hedging his bet, in case she got tired of him." Jack felt along the wallpaper. His fingertips brushed a crevice. More probing revealed a two-by-two square, cut from the drywall and then fit back in place. Jack slid the ivory-hilted knife into the crevice. A twist popped the square free, revealing a hollow between the studs.

  "Bingo," Jack said.

  Phil craned over his shoulder to look. Inside the compartment lay a sterling silver hairbrush, a pearl comb, and a canvas wrapped in cloth.

  "You better get Ma," Jack said.

  "Right now? She's in the middle of a session."

  "Get her, or she might think we planted all this."

  "She'll be upset."

  "She should be, when she finds out her kept boy was stealing from her. I sent Lucas on a long train ride, but he'll probably try to make his way back here. If she knows the truth, she won't let him in again."

  "Alright."

  Phil hurried off, to return minutes later with an irate Ma and nervous-looking Dessau in tow.

  "What's all this?" Ma said. "Where's Lucas? I've told you before not to interrupt when the muse is working through me. Really, Phil, if you had any respect for my art you wouldn't barge in and make demands. The act of creation is a sacred process …"

  Her voice trailed off when she saw the compartment. Jack took the canvas out and laid it on the bed. He removed the dust cloth.

  "My Chagall!" Ma stamped her foot. "It was supposed to be fitted for a new frame, but I thought the shop was just taking its time."

/>   "I've been trying to tell you all along," Phil said. "Lucas was pilfering."

  Jack caught a sharp intake of breath from the doorway, and turned to see Marta Cisneros. She must've been attracted by all the noise. Her eyes widened at the brightly-colored painting atop the bed.

  "You," Ma said, pointing a long finger at Jack. "You just happened to stumble across all this?"

  Phil cleared his throat. "Ma, Jack's a—"

  "I agreed to help Phil out," Jack said. "He got into some trouble Friday night, and after I stuck my nose in, he told me about Lucas."

  "So you're not really a tile-layer," Ma said.

  "No ma'am. I'm sorry about the deception. Otherwise, it wouldn't make a whole lot of sense, me hanging around here."

  She didn't quite have it in her to scowl. "Well, I suppose I should thank you. Again. But what am I going to do when Lucas shows up? He should be back any moment …"

  "I doubt if you'll be seeing him soon, ma'am. When and if he does return, I'd recommend calling the police."

  "We'll have a few words, first." Ma snapped her fingers. "The will. I just changed it to have him written in. I'll have to get Emmett and change the damn thing back."

  She said it casually enough. But a charge seemed to pass through the air. Dessau shot a sidelong glance at Marta. She met his gaze, and dipped her head almost imperceptibly.

  "This whole thing is a blow to my ego," Ma went on. "Phil, get the servants up here to pack all of Mr. Lucas's belongings and leave them on the veranda. And have the Chagall rehung in the conservatory."

  "Yes, Ma."

  "I'm going to try and recover the best way I know. Dessau, the canvas calls. Perhaps all this emotional turmoil can be put to good use."

  "Da hast du recht," her mentor agreed. "That's the proper spirit."

  Ma kept her chin high as the little procession filed away, leaving Phil and Jack alone in the room.

  "Your mother handled that pretty well," Jack said. "Not really the sentimental type, is she?"

  "The only person she's attached to is herself. But why didn't you let me tell her you're a detective?"

  Jack closed the door. "Because I don't think my job here's done."

  "She's through with Lucas. You heard what she said."